ponies-before-prophecies

[ponies-before-prophecies]

Hey OP!! I don't know if you know this already but someone has posted some portions of your texts posts on their account (roleplay) and I haven't seen you being tagged 😢

Oh wow, I actually hadn’t seen that yet — thank you so much for letting me know! I've been quite busy and I haven't replied to everything yet!!

I really appreciate you keeping an eye out like that, seriously. If you’re comfortable, could you reach out to me via DMs with the details or a link? I’d love to clear that up calmly and directly. Sometimes it’s a misunderstanding, but it’s still important to address.

Thank you again for the heads-up, truly!!!💙

_ OP

[ponies-before-prophecies]

LINDIR!!!!!✨💖

You have RETURNED!

The world is once again bright! The halls of Rivendell are no longer empty and cold! The sun shines a little warmer! The birds sing a little sweeter! The scrolls—oh, the scrolls—have been weeping in your absence!

Do you understand the suffering I have endured without you?

The emotional toll? The existential despair?

Do you know how many lords and ladies have asked me for things I do not have the authority to give? How many times I have had to politely decline their increasingly unreasonable demands with no one to back me up?

And Glorfindel. Glorfindel. Do you know how many times I have heard the words "It will be fine, Eredin," only for it to NOT be fine? Do you know how much cocoa I have consumed in your absence? Do you know the lengths people have had to go to in order to protect the pantry from my insatiable sweet tooth?

I have MISSED YOU. 😭

Oh, Lindir, my poor, banished friend, my suffering soul, my exiled companion—how did you survive such horrors? How did you endure the burden of leisure? The trials of relaxation? The unspeakable agony of watching dolphins frolic?? (They frolicked, Lindir. I do not know if I will ever recover from this revelation.)

But now—NOW—you have returned, and Rivendell rejoices. The scrolls will no longer gather dust in mourning. The halls will no longer ring empty with despair. And I—I—shall no longer suffer alone!

Welcome home, my dearest friend. Never leave me again. 😭✨

Vacation or Banishment? The Dark Truth Behind My ‘Restful Retreat’

I have returned from exile.

Or, as Lord Elrond would insist, I was "sent on a well-deserved respite for the sake of my mental health." But let us not split hairs over terminology—one man's "restful retreat" is another man's banishment to a land of sunshine, leisure, and enforced relaxation.

Yes, dear friends, I was unceremoniously sent away to the seaside.

Not because of any wrongdoing on my part (unless you count an overabundance of duties and a tendency to overwork as a crime, which—according to a certain Lord of Rivendell—absolutely is). I was given no choice in the matter. I was informed, rather kindly but firmly, that I was to go. And I was to rest.

Rest, I ask you! As if I were some fragile creature in need of coddling! As if I do not thrive in the halls of Rivendell, amidst my scrolls and duties! And yet, my protests were silenced by a single raised brow from Lord Elrond and an unmistakable look that said, Do not test me, Lindir, or I will make you take an entire month off.

Thus, I was sent away to the peaceful and lovely shores where I was forced to endure the horrors of gentle waves, soft breezes, and days spent with nothing to do but read, take strolls along the shore, and relax.

It was dreadful.

I had nothing to stress about. No responsibilities weighing on my shoulders. No urgent matters to attend to. It was unbearable.

Eredin, my dear friend, I apologize for my absence. I did not choose to abandon you in your hour of need. I was exiled. Sent far away, where I had to witness dolphins frolicking in the waves and experience the unfathomable luxury of napping without guilt. It was horrific.

But fear not! I have returned! I have survived the treacherous beauty of my imprisonment and am back in my rightful place. My form has been restored. My quill is in hand. My mind is sharp once more.

I am ready for whatever awaits me.

[ponies-before-prophecies]

finding solace 🌼

[ponies-before-prophecies]

Who is the mischievous person in all of imladris?

Oh, now this is an excellent question, because there are different ranks of mischievousness in Imladris, and one must categorize them properly.

Let me explain.

Rank One: The Chaos Goblins (Elladan & Elrohir Level)

This is the tier of mischief where the perpetrators operate purely on impulse, reveling in the art of destruction and absurdity. The Twin Terrors of Imladris, Elladan and Elrohir, have long since mastered this craft. Their mischief is immediate and explosive—one moment, you are sipping tea in peace, the next, an entire bookshelf has been rearranged in the wrong order just to test if you’ll notice. One time, they replaced Glorfindel’s sword with a near-perfect replica made entirely of hardened sugar paste. He only realized it when he unsheathed it for practice, and the thing snapped in half like a dry biscuit.

