What is the most petty yet devastating thing youâve 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 badâlike, 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, reallyâwhat else is a scribe to do when his lord's honor is on the line? But, um, please donât 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 Lordâwhom I shall not nameâwho 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 sorrowâit 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.
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 quillâno, 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 healersâa natural remedy, mild in small doses, but potent when used with intent.
The plant I usedâRhovallĂŤ, or "Queen's Herb" as it's known in certain circlesâhas 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, RhovallĂŤ can be used in teas for its gentle cleansing properties. Itâs often employed by our healers to soothe the digestive system and provide relief from occasional discomfort.
However, when used in larger quantitiesâwell, it has quite a different effect. The RhovallĂŤ root contains compounds that, when consumed in excess, act as a rather powerful laxative.
I, of course, knew this wellâand I ensured my revenge was as sweetly subtle as it was effective.
A kind-hearted servantâwhom I shall not name, lest they suffer the consequences of their valiant aidâdelivered them to this Lord with the message that they were an offering of apology for Lindirâs 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 powerâyet here he was, utterly at the mercy of a batch of perfectly golden, spiced honey biscuits and the elvish RhovallĂŤ 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 someoneânay, somethingâattempting 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 fellowâs stateâhaunted, 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 heardâno, I feltâthe 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 eyesâthe 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 actsâspiced biscuits, and a single, tiny yet potent ingredient. He didnât 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 pettyâdeliciously pettyâthe 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 Rivendellâs hospitality." Heâs so trusting. Too trusting.)
