Convicted: A Different Story – Prologue

by Oct 22, 2003Stories

Credits: This story has been made possible by Gwaith-i-Narndain, the Alliance of Storytellers, made up of Alassë, Aramel, Aiduial, and Syde. I owe a word of thanks to Lalaith-Elerrina, for her inspiration (though I doubt she knows it) of the whole idea.

Mary-Sue definition: A sweet, beautiful heroine who is perfectly slim, has blue eyes like the sky, marries Legolas (but another worthy Prince would do.), and lives happily ever after. She tends to slay whole companies of Orcs and Wargs without injury, she does everything right, and she is painfully modest.

Un-Mary-Sue: The opposite!

This story will exhibit all disgusting things possible, a rude, coarse ‘heroine’, no Legolas, no other handsome Elf Princes, and absolutely no kissing.

We invite you to join us for the tale of Rokhara Stone-fist, deep down under the mountains in Moria!

The pounding of a hard boot against the stone corridor awoke her from her drunken sleep.

The jingling of keys was heard, and then the door to her little cell opened wide, letting in a stream of light that hurt her beady black eyes.

“Come!” the gruff voice commanded, grabbing her stout, hairy wrist and dragging her heavy body off the bed and back down the corridor.

She dozed again during the short journey. Why bother to wake up? She’d only go to sleep again. It seemed like far too much trouble to wake and then sleep again when she could just stay asleep to start with. She didn’t need to walk.. The guard would drag her if she didn’t. She felt it was sort of like bathing. If you did bathe, you would rapidly get dirty again in the caves of Moria. Why take the trouble of doing things?

The voice’s owner (she hadn’t bothered to notice who it was) slammed her roughly into a chair and it all began.

The boom of stone being slammed against stone woke her and announced the start of the trial. (She still wasn’t sure why she was being tried. She’d given a great belch in the midst of the accusation, and the jailer hadn’t repeated himself.)

“Rokhara Stone-fist, you are hereby accused of murder. Be you guilty?”

Rokhara raised her head, contemplating, and completely surprised. “I’m not sure.”

The Dwarf-lord in charge, Balin by name, glowered. “A straight answer, or exile!”

Rokhara sobered, in spite of the massive amounts of ale still in her. “No. I have killed no one.”

Balin’s countenance didn’t lighten. “The evidence proves otherwise.”

“Does it?” She was still confused, not trying to be rude, and her head pounded.
Suddenly, she couldn’t restrain it. GURRRRRRRRP, she said. The witnesses laughed, and the trial began to disentegrate.

“Order!…Faugh! What is that abominable odor?” Balin coughed. “Silence! DESIST!!”

But it was all to no avail. The witnesses continued to laugh, and Rokhara seemed to be clueless.

Balin, enraged, banged his mallet, shouting at the top of his voice, “Rokhara Stone-fist! This court hereby condemns you to one year of service without compensation to Khazad-dum’s citizens, for Utterly Gross Manners and Disturbance Of Court Order!” And he huffed off, muttering loudly his contempt for parents who didn’t teach their children any respect for authority. He didn’t care about finding who had committed the murder anymore.. It seemed plain that Rokhara Stone-fist was permanently acquitted. She would never have had the wits to plan murder, and he was relieved just to be away with no lasting damage to his nose.


Rokhara was rudely awakened the next morning. She was mostly sober.. but she did have the most awful headache. She didn’t know it was because she had been hit in the head with a balled fist twice before she’d opened her eyes.

“Get up!” they snarled. She thought they were dreadfully tall, but then she realized she was still lying down. She rolled sideways and hit the stone floor, picking herself up out of the dust.

“What?” she growled, rubbing her head. She realized it was only one person now. She had seen two at first. She cracked her large knuckles menacingly, hoping the grotesque sound that often made grown males shudder would drive this unwelcome caller away.

“Come with me! You are under orders to obey the citizens, and I tell you to take this meal down to the mines. They are too busy to stop and make the journey to the city when worthless oafs like you can be put to work doing the same thing for them. You’ll take this meal, and then you’ll start your real work. We’ve a need for miners, it would happen. You’ll fill the void!”

Whoever he was, Rokhara decided, he was terribly rude. He hadn’t told her who he was, and he had insulted her to her face. She groaned audibly.

“Why should I? If I’m so worthless, I might not can be trusted to take the meal, eh? You take it, you rude piece of Goblin refuse! And while you’re at it, you can take my job. I’m sure anybody with enough time to boss everyone around will have the time to assist the miners himself.”

She earned herself another hard, backhanded slap across the chops. “Bottle your whining! I’ll report you to Lord Balin if this obstinance persists! Now, walk!”

The heavy tray, tantalizingly filled with cooked meat and fresh bread, and a large tankard of ale, was shoved into her hands and the Dwarf pushed her forward.

She discreetly snitched bites along the short walk. Her leg, one being slightly shorter than the other, caused the tray to jostle badly, and she didn’t make any effort to control it. Half the ale sloshed out onto the stone.