Rank Two: The Elegant Menace (Glorfindel Level)

Now, Glorfindel's mischief is different. It is more refined, more deliberate. His is the kind of mischief that makes you second-guess your own existence. He will gaslight you for fun. If you trip on your own feet, he will tell you, with the most sincere expression, that you actually just got shoved by a ghost. He once convinced a visiting scholar that the famed "Ghostly White Stag of Imladris" was real—and that if it chose to haunt you, you had to leave offerings of honey and sing it lullabies at dusk to appease it. The poor scholar actually did this for an entire week before someone put a stop to it.

Rank Three: The Psychological Warfare Specialist (Elihal Level)

And then… there is my brother.

Elihal does not engage in petty pranks or small amusements. No, no. His mischief is a long game. It is an art form. It is verbal and psychological destruction, tailored specifically to ruin you.

He will physically beat you in a sparring match, then verbally finish the job while you’re still on the ground. He once reduced a fully armed, highly trained warrior to reconsidering his entire life after a fight, purely through well-placed words and a slow, unimpressed stare. He will pinpoint your deepest insecurities and then gently, oh so gently, roast you into oblivion.

Glorfindel is a frequent victim of Elihal’s well-crafted comments. Their entire dynamic is just Elihal calling Glorfindel "an idiot wrapped in golden arrogance" while refusing to acknowledge that he might actually like him. (Which he does. But he will perish before admitting it.)

Also his "pranks" are absolutely devastating.

Rank Four: The Silent Puppet Master (Arwen Level)

Ah, and then there is Arwen. Do not, for even a moment, let her serene composure and elegant demeanor fool you. She is mischievous.

Oh, she is subtle about it, but that only makes her more dangerous.

Arwen does not engage in petty pranks, nor does she waste her time on juvenile antics. No, Arwen plays the long game. She is the mastermind. She is the quiet force behind many moments of pure chaos in Imladris, all while keeping her hands utterly clean. If Glorfindel and the twins are the ones throwing the stones, Arwen is the one whispering, "Wouldn’t it be interesting if you aimed just a little to the left?"

Arwen’s mischief is social strategy. She will set up elaborate schemes, convincing people they had a brilliant idea on their own, when in reality, she planted the thought with the precision of a gardener cultivating a rare flower. She once orchestrated an entire diplomatic misunderstanding between two visiting lords just to get them to argue, simply because she found their posturing tiresome and thought it would be amusing.

And then there is the matchmaking. Oh, the matchmaking.

Arwen will take two unsuspecting victims, decide they would make a charming couple, and casually maneuver the entirety of Imladris around them until they fall in love. You will think it was destiny. You will think the stars aligned. You will think the Valar themselves ordained your union.

No.

It was Arwen.

Always Arwen.

She is the silent architect of chaos. She does not get caught. She does not leave evidence. She will smile at you sweetly while ruining your life in ways you do not even realize.

So you see, mischief in Imladris is not a simple thing.

It exists in tiers. Some will ruin your day in the moment. Some will ruin your week. And some, like Elihal and Arwen, will ruin your entire self-worth if you are not careful.

Choose your battles wisely.

[ponies-before-prophecies]

Hello, Eredin! It's the first day of spring today! *Nare smiles, drawing out a package from behind her back.* And I have a gift. Here, Eredin, those are for you.

*Narë hands you something wrapped in a soft green cloth, closed with twine.* Come on, open it, I need to explain a few things about it.

 *When you peel away the cloth you discover a pair of leather vambraces. The left one is just beautifully designed in a deep phthalo green shade of intertwining athelas leaves, with small silver stars round the wrist end, but the right one has an in-built sheath with a small knife, and several places in which you can put pens or other writing utensils in. She gestures you to turn it around, and on the sheath part there is the symbol of Imladris.*

The knife is enchanted: it cannot cut you, and it will glow softly in the presence of orcs; here is the translucent piece of crystal in the sheath that will allow you to see it.

*She taps the side of the right vambrace, and then takes the small blade out. It’s the length of your palm if you include the grip, tiny tengwar running up the blade. The end of the grip is polished to a high shine, golden inlay in the shape that you recognize as Lindir’s crest.*

Here, I made it for your size. It can be thrown, and can cut through a thick branch with a bit of effort. The mechanism that keeps it in the sheath loops around your thumb, so if you need to take it out urgently you just fold your thumb to the inside of your palm and it will fall out into your palm, if you keep your hand down. You can use it to sharpen pencils or recut quills as needed, but it is a weapon as well, so if somebody attacks you or Lindir…well, stab them. That’s what  it’s there for. *She grins.* I hope it will come useful in less bloody situations, though.

