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Yesteday's chunk
Yep, I've actually brought up the strength to do some typing.
He did mind having to travel with Bifur, Bofur and Bombur again, though. For – alone in the Company – he still believed himself to be above the common-born BroadBeam merchants; and such ones that had been Wanderers most of their life, too. Not even the dangers faced together and the war fought side by side could make him see those three as equals, despite the fact that even King Dáin held them in high regard. Alas, Nori was not only spoiled, he was also quite the snob, too; a rare thing among practical-minded Dwarves but not entirely unheard-of.
Thus he was now sitting in Óin and Glóin’s porch, in his traditional BlackLock garb (made of the finest wool and leathers and richly decorated with gold embroidery and applications), wearing that elaborate starfish hairdo that had become fashion in Uruktharbun’s master artisans (though he was still far from being a master, himself) and looking down his big nose at the simple BroadBeams who dared to share the space with him.
Bofur noticed that look at once and his open, friendly face darkened. The two of them had never been friends, not even during the Quest, and it was unlikely that they would ever become. Bofur never suffered fools gladly and was not willing to tolerate being looked down at by some spoiled brat. Not even if said brat was distantly related to Durin’s House.
Bifur could feel his anger rise and laid a comforting hand upon his forearm. She was as lovely as ever, Glóin found, with her smooth, tanned face, cat-like black eyes, handsome side whiskers and great wealth of thick, glossy black hair that she now wore in more complicated plaits and braids than when she had still been living on the Road. Yes, Glóin could understand why his brother would fall for Bifur – for Sigrún Kuonisdóttir, he corrected himself – so far and so hard. While no-one could even come close to his own wife, the fiery Nei (at least not in his eyes), he freely admitted that Bifur was a great beauty on her own right.
And she was a warrior, blooded in battle, as the fine, ragged black lines tattooed on her temples proudly announced. What was there not to like?
He did mind having to travel with Bifur, Bofur and Bombur again, though. For – alone in the Company – he still believed himself to be above the common-born BroadBeam merchants; and such ones that had been Wanderers most of their life, too. Not even the dangers faced together and the war fought side by side could make him see those three as equals, despite the fact that even King Dáin held them in high regard. Alas, Nori was not only spoiled, he was also quite the snob, too; a rare thing among practical-minded Dwarves but not entirely unheard-of.
Thus he was now sitting in Óin and Glóin’s porch, in his traditional BlackLock garb (made of the finest wool and leathers and richly decorated with gold embroidery and applications), wearing that elaborate starfish hairdo that had become fashion in Uruktharbun’s master artisans (though he was still far from being a master, himself) and looking down his big nose at the simple BroadBeams who dared to share the space with him.
Bofur noticed that look at once and his open, friendly face darkened. The two of them had never been friends, not even during the Quest, and it was unlikely that they would ever become. Bofur never suffered fools gladly and was not willing to tolerate being looked down at by some spoiled brat. Not even if said brat was distantly related to Durin’s House.
Bifur could feel his anger rise and laid a comforting hand upon his forearm. She was as lovely as ever, Glóin found, with her smooth, tanned face, cat-like black eyes, handsome side whiskers and great wealth of thick, glossy black hair that she now wore in more complicated plaits and braids than when she had still been living on the Road. Yes, Glóin could understand why his brother would fall for Bifur – for Sigrún Kuonisdóttir, he corrected himself – so far and so hard. While no-one could even come close to his own wife, the fiery Nei (at least not in his eyes), he freely admitted that Bifur was a great beauty on her own right.
And she was a warrior, blooded in battle, as the fine, ragged black lines tattooed on her temples proudly announced. What was there not to like?
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