Taloc unenthusiastically shuffled into the gaudy looking drag-saddle on wheels, looking around a chilling stark interior with fully formed seats with pillows and arm rests. His wide fake kabuki smile couldn't hide how hard he was wrinkling his nose. Oh well. It was yet another task, he supposed. What didn't kill you made you stronger, after all.
He gave a teeth-gritted sigh that caused several of of the nearby passengers to quickly move to the farthest end of the buggy, and bumped his way over to one of the window seats, awkwardly trying to find a way to position his six foot tall battle hanmer in case he needed to quickly grab it.
'I'm overreacting, surely,' he thought to himself as he watched Kyo, Chaka, Ashnei, Vaeria and the others enjoying their seating arrangements. 'It's a tad degrading to be levied around in comfort like a legless corpse in a coffin trolley, yes, but who am I to complain at the expense of the comfort of my companions?'
Suddenly he felt a hand tapping him on the shoulder. It was a man dressed in the clothes as the buggy driver. "Sir," the man said. "I'm terribly sorry, but it's our strict policy to require a shirt for all of our passengers."
The Orc looked at him blankly, and then down at his massive scar and muscle strewn chest. "I didn't... I didn't pack a shirt." The attendant sighed. "Oh, what a mess, um..." And then the man snapped his fingers. "I believe we have a spare in the compartment that might fit you."
The Orc watched him ran off. When he came back, he wielded a horrifying yellow cloth shirt. "There we go! That should fit'cha!"
The Orc smiled at him. "Thank you very much," the Orc said through his stiff cheeks. "It's my job, sir. Happy to help. Oh! And it looks like you have someone to sit next to!" The attendant then got out of the way where, to the orc's supreme horror, the exact same bored looking food hall woman from the inn sat in the seat next to him. "Oh. Well well well, if it isn't hammer weilding meatitarian who doesn't tip," she said with a voice as dry as sandpaper. A muscle in face violently began to twitch, and Taloc strategically altered the position of his hammer so the spiky handled pointed at his chest. While he put on the bright yellow shirt and listen to the good made began reminding every excruciating moment where he had forgotten to tip, make the bed, or replace the candles from the inn, he took tremendous solace in the fact that all it would take was one collision from the buggy for the sharpened handle tip to be forced into his chest and end his miserable life.