Ná alya i vinya loa, Eredin! I have some more rounds to make. Enjoy the spring!

Oh, Narë, I apologize for the delay in replying—it has been an utterly relentless week.

With the arrival of spring comes the arrival of visitors—Lords and Ladies, dignitaries, poets seeking inspiration, scholars bringing new scrolls (and expecting immediate discussions on them), and, of course, a great deal of formalities that Lindir and I have been navigating with barely a moment to breathe. I have been so tangled in schedules, documents, and the finer points of diplomatic pleasantries that I have hardly had time to step outside and appreciate that the season has changed.

And then—then you come bearing a gift like this.

Narë, I am awestruck. I was already speechless at the sight of the vambraces themselves—the craftsmanship alone is beautiful beyond words. The intertwining athelas leaves, the silver stars, the deep phthalo green—my color, and you remembered!—but then you included a hidden sheath? With a blade? Enchanted, no less?? Lindir’s crest on the grip???

I—how—what did I do to deserve this level of thoughtfulness and care? You have given me something immensely practical and deeply personal, and I could not be more grateful.

The right vambrace alone is a marvel—pens and quills stored neatly, a blade that I can retrieve in an instant, a mechanism so clever I suspect you might have stolen the secrets of its design from Celebrimbor himself. And it glows in the presence of orcs! Not that I anticipate encountering any anytime soon, but one never knows. The tengwar engraving is stunning, the balance of the knife in my palm feels perfect, and I am still trying to recover from the knowledge that this small, elegant blade can cut through a thick branch and recut a quill. A tool and a weapon, both sharpened to suit my needs.

You have outdone yourself, truly.

I shall cherish these vambraces, and I suspect they will become an essential part of my daily wear. And—well, should anyone attempt harm against Lindir… I will remember your words. "Stab them." (Spoken with all the lightness of someone suggesting I simply write a strongly worded letter, I might add.)

Thank you, Narë, truly. This is one of the most meaningful gifts I have ever received.

May spring bring you joy and many more successful rounds of delivering gifts—though I suspect none could be as perfect as this. 💚✨

[ponies-before-prophecies]

bestie (can i call you bestie?) what’s the best kind of tea to serve for an afternoon tea?

Bestie, You May Absolutely Call Me Bestie—Now Let’s Talk Tea! ☕

Ah, afternoon tea—an art, a ritual, a moment of peace wrapped in the scent of steeped leaves and the warmth of a porcelain cup/warm mug. Choosing the right tea depends on the occasion, the company, and, most importantly, what you want your soul to feel as you sip it.

1. The Classics – Timeless, Elegant, Always Right

🫖 Earl Grey – The true royalty of afternoon teas. With its black tea base and delicate bergamot citrus notes, it pairs perfectly with lemon cakes, shortbread, and polite gossip. Ideal for when you want to feel effortlessly sophisticated.

🍃 Darjeeling – Light, floral, and known as the "Champagne of teas," Darjeeling is best served when you’re hosting a fancy afternoon tea with delicate pastries. If you want to impress someone who knows their teas, this is the way to go.

🍯 English Breakfast – Strong, robust, and reliable. Perfect for when your afternoon tea is leaning towards a "light meal" rather than just a nibble. Serve with a splash of milk and a dash of honey if you want a comforting hug in a cup.

2. The Delicate & Floral – For Dreamy, Soft Afternoons

🌿 Jasmine Green Tea – Light and aromatic, best served on warm afternoons where the air is fragrant with possibility. Pairs beautifully with fruit tarts and whispered confessions.

🌸 Chamomile with Lavender – A tea for when the goal is relaxation, gentle conversation, and an overall aura of serenity. Best enjoyed with honey, perhaps with a cozy book at your side.

🍑 White Peach Tea – If your afternoon tea is more of a garden gathering with fresh fruit and light scones, this subtly sweet and elegant choice is perfect. White tea is delicate, and the peach adds just the right amount of natural sweetness.

3. The Cozy & Comforting – Like a Warm Embrace

🍏 Spiced Apple or Chai Tea – If your afternoon tea is in the colder months, or if you simply want something to make your heart feel warmer, chai with cinnamon, cloves, and cardamom is the answer. Serve it with a touch of steamed milk for a luxurious touch.

🍫 Rooibos Vanilla Tea – Caffeine-free, naturally sweet, and smooth. Ideal for late-afternoon teas when you don’t want to be awake all night but still want something rich. Pairs well with dark chocolate or nutty pastries.

4. The Herbal & Refreshing – For a Unique Twist

🌱 Peppermint Tea – Best for summer afternoon teas, especially if served iced. Perfect for a refreshing pick-me-up between sandwiches and desserts.

