Olag Hai and the Abbot's Ford.
There is a place in these lands . . . a very odd place. A church - of sorts. Now, before i tell you about it, I have to get a little more in-depth.
The river Snake, named for its winding course, also has another odd characteristic. looking at it from the oceanside of things, it forks, like a serpents tongue, before entering into the mountains. Now, the fortress of the kingdom Hob is snuggled under the cliffsides on this little piece of dirt surrounded by a pair of fast-flowing, whitewater rivers. A natural, almost impassable moat. The only passable point is where the two small rivers join to form the larger river Snake. Though it seems to be one enormous piece of river right where the two join, in actual fact the solid ground stretches out for at least twenty feet on either bank, only its constantly submerged. There is, however, a short period at the end of the summer when the mountains have been drained of all their snowy runoff, when it can be crossed by foot. This is common knowledge to the Hobgoblins who call it home, as well as the orcs to the south and the 'civilized' peoples to the north.
The story comes because, long ago, a holy man had set out to build a church on this stretch of the river. This was no ordinary man, and certainly no ordinary church. The man is now only known as the Abbot, for the title granted a man of the gods (not to mention his name was lost in the historybooks). But, this was no ordinary god. This church - and its peoples - were devoted to the god Kord - known more commonly as The Brawler.
Kord is unique for one reason and one reason only - he has no enemies. mortals, greater beings, and elder gods alike fear his wrath. He is rumoured to be the only thing in the universe to have never lost a battle. Also, it is said he is the only one to have successfully killed a Greater Daemon with a single headbutt. But, I'm getting carried away.
This church, such as it is, is more of a warriors feasthall, or an army barracks, than it is a church. After all, he is the god of strength. Besides which, it was set up for the sole purpose of housing a force to defend the northern lands from invasions of hobgoblins and orcs. Damn did it ever work. Almost too well. The theory goes that the hobgoblins would never have become the ruthless warriors they are were it not for such a formidable adversary - or pair of adversaries.
The men of the Abbot (not only men, theres quite a few dwarves, the occasional halfbreed, and even a few more rugged elves) were warriors proud and true. While they valued Strength above all else, they considered Domination the most heinous of crimes. So, mighty as they were, they would never attack the orcs or hobgoblins on their own soil - unless it was a bet. So, border guards that they were, they never went to the source of the problem - unless it was a bet. Now, everyone knows how orcs border on the inhumanly strong, and the hobgoblins are posessed with an uncanny skill. So, you know where I'm going with this - a bet.
The first was an elf by the name of Liunalla - yes a woman. She was said to be the greatest sword to ever grace the Snake. All the grace and beauty of an elf maiden of noble birth, with all the warrior spirit of a child born and raised at the Abbot's Ford. Rumour has it she lost a drinking contest to a dwarf (big surprise) and offered up a double or nothing. The dwarf, being one tankard away from a face full of rug himself, dared her to march to the gates of the Fortress and call out a challenge - single battle.
The whole hall cleared out to watch this event. And, of course, a hall of drunken warriors marching on the gates or the Fortress wasn't even the best part. Everyone forgot to arm themselves before they set out - even Liunalla. Now, the Hobgoblins saw them coming from a long way off - and boy were they ever confused. First off, they were being attacked with home advantage by a mob of their most deadly adversaries. But, all they brought was song and drink. Not to mention a fair elven maiden who could barely keep her feet under her thumping her mug against the massive oak doors, slurring insults and belching threats.
Naturally, there was someone drunk enough to take the challenge. Throwing down a rops from the top parapet, one hobgoblin with more than a little liquid courage in his system, fueled by bets from his own allies, climbed about two thirds of the way down - and fell the rest. Much laughter ensued, and shortly thereafter they realized the invading forces were unarmed. So, instead of a battle to the death it was a wrestling match, the winner decided by way of submission.
It was a great match, though a short one. Two minutes into it, she got a hold of one of his wrists in an iron grip, and wouldn't let go. Doesn't seem like a big deal, but she was behind him at the time and his arm was between his legs. And, basically, she bull rushed him face first into the Fortress wall and lifted. And lifted. And, they learned how to say some pretty colourful words in Goblin that night.
