In de nevelen van Eregion, waar de hamers ooit zongen onder zilveren maanlicht, smeedde een smid drie gaven voor zij die het licht zouden bewaren. Geen duistere hand raakte hun vorm, maar het oog keek wel toe, verborgen achter valse raad.
De vlam, het water en de lucht — elk droeg een deel van het oude lied dat de wereld in evenwicht hield.

Wie de maker zoekt, vindt hem niet in macht, maar in kunst. Volg het spoor van de vonken, daar waar kennis werd misleid door vertrouwen.
Want wat zuiver leek, werd verbonden zonder keten, en enkel wie het geheim van drie zonder één begrijpt, vindt de ware uitgang.

Alfa:
The dawn broke pale over Rohan’s encampment as riders fastened their worn leathers, the scent of oiled armor and damp earth mingling in the cold air; along the ridgeline, Legolas watched the horizon, his keen eyes tracing the broadened line of enemy banners crawling from the East, and though fear pressed heavily upon them all, Aragorn’s steady voice seemed to forbid despair itself, calling the hearts of men back to courage before the coming storm.
 
 Bravo:
 As darkness gathered over Mordor’s plain, vast swarms of orcs poured forth from the Black Gate, their torches flickering like dying stars in the choking air; in Minas Tirith, the horns of Gondor sounded a grim prelude to the storm, each note trembling through stone and spirit alike, and in the silent hours before battle, Aragorn waited for the responses of his allies, knowing that courage spoken too late would weigh heavier than any sword.

 Charlie:
 Under the storm-lit skies of Pelennor Fields, Théoden raised his sword and gave the cry to charge, his voice carrying fierce and clear over the thunder of hooves and the clash of distant steel; far behind the front lines, Gandalf shunted aside despair itself, rallying the scattered men with words that burned brighter than the flames around them, while upon the city’s highest wall, Faramir fixed his gaze upon the goal of victory—not glory, but the fragile hope of a dawn that might yet return.

 Delta:
 In the ruins of Osgiliath, the remnants of Gondor’s host took grim totals of the fallen, their faces shadowed beneath the faint glow of burning towers; across the river, black smoke coiled upward like a serpent, staining the dawn and carrying with it the stench of ruin, until at last a roar erupted from the East, shaking the stones themselves as Mordor’s engines of war began their dreadful march once more.

 Echo:
Through the broken gates of Minas Tirith, relief flowed like sunlight after storm, as the people poured into the streets to greet their returning king; high above them, the Eagles wheeled in the hugest sky, their wings stretched wide over the smoke and ruin of battle, and below, among the wounded and the weary, Frodo stirred—scarred by fire and burden, yet miraculously unscathed in spirit, his heart still bound to the quiet peace of the Shire.

 Foxtrot:
In the quiet glade near the edges of Lothlórien, the hobbits paused beside a rustic wooden table, marveling at the gentle sway of golden leaves overhead; Sam carefully unpacked their meager provisions, arranging bread and cheese with the precision of a seasoned cook, while Frodo, for a moment free from shadow and fear, breathed deeply of the cleanest air he had ever known, tasting a peace almost as fragile as the morning dew on silvered petals.

 Golf:
In the murky depths of the Dead Marshes, Frodo felt the cold water backing against his legs, the land beneath him shifting with each uncertain step; all around, a pale light seemed to ooze from the stagnant pools, illuminating ghostly faces that whispered forgotten verse, echoing sorrow and warning as if the marshes themselves remembered every soul lost to shadow.

 Hotel:
Along the winding paths of the Shire, Sam took a deep breath as the morning breeze began to sweep through the fields, carrying the scent of fresh grass and wildflowers; nearby, a small plate held a warm muffin, a rare comfort in their long journey, and despite the perils that had shadowed them across mountains and dark forests, Frodo felt a quiet relief in surviving yet another night under the watchful stars.

Oscar:
In the quiet refuge of Rivendell, Merry marveled at the spread before him, a tasty assortment of breads and fruits that seemed almost magical after weeks on the road; outside, the river wound through the valley, its gentle current changing with the light of morning, while inside, Pippin sank into a steaming bath, letting the warmth ease the aches of travel and the weight of shadows that had long pursued them.

“What Three Rings” is een verwijzing naar What Three Words, een manier om snel een locatie aan te geven met 3 woorden. Voer de 3 vetgedrukte woorden in op what3words.com en je krijgt de locatie van de vossen.