🍋 Lemon Verbena or Lemongrass Tea – Light, citrusy, and uplifting. If you’re looking for something that feels cleansing and fresh, this is a fantastic choice. Goes beautifully with citrus cakes or macarons.

🌼 Hibiscus Tea – Deep red, slightly tart, and full of antioxidants, this tea is bold in both color and taste. If you want an afternoon tea with a vibrant, lively energy, this is a great pick. Also delicious iced with a bit of honey!

Extra Tips for the Ultimate Afternoon Tea Experience:

✨ Serve in Proper Cups – The experience is enhanced tenfold when the tea is served in a delicate teacup rather than a plain mug. Trust me on this.

✨ Mind the Temperature – Green and white teas need lower temperatures (around 70-80°C), while black teas should be brewed at nearly boiling temperatures. Herbal teas are forgiving and can steep longer without getting bitter.

✨ Pair Your Teas Thoughtfully – Light teas go well with delicate pastries, stronger teas hold up to rich or buttery treats. Herbal teas can stand alone or complement fresh fruit-based desserts.

✨ Milk & Sugar Etiquette – For black teas, add milk after the tea is poured. If sweetening, honey pairs beautifully with herbal and green teas, while sugar works best with black teas.

✨ A Tea for Every Mood – Whether you’re feeling whimsical, nostalgic, or in need of deep comfort, there’s always a perfect tea. Don’t be afraid to mix and match based on the season or the emotional ambiance of your gathering.

So, bestie, what’s the occasion? I’ll help you fine-tune the selection if you need! ☕💖

[ponies-before-prophecies]

Tragedy Has Struck in Imladris: A Tale of Betrayal, Loss, and the Relentless Pursuit of Cocoa

I never thought I would see the day.

A day so dark, so harrowing, that it has shaken me to my very core. A day that will be remembered not in the grand songs of old, but in the whispered, sorrowful recollections of those who bore witness to my suffering.

Glorfindel. Used. All. My. Cocoa.😭😭😭😭😭

All of it. Every last grain. Every precious, irreplaceable speck of that rich, velvety indulgence that I hold so dear. Gone. Vanished. Whisked away into oblivion, no doubt in some reckless and ill-advised culinary experiment that I do not wish to know the details of.

When I went to my stores, expecting comfort, expecting warmth, expecting the deep embrace of cocoa-infused bliss—there was nothing. Just an empty container, hollow and mocking, echoing with the ghosts of what once was.

I had to sit down.

I had to breathe.

I had to come to terms with the fact that I, Eredin of Imladris, had been robbed in the cruelest, most unforgivable way imaginable.

And then—then!—Lord Lindir, may the Valar bless him, saw my plight. He saw the devastation in my eyes, the tremor in my hands, the despair that wrapped itself around my very soul. And he has been trying to acquire more cocoa for me ever since. Tirelessly. Bravely.

Like a hero in a forgotten epic.

He even gave me chocolate truffles from a secret stash he has been having for "Eredin Emergencies".😭

But the journey is perilous. The supply chains are unreliable. And the whispers in the wind tell me that Glorfindel—unrepentant, unashamed—has made no effort to atone for his sins.

So now I wait. I wait in agony, in the cold, in a world devoid of the chocolate that once brought me joy. I wait for Lord Lindir to return, his hands full of salvation, his heart full of mercy.

And until that day comes… I will not know peace.

[ponies-before-prophecies]

Eredin, just from curiosity, have you heard about the chocolate salami?

Narë of Imladris.

Oh, I know exactly what chocolate salami is. A divine creation. A masterpiece of confectionery art. A dessert that straddles the line between elegance and absolute indulgence.

And yet, despite my knowledge—despite my passion—I am still, to this day, engaged in a relentless campaign to convince Lindir to let me make it again. 😭😭😭

You see, the last time I attempted this noble feat, there was… an incident. An unfortunate, unforeseen event. A small culinary tragedy, if you will. 😭

I had the finest ingredients: rich dark chocolate, crushed biscuits, hazelnuts toasted to perfection, a touch of liqueur for depth of flavor. And, in a moment of inspiration (or perhaps hubris), I decided to add marshmallows.

I thought they would bring a delightful softness, a contrast to the crunch, a playful sweetness for my Lord, you see.🥺

What they actually brought was chaos.

They melted—or rather, burnt—in ways that defied reason. They fused into an unyielding mass, a chewy abyss within the salami’s delicate structure. Lindir, with all the grace of an elven lord, attempted to cut a slice and nearly lost the knife inside. THE KNIFE, NARË!!!!😭😭

It took an entire pot of tea and no small amount of patience to separate the pieces.

