Chapter One: A Thud, A thud some say.
It began with a thud, some say.
Three Dwarves, who's names are lost to time, as of yet - Three Dwarves sat at a stone-crafted table, one of an extreme wear, as though it had existed for as long as the Three whom used it, had - Or even longer... From common knowledge and understanding, one would think that one of these Three would be "Garmorn" - And, as sure as the very rock-hewn room that this table lie in, one of the Three sitting Dwarves, well - Dwarves by race, was indeed the very "Bear" that we know today. Who were the other two? As noted, their names have been lost to time - Abandoned, after a long while of knowing them.
However, what is known - is that the other two, sat at the hardened-table, were indeed known to "Garmorn", lest in his reserved state - none would be brave enough to sit besides the towering figure that we know on this date and time, a less cruel and ill-tempered version, sure enough, but a version - nonetheless. One, his brother - To us, known as "Argmorn", but that name couldn't surely be trusted for reasons we shall soon learn - You shall soon learn, that is. And the other, naught but a friend - Friends. Something we all need, whether we accept that fact or not, but it would seem that all our "friends" exist in our very enemies, hiding, waiting, indeed waiting for the right moment to strike... And unless you are truly gifted in your arts of choosing invaluable allies, then you would learn that the ones you love, and trust - can soon become the ones you hate, and distrust. And the ones you hate, and distrust - Can soon become the very light in your inevitable darkness.
But a friend, this was. A good friend to "Garmorn".
A stout Dwarrow, one almost as large as Garmorn, with stunted legs and a thick beard, one of a shaggy nature which resembled a bear's thick coat, in it's muddy-brown color. This Dwarf's eyes were as silvered as minerals, and yet as unwelcoming as some beast would seem, when protecting it's territory... Yet, in a strange confusion to the eyes and facial hair of this Dwarf, his face was warm, and less rugged. It wasn’t scarred, nor burned, nor marked by old age - Instead, the face of this Dwarf was fair, as fair as could be in the Dwarven Race, one that could uplift morality and confuse any uninformed person, for the face of this Dwarf was truly his marking feature, something unique, seemingly, to him.
That, and his voice;
His name was Tórunr.
The three Dwarves, now named, were sat at the, said, table of stone. A uneven group, one that seemed unsavory and odd. Garmorn, a huge Dwarf, of unimaginable size and stature, sat besides Tórnunr - A strangely shapen, and oddly gifted with a rare face for the Dwarrow kind, Dwarrow whom was as large as Garmorn, yet not as bulky and muscular, sat next to Argmorn - Garmorn's brother, whom was not named as such at the time, a lesser-gifted Dwarrow in size and strength. Argmorn, being the younger sibling of Garmorn, was of an average-hight, and of an average stature, he was not too fit, nor too laze and reserved, he did not have his brother's bulk, nor his father's alleged, as would be explained, wisdom.
Words were thrown from each of the Dwarrows to one and another, jests and curses, a speech that had been diluted by beer, and drowned by ale - Garmorn, sounded as harsh as one may expect, Argmorn - Quite the opposite, spoke in a subtle, yet firm, voice. Tórunr, however, spoke in a way that may not be classified as speaking:
A mumble of an unknown tongue, rather - the lack of a tongue.
Tórunr was a mute.
The incidents that led to the loss of a speech, the death of several kinsmen and the events which would later come, were dire incidents, indeed. Incidents which requires me to note down the curse, dreaded as it is, of Harkmorn - The father of the Munár dynasty, and the son of Calgalin - the true-blood lineage of Valantris, Harkmorn was brother to Salgalin, the wise, and father of Garmorn and Argmorn. A grand Dwarrow, one of great wisdom, and strength - He had once fought in a battle, one costly for his house, against the goblins of the Misty Mountains, cousins of the orcs whom entered the caves of the mountainous region south of Gundabad - With naught but a helmet, a lump of badly-forged steel, as a weapon - Which he used to club down several hundred, a great amount at it's time, even today - for that matter, of the orc-spawn.
However, all that, the wisdom, the strength and the sanity, would soon come to pass... For, one day, at noon according to all surviving accounts that I read now, atop my desk - writing this dreaded history, Harkmorn was inspecting some other Dwarrow troops, correcting their stature and ordering for new armors to be made, and after several hours of military-based instructions and training; A vile act took place. None live to tell, nor cared to write, but - Harkmorn disappeared, as did his Dwarrow recruits. My own knowledge and sense would tell me that he was betrayed, tricked by the other Dwarves - Though that wouldn't be ledger-able here, for it's unproven and his influence and fame stretched far on his kin... But disappear, he did.
Nigh ten years, ten years! He was not seen. Not heard. A sad, and depressing silence took it's hold on his Munár dynasty, and for the entirety of the ten years, he was searched for - By Garmorn, who at the time, could and would have ended his own life - But he was counselled and kept under constant guard.
Then, when all seemed fruitless, a pointless feeling to the soul, Harkmorn appeared. Like the magi of Middle Earth. Unseen, yet seen - But, on his strange, and unexplainable, illogical, return: He bore a curse, it seemed.
Not the curse, of kind, that you learn of in folk lore, nor the kind that one would use to ward off unwelcomed guests... This, was a deeper kind - One that could cause many problems, one that could harm anything sane, for simply being there.
Harkmorn developed an incurable insanity.
This insanity, of Harkmorn's, was one of the mind and physical areas. An insanity, that could not be comprehendible, the once proud Dwarrow, brought low to a state of social awkwardness, mental complexity and physical oddity.
It all happened at once, when Harkmorn was finally found, this was not a slow period of time - In just a single day, the lord of the Munár dynasty began seeing non-existing things, shapes, people, objects, he also began muttering verses of an unknown origin - as though he remembered something, yet he could never come to repeating what he had said... Even -if- he knew, that he had said something. Then the stranger, less explainable issues began to set. Harkmorn ate odd things, drank odd things. Food and drink of an explicit disgust. From rotting Hobbit fingers, found beneath graves, to pebbles, how he grew addicted to all forms of rock, to even the fur of a bear, strangely edible for him. Naught would exist, that he didn’t try to eat, or drink, or use in some recipe - during his phase of insanity, which still continues to this day...
It began with a thud, some say.
A thud that started it all, in an ecstasy of confusion.
The lore of Three Dwarves, a hench, a mute, and a weak one, can be noted in such a way.