Shortly thereafter, they both made amends and called it a well fought match. The braver - or maybe the stupider - hobgoblins followed down the rope. The Men of the Abbot supplied the refreshments, and the locals started a big bonfire in front of their own stronghold and joined the party. Likely the oddest moment in history, for when the sun rose, the two parties bid farewell, and found their way back to their own beds. Both sides enjoyed a week without fighting, and even though things went back to normal, it has become somewhat of a tradition for either group to stumble their way into the mouth of the lion and challenge someone to single combat. And, so long as they bring something to drink (and its relatively close to the anniversary), all is well.
Maybe ten years passed before the orcs became involved in the event. They were in the middle of an invasion of the northern banks, and one of their scouts were skulking in the shadowy underbrush around the Abbot's Hall, when a half dozen or so hobgoblins wandered into the clearing, a keg of ale carried amongst them. They dropped the keg, started yelling and swearing and throwing peanuts. To the uninitiated orcs surprise, the gates opened and a motley crew of unarmed warriors came out - with what appeared to be a roast boar. While the men carefully propped the skewered beast in the ground, the hobgoblins proceeded to throw their weapons down, take off their armour, and tap the keg. In the most bizarre friendly manner, they began mingling, sharing meat and mead, and singling each other out. They enjoyed themselves and beating the stuffing out of each other in one-on-one wrestling and boxing.
Now, the orc, watching all this, wasn't sure what the hell was going on, but he did know he was hungry. So, he came out of hiding. Fighters instincts being what they are, the two enemy parties were ready to turn on each other and their common enemy alike at this interruption. But, the orc quickly threw down his spear. Still, noone was sure how to react. So, the orc licked his lips and pointed at the boar, speaking in his own language, "Room for one more?". He joined into the drinking and eating and fighting, but this was a little different. Noone had ever wrestled an orc before, and not many that do try it again. The first up was a rugged dwarf known as the Keg (for his resemblance to one - short and round). At first the orc made an honourable show of not trying to hurt the little guy, but when a good right landed square on the jaw, sending the orc to the ground, he got angry. He got up, grabbed the dwarf by both shoulders, and tossed him head over heels. Next challenger was a hobgoblin, and though closer in size, was none better off. The orc went through beating them one at a time, getting caught up in the thrill, until the last challenger. A grizzled old man, scarred, unshaven, and with food all over his shirt, dropped his mug in the dust and shrugged. Somewhat wiser, not to mention having learned from the mistakes of the others, it was a well fought match. They went toe to toe for quite some time, and the previous battles began to catch up to the orc. However, there was no denying the orc was still ridiculously stronger than the old man, and shortly had him pinned to the ground. Expecting a submission, the orc was surprised to hear in his own native tongue, "Youth and skill is no match for old age and treachery." And, with a sing-song phrase that the orc never quite heard, he felt the unmistakable surge of power of the cleric's prayer. Basically with one hand tied behind his back, the old veteran gave a shove and sent the orc reeling. The man laughed, brushed himself off, and turned his back on the orc. Infuriated, he threw himself on the old man's back, locking on a chokehold. Thus encumbered, and though the massive barbarian still had two feet planted firmly on the ground, the man walked over, poured himself a beer, drank it, poured another, and casually handed it off to someone. Jumping as high as he could - which was likely ten feet in the air - he came crashing down on his back - and the orc. Bruised, battered, and winded, it took the orc a second to get his bearings, while a hobgoblin handed him the full ale and whispered "Don't feel bad, he's the Abbot."
The orc spent the rest of the night - and the better part of the next day - being nursed back to health by none other than the Abbot himself. They quickly recognized each other as kindred spirits, and the orc had no choice but to tell his new friend of the coming invasion.
It was about two months later when that orc returned to his homelands. All the great warriors of his peoples had died in battle, and there wasn't even a need for him to challenge for leadership. Everyone could see the change that had come over him. He seemed bigger, stronger, and posessing a casual courage that was almost creepy. Not to mention the tattoo he had gotten while he was at the hall. His new friend had given him a new name, in his own tongue: Olag-Hai, Noble Warrior. He forever wore it with pride, but sorrow as well. For it was written across his shoulders, to remind him of the burden he brought upon himself when he betrayed his own people in the name of friendship.
Generations have come and gone, but a few things remain the same. Hobgoblins are wicked, cruel, and bloodthirsty, but their pride is not something to mess with. The lands to the south of the river Snake belong to the orcs, a horde of savages but for the Olag-Hai Clan. And only a fool goes toe to toe with the Abbot.
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