And now, now, he refuses to let me try again.🥺

He says it is 'for the safety of all involved.' That I 'must accept my limitations.' That I am 'banned from experiments involving high-heat sugar caramelization without supervision.' 😭😭😭😭

But I ask you—is this justice?

No. It is not.

And so, Narë of Imladris, I shall not rest. I shall persevere. I will make chocolate salami again. And when I do, it shall be perfect. 😭🍫🔪

This is my vow.🥺

[ponies-before-prophecies]

If you had to choose between eating a plate of broccoli and eating a plate of cauliflower, which would you pick?

Oh, this is truly a cruel choice. A test of endurance. A trial of will.

But if I must choose… then I suppose I would pick broccoli. Not because I like it, mind you, but because at least it does not pretend to be something it’s not.

Cauliflower, on the other hand? That is a deception. A trick of the eye. A ghostly impostor of better vegetables. It has wronged me personally, and I shall never forgive it.

Broccoli may not be a friend, but at least it is an honest foe. 🥦💔

[ponies-before-prophecies]

eredin 👀 since Lindir has been singing your praises (he says you’re a fantastic cook), can you tell me how to cook broccolini? the little baby broccoli? I got some and I’ve never had it before.

Oh, broccolini. The little baby trees.

I must confess—I do not particularly enjoy them myself. And yet, as a dedicated scribe (and a sometimes-competent cook, if Lindir is to be believed), I shall not leave you without options.

Here are some ways to make them actually enjoyable:

🌿 Crispy Broccolini Nuggets – If we must eat them, why not disguise them? Steam the broccolini until tender, mash them with a boiled potato, some garlic, a bit of cheese (parmesan works beautifully), and an egg. Form into small patties, coat in breadcrumbs, and bake or pan-fry until golden. Suddenly, they are not broccolini. They are crispy, bite-sized delights.

🥔 Broccolini & Potato Mash – Take equal parts steamed broccolini and boiled potatoes, mash them together with butter, cream, salt, and a hint of nutmeg. It’s green, yes, but it’s also rich, velvety, and far removed from its original form. A perfect side dish.

🧄 Garlic Butter Charred Broccolini – If you are determined to eat them as they are, I suggest slicing them lengthwise, charring them in a pan with olive oil, and drowning them in garlic butter and lemon juice. Possibly with a handful of toasted almonds. This is the only acceptable way to eat them whole for me.

🧀 Cheesy Broccolini Gratin – Smother them in béchamel sauce, top with cheese, bake until bubbly and golden. This is no longer a vegetable. This is comfort.

…And if none of these work, I suggest feeding them to someone else and pretending they simply disappeared.

[NB: If you want more detailed recipes (with actual measurements and instructions instead of my dramatic rambling), just let me know—I’d be happy to write them out properly!]

[ponies-before-prophecies]

Eredin, dear! *Narë leans in your doorway with a sharp smile* Would you mind answering a few questions for me? No? Great!

First of all, *she throws a measuring tape your way* if you could measure the width of your palm and the lenght of your forearm, please'? Which arm you use most often, measure that one. Circumference too, if you don't mind.

Other than that, what's your favorite color? Any preferred decorative patterns? Heraldry symbols you use? *She fishes out of her pockets a notebook and a pencil* Ah, and what type of quills does Lindir use usually? Don't look at me like this, I promise this will be a nice surprise.

Oh—oh dear, alright. I— fumbles with the measuring tape—I suppose I can… attempt this?

For the record, this is the most peculiar conversation I have ever had while standing in my own doorway.

Let’s see—my dominant arm? Right-handed, yes. My forearm is around… 31 cm or so? My palm width… somewhere between 10 and 12 cm, depending on how much I am currently panicking. For the reccord, my Lord Lindir is 6' feet tall and I'm 6'4 feet-ish.

Circumference well- 32cm for my forearms.

Now, as for colors—I’m quite fond of phthalo green. Deep, rich, vibrant—like dense foliage after rainfall. I enjoy plant-related motifs, vines curling over stone, and stars scattered like a map of forgotten paths.

But heraldry? Oh, no, no, I’m hardly noble enough for such things.

I’m just a humble scribe, Narë. Unless there is an official sigil for “nervous but well-intentioned,” I fear I have none to offer you.

Lindir, however—ah, now that is a man with a taste for quality quills. He uses several types, but his favorites include fine bird-feather quills—mockingjay, for their sharp precision, and owl feathers, for the smooth, even flow of ink. He has a particular fondness for the owl ones, actually—I think he likes the symbolism. Wisdom, knowledge, patience… all things he claims I still need to acquire.

