Chapter Three: On laughing
And so, Harkmorn's bodyguard unit, as one, were mentioned. Their size, larger than Harkmorn's, their weaponry, far superior when noted that Harkmorn was prohibited from carrying any form of harmful object - be it a pen, or an axe, and their mentality, greater... For Harkmorn's past "wisdom" had been lost to his insanity, as noted in previous writings.
Of the five, body-guards - whom swore to guard bodies, not just the body of Harkmorn: Furgi, Gurabar, Jundr, Fillok and Burkhást - Burkhást was the eldest, at the age of 154, at the time, he was nigh only five years younger than Harkmorn, whom at the time was 159, next was Jundr and Fillok, two Dwarven twins with peculiar "similarities", it seemed that Dwarves held a different idea of being related as twins, of whom were at the age of 104, Jundr, and 102, Fillok - A rather large drop from the age of Burkhást, but this would be expected in such an elite unit.
Then came Gurabar, the second youngest of the five, whom was of 98 winters, a newly referred to as "old enough", in Dwarrow culture. And thus, finally: Furgi, the youngest of all the five Dwarrow guards, at the young, in Dwarven lifespans, age of 57 - Should culture and ideology have dictated this Dwarf's rights and responsibilities, he would not have been let into the open world, and kept in some cave to learn the art of smithing, and mining rare minerals for the forges, yet he had swore an oath to protect Harkmorn, when his stewards had been looking for a group of five to guard him, from anyone, and from himself, even. Though not much is known of Furgi's happenings, and why, and even how, he managed to join, we can presume it is because he had been ashamed, and the life-oath in the protection of Harkmorn had been an easy escape.
To return to the scene, on which we began.
A thud, some say... Is how this part began. A thud, some know, is how this part began.
At a stone table, described in all it's roughness and sturdy make, there sat the three dwarves, Garmorn, Argmorn and Tórunr, as noted already. One of them, it must have been Tórunr, slammed their fist against the rock of the table, showing no sign of physical pain upon their face, roaring out curses, in a rage of sorts...
Yet, after a moment, there was a sound of hefty, and hearty, laughter, as though the very anger in Tórunr had not just disappeared, yet transferred into the opposite, a form of happiness - One that softens the heart and confuses the mind.
He was drunk.
As with most, if not all, Dwarrows - Tórunr felt rather addicted, knowingly, yet carelessly, to ale, ale and beer, and all sorts of "rough" Dwarven drinks. The ale of men was swill to him, and the wines of the Elves were of an up-tight sort, and luckily for his ale-habit's existence, he had a friend, quite a great friendship of existence, in Garmorn - Whom shared his natural drunkness, for at this moment - The only sober Dwarf at the stone table, was Argmorn - The smallest, the youngest, and the weakest of the three, Garmorn being the largest, and Tórunr being the most hench. "Come now, brother, please just ---", Argmorn began to speak before he was, rather instantaneously, cut off by Tórunr: "Oh just shut it! You should learn to have a bit of...", he slowed down, blinking - It had seemed that the drinks had began to take a hold of him, he groaned. Argmorn began again, confused - Yet he knew, deep down, that this was a cause of Tórunr's constant drinking, everyone knew; "Of...? Fun perhaps? You had said that, thrice today already! Damn it Tórunr, you're a drunk old Dwarrow, so is m'brother! Neither of you understand ----", again he was cut off.
Garmorn set in, this time, as Tórunr began rubbing his head, and then taking down another mug of ale - All at once, a pint of ginger-ale was downed, "Look, brother. If you don’t want to be drinking, don’t want to see me drinking, why are you even here!?", Argmorn muttered something, probably some curse of sort, in return. Then silence fell, it was an awkward time of three minutes before Tórunr, and Garmorn began swearing and chuckling and laughing heftily, and drinking, and drinking.
And drinking.
Argmorn, sounded rather up-tight to his brother, and his brother's friend - Him being the weakest, Argmorn learnt to use his mind over his petty might, and thus had learnt to read... Strangely enough, it was the job of Garmorn, the eldest and heir to lordship of the Manúr dynasty, at that time - atleast, to learn the arts of lordship, to read, to be political, to understand diplomacy. Yet, instead Garmorn had learnt the arts of warfare, to burn libraries, to have his way with the opposition in a debate, to hate diplomacy.
Into the night, they sat, the three of them, drinking and laughing - All except Argmorn.
Garmorn said something, something vile that felt, to Argmorn, like something uncalled for - Like a knife, a stab in the back.
Garmorn laughed.
Tórunr laughed.
Argmorn didn’t laugh.