It was no more than an easy five minute’s stroll to the beginning of the mines, but Rokhara felt peckish. She couldn’t think, at the moment, of a time when she DIDN’T feel peckish, but it made no difference. The stupid Dwarf ordering her around like a common Goblin didn’t even notice that one slab of meat was utterly demolished on their arrival.

The mines were huge. That was Rokhara’s first impression of theplace where she was to work. The mines of the Dwarrowdelf resembled an ants’ nest, both in shape and nature. From the first main minings, tunnels stretched all over the place, crisscrossing and getting tangled as a spider’s web in some places. The dwarves who worked in the mines were like ants too, bustling around busily and taking absolutely no notice of her.

She blinked, swaying a bit from the pounding blow she’d recieved minutes earlier from the overseer who’d wakened her, looking at the tray in her hands. Who was she supposed to give it to, when this whole place was filled with miners? As well as tell someone to find a fish in the ocean.

“Hey, you!” she yelled at a passing dwarf with a pickaxe over his shoulder. “Is this supposed to be yours, or what?”

The dwarf pushed her aside with a grunt. “Mind yer manners, missy! ‘Tis none of my business whose this is.”

Completely bewildered but unable to find anything better, she continued singling out poeple.

“Excuse me–Oh, is this yours, then? No? Whose is it?”

“Don’t know, don’t care.”

“Whose dinner is this? WHOSE–HEY!”

“Sorry, missy!” shouted an incredibly fat dwarf over the ruckus. “Didn’t see ya!” Leaning down, he looked at her. “Is that my dinner?”

“You can have it,” she said, grateful to be relieved of the burden.

Without further ado, he picked up the meat and tankard of ale, and began to munch on it. “The name’s Bombur,” he explained between bites. “And who are you?”

“Rokhara Stone-fist,” she replied carelessly. Neither remembered, nor would have cared enough to say it if they had, that it was extremely bad manners not to bow politely and say, “At your service,” after an introduction.

The dwarf called Bombur started to chuckle.

“Heard all about you from old Balin. He was in a right old temper last night. Kept talking ’bout parents and education, not to mention odour.” He sniffed. “Though I must say he has a point there.”

The overall bustle around them seemed to be getting louder, as a harsh banging of a spoon on a gong sounded. “Back to the city for dinner!” With a huge roar and clank of axes dropping, the mass of miners rushed towards the city of Khazad-dum, leaving behind only Rokhara, the Boss, and Bombur, who was still munching on the meat. Suddenly he let out a great big belch. “BUUUUUUUUUUURP!” and roared with laughter.

“That the best you can do?” Rokhara said, disdainfully tossing her head. “I can do it twice as long!” She swallowed air and then.. “BUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURP!”

Bombur laughed even harder. “Not the thing I’d have expected from a young lady!”

Rokhara glared balefully at him. That was exceedingly rude of him. She conveniently forgot that it was bad manners (at least among the dwarves) to glare. However, she did not have a chance to remonstrate, which would probably have made her seem even more laughable, as at this moment, the Boss, busybody as he was, strode over with that wrathful air only a dwarf can assume. “Move it!” he snarled. “I didn’t ask for you to sit here all day chatting! Go do what you’re supposed to!”

“What, exactly, am I supposed to do?”

“Where’s the food?” the surly Boss snarled. “You didn’t feed it to the moles now, didja?”

“No, he ate it.” She gestured nonchalantly to Bombur.

“He what?” the overseer shrilled, his voice becoming increasingly like a steam whistle. “He ate it? YOU FOOL! THAT WAS THE CHIEF OVERSEER’S DINNER!”

“You never said that, you pathetic excuse for a worm,” Rokhara yawned. “All you said was to take it over here.”

Seconds later, she had another bruise and knot swelling on her head to worry about.

Rokhara glared at the Boss. He stared back into her beady almost pale green eyes(some said that they were a disgusting mixture of very pale brown and Orc-green), but soon looked away muttering about Dwarf-maids having no manners. Bombur watched him, and when he looked away, he broke out into loud, raucous cries of laughter.

“Stared down by a mere female are you, Fonor? Ye’ve come far from the days when we were drinking partners. You used to be able to drink whole barrels, and never flinch. Now it is impossible for you to staredown anyone, but a maid at that! Losing yer touch, I think!”

The Boss, Fonor, had begun to turn a shade of red when Bombur started, but by the end he was such a nasty purple, even Rokhara was disgusted.

“You should never’ve said that, Bombur, you fat lie-a-bed. Ye’ll be assigned to work with the wench, and then we’ll see how much you like her!”

Bombur merely burst into more laughter at this comment saying, “You over-grown tomato! I’d like to see you try! Ye’ve got no more control over the operations here than I have!”

Fonor, evidently disgusted with his own low rank, shut up. Glaring once more, and not caring if it was bad manners, at Rokhara, he stalked away after the herd of rapidly disappearing Dwarves and joined the stampede for the midday meal.

Bombur held out his thick, hairy hand to Rokhara, who took it with a paw that matched his own, at least in coarse hair quantity. “Well done! Never seen him lose his cover that completely in a long time! Stone-fist your name? Right. Well, shall we?”

With a suspicious squeak escaping her rear, Rokhara laughed heartily and started walking with the fat, agreeable Bombur towards the city.


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