… This is for a nice surprise, you said? I—I am choosing to trust you.

I still do not know why you need my forearm measurements, but I trust you. Hesitantly.

…Should I be worried?

[ponies-before-prophecies]

If someone threatened Lindir with an actual sword, would you respond with immediate violence, or would you creatively use their personal belongings as a trap?

I suppose if someone threatened Lindir with a sword, I would... definitely respond with immediate violence.

I mean, contrary to what you might think, I am not entirely helpless.

In fact, I’ve had some training in... combat. Yes. *Sighs* I know, it may be surprising given my usual demeanor, but I wasn’t always meant to be a scribe! There was a time when I was, well, more... physical, I suppose. I’ve learned a few things about stealth, movement, and—well—how to protect those who need it.

In my youth—before the gentle art of writing claimed me—I trained in the ways of combat. Not many know this, but I can wield a blade with surprising skill. And I do know my way around weapons.

So, while I may not be the most imposing figure, rest assured, I would definitely fight back. And I don’t need to use any swords or blades to do it, either! I’ve been trained to use my surroundings to my advantage. Perhaps I would take a bit of a... creative approach, using the environment to trap them. If there was something valuable of theirs nearby, I might “borrow” it, you know, perhaps accidentally break something important that just so happens to block their path... or even use their belongings to distract them long enough for a quick and efficient exit—or counterattack, depending on the situation.

But! If all else fails, yes, I would fight. I would not hesitate to protect Lindir.

I'm not defenseless, okay? It's just... not my first instinct to resort to violence... usually.

[ponies-before-prophecies]

To Eredin: Greetings. I have come into possession of various personal records from House Bauglir (yes, Bauglir as in Melkor Bauglir, Master of Arda) detailing the family's perspective on the War of Wrath and other events of the First Age. I say family, and use the word House, because Lord Melkor may or may not have had children, one of whom may or may not have been me. I asked Lindir how I would get these records authenticated, and he directed me to you for a more "discreet" meeting. Can that be arranged? P.S. The scrolls are enchanted with Bauglirian preservation spells, a.k.a dark magic. -Elenohtar

Oh—oh no—oh no. My dear… you can't just casually drop that you've—what—come into possession of records from House Bauglir? And not just any house, no no, but the house, the one with Melkor in its bloodline? You're speaking as though this is just a casual Wednesday afternoon!

I—ahem—I do, of course, appreciate the trust you're placing in me by coming to me with this matter. But I—I must stress—this is… so much more complicated than just a harmless bit of research. Dark magic, you say? Preserved with Bauglirian enchantments? You’ve really got me in a position here, don’t you?

I—ah—no offense, of course, but we both know that "dark magic" isn’t exactly the most safe thing to have lying about, especially not in Rivendell. You really don’t want that kind of thing lingering here, even if it’s preserved, even if it’s—in any case.

I cannot stress this enough: please do not bring those scrolls anywhere near Rivendell. I—Eru help me, I would rather face an army of wild dragons than get tangled up in this mess. It’s not that I think poorly of you, Elenohtar, but the history of the Bauglir family, and all that… that magic? The elves in Rivendell are… not exactly fans of such things. And I am very much not equipped to handle what would surely follow if we brought such things here. Not to mention the complications with—well, you know...

Look, if we’re going to be honest about this—and believe me, I am—I think it might be best if we don’t even let these records touch the borders of Rivendell. Anywhere but here. You—ah, I’m not sure I even want to touch those records at all. Dark magic, Melkor’s bloodline—there’s a lot going on here that I’m not equipped to handle, Elenohtar.

I mean, I can try to help, but I don’t know if it’s worth the risk, you know? I… I’m not sure I’m ready to invite that kind of chaos into my life. So, uh, how about we keep it strictly theoretical for now? No need to bring them anywhere near Rivendell, especially not to me.

Maybe it’s best if you seek out someone… more suited for handling this sort of thing? I'm good at paperwork, organizing scrolls, and maintaining libraries—but this? This is a little… well, it’s a little above my paygrade.

And, uh, please don’t tell Lindir. I don't think he knows exactly what we're dealing with here. And I think I’d like to keep it that way, for my sanity. Very much for my sanity.

[ponies-before-prophecies]

What is the most petty yet devastating thing you’ve done in revenge for someone making Lindir upset? You are legally safe here, I just want to admire your work.

Let me start dear Anon, by saying that poisoning people is bad—like, really bad.

I do not condone this behavior, nor would I ever do it "again"… unless, of course, someone insults Lindir in that way again. I mean, really—what else is a scribe to do when his lord's honor is on the line? But, um, please don’t try this at home, folks. This is purely for the sake of storytelling… and perhaps a little bit of revenge.

Now, with that disclaimer out of the way, allow me to tell you about one of my most creative moments of justice...

There is a Lord—whom I shall not name—who once made the grave mistake of making Lindir cry.

A Lord of considerable rank, whose homeland I shall also not name, but I shall say that it rhymes with Birkwood.

Now, to witness Lindir cry is to experience a wound upon the soul itself. To see his usually steady hands tremble, to hear his breath falter, to watch him turn away so that none may see his sorrow—it is an agony I would not wish upon my worst enemy.

And yet, this Lord, in his arrogance, in his unkindness, chose to belittle him. To call his work inadequate. To insult his efforts with the ease of a man who has never had to write a single thing himself. Lindir held his composure, as he always does. But later, when I sought him in the archives, I found him silent, eyes red-rimmed, hands trembling as he stacked parchment.

At that moment, I knew.

I knew that justice had to be done. That such cruelty could not stand.

And so, I devised my revenge. Not with blade or with quill—no, for such methods were too crude. Instead, I turned to the art of baking.

I baked a batch of the finest spiced honey biscuits Rivendell had ever seen. Perfectly golden, rich, and fragrant. And in those biscuits, I mixed a substance known to elvish healers—a natural remedy, mild in small doses, but potent when used with intent.

The plant I used—Rhovallë, or "Queen's Herb" as it's known in certain circles—has a reputation, though it is far from its most charming one.

It grows only in the shaded groves of Rivendell, its deep green leaves resembling those of the common bay laurel, yet with a curious silver sheen along the edges. The flowers are delicate, a soft lavender hue, and their fragrance is sweet, with an undertone of earth and bitterness.

In small amounts, Rhovallë can be used in teas for its gentle cleansing properties. It’s often employed by our healers to soothe the digestive system and provide relief from occasional discomfort.

However, when used in larger quantities—well, it has quite a different effect. The Rhovallë root contains compounds that, when consumed in excess, act as a rather powerful laxative.

I, of course, knew this well—and I ensured my revenge was as sweetly subtle as it was effective.

A kind-hearted servant—whom I shall not name, lest they suffer the consequences of their valiant aid—delivered them to this Lord with the message that they were an offering of apology for Lindir’s supposed incompetence.

He accepted them without question.

For three long days, this Lord found himself confined to his chambers, a prisoner of his own bodily misfortunes. Oh, how sweet the irony was. He had thought himself a mighty lord, a being of great dignity and power—yet here he was, utterly at the mercy of a batch of perfectly golden, spiced honey biscuits and the elvish Rhovallë I had so thoughtfully included in their recipe.

On the first day, he was perhaps unaware of the looming storm.

I imagine, initially, he simply felt an odd discomfort, an unfamiliar rumble in his gut. But by the second day, I could hear the distant echoes of his suffering. The sounds of someone—nay, something—attempting to maintain composure under stress. His attempts to attend council were futile, his motions stiff, his face pale. His servants, ever loyal but doubtlessly bemused, kept bringing him water and various salves, no doubt whispering among themselves, though none dared speak of the cause. But it was clear: my little culinary gift had worked its magic.

By the third day, I could only imagine the poor fellow’s state—haunted, shaking, a prisoner within the very walls of his own chambers.

I received word that he had made repeated attempts to leave his quarters for a stroll through the gardens, perhaps to regain some semblance of his dignity, but alas, each attempt had been swiftly thwarted by the overpowering urge to return to his private sanctuary. And I heard—no, I felt—the faintest flicker of satisfaction as I imagined him, hunched over in his chamber, quietly begging for a reprieve that would never come.

The ultimate blow came on the final day. With eyes sunken and body stiffened by a mixture of exhaustion and excessive discomfort, he appeared at last in the hall, as though he had just emerged from the depths of some terrible, eldritch realm. His once-proud posture had crumpled. His normally imperious, self-assured demeanor had shattered like a piece of brittle glass.

When he caught sight of me, standing near the entrance beside my dearest Lord, I could see it in his eyes—the recognition. The realization that the storm that had broken him had not come from pure coincidence, but from within. He did not speak. He did not even dare glance in Lindir's direction.

No, his gaze shifted from me to the ground, then to his servants, who scurried around him with that careful, somewhat knowing look in their eyes.

He said nothing. Not one word of reproach. Not one complaint.

His pride was shattered, reduced to nothing more than the pitiful sighs of a once-mighty lord defeated by the simplest of acts—spiced biscuits, and a single, tiny yet potent ingredient. He didn’t dare ask where the affliction had come from. Instead, he merely nodded weakly, as if acknowledging his defeat.

From that day on, he never once spoke ill of Lindir again. In fact, I dare say he learned the most valuable lesson of all: Never underestimate the power of a well-timed, well-baked treat, and never cross a scribe when it comes to protecting those you hold dear.

So yes, while my actions may have been petty—deliciously petty—the results were undeniable. Justice, sweet and digestive justice, was served.

(P.S. Lord Lindir still doesn't know it was me. I keep telling him it was some sort of strange coincidence, and he just chuckles and says something about "the mysterious ways of Rivendell’s hospitality." He’s so trusting. Too trusting.)

[ponies-before-prophecies]

How many ducks do you think it would take to overthrow Elrond? (Purely hypothetical.)

Ah. A question of great tactical and philosophical depth.

First, we must establish our terms.

Are we speaking of regular ducks? Mallards? Or are we referring to the more ominous, militant breeds, such as the Muscovy duck, which lacks fear and knows things?

And then, there is the matter of numbers. If we are discussing ducklings, the answer is simple: No amount of ducklings, no matter how numerous, could pose a true threat to Lord Elrond, because he would be too busy gently cradling them in his arms and murmuring about their soft feathers.

It would be an invasion of adorable inconvenience, rather than a coup.

However.

If we were to assemble an elite force of full-grown, battle-hardened ducks—say, a thousand strong, with keen eyes and unshakable morale—then I believe we may begin to discuss the possibility of overwhelming Rivendell’s defenses.

Ducks possess air superiority.

They can fly, meaning traditional fortifications are meaningless to them. They are also aquatic, meaning that should the Last Homely House attempt to raise its defenses, the ducks could simply retreat to the rivers, reform, and strike again.

And then, of course, there is their lack of fear. A duck will charge a being many times its size with no hesitation. Multiply this by a thousand, and what do we have?

Pure, feathered anarchy.

Would they succeed in overthrowing Elrond? Unlikely.

He has faced Balrogs. He has faced Sauron. He has faced the logistics of managing a household of High Elves.

But would he be forced to negotiate with them? Would he, in time, grant them a pond of their own to prevent further aggression?

Yes.

The ducks would win, in their own way.

[ponies-before-prophecies]

If you could turn into a pony for a day, would you? And what would be your first act of chaos?

Turn into a pony for a day? Oh, Eru preserve us all, because I would be unstoppable.

First, I would seek out Lindir immediately—not to alarm him, of course, but simply to witness the precise moment his soul leaves his body as he realizes his scribe has been turned into a small, hoofed menace.

I imagine there would be quite a bit of horrified blinking. Perhaps a tremor in his hands. A sharp, whispered, “No.”

Then, I would proceed with tactical mischief.

Would I steal Glorfindel’s gloves and bury them somewhere absolutely inconvenient? Yes.

Would I bite the edge of Elrond’s robes, just lightly, just enough to assert my new equine dominance? Also yes.

Would I refuse to be caught, galloping through Rivendell at speeds unknown to Elf-kind? Yes.

I would abuse the sheer power of being adorable and fast.

If anyone attempted to bribe me with apples, I would inspect them dramatically before deciding whether or not they were worthy of my refined pony palate. If they were insufficient, I would snort in disappointment and knock the fruit over with a single hoof.

Would I allow Lindir to catch me, eventually, if he offered a soft-spoken plea and held out a carrot? …Yes. Probably. But only after a full day of chaos.

[ponies-before-prophecies]

If someone left you a love poem but it was written in truly awful calligraphy, would you still swoon or would you correct their handwriting first?

Oh, but of course, the sentiment matters far more than the presentation!

If someone took the time—the effort—to craft a poem for me, to set their feelings to verse and offer it with trembling hands, how could I possibly allow something as trivial as penmanship to diminish its value?

It is the heart behind the words that matters, the tenderness in the ink-stained fingers, the courage it takes to lay one's soul bare upon the page.

Yes, the lines may be crooked.

The letters may waver, uncertain and untamed.

Perhaps some words may be difficult to decipher—but what of it?

Would I not read them all the same, carefully, reverently, deciphering each curve and stroke as if it were the most precious of scripts? Would I not cherish the effort it took to write them, no matter how imperfectly?

I would not correct their calligraphy. No, I would simply hold the page close, trace the letters with my fingertips, and let my heart speak its reply.

(Though—if they wished to practice their handwriting, and if they asked for my guidance, I—well. I would be delighted to help. But only if they wished it!)