THE MINSTREL CONTESTA common custom in classical times, when music and lyrics used to render food and wine finer and better. And even more in Middle Age, where official contests between minstrels were a rare occasion of culture and jubilation, despite harshness and much toil. The logic of this thread is thus plain to fathom: a poet challenges another of his kind. In amicable manners and conduct, lyrics and knowledge are to be exchanged in grand style.
Thou shalt sing and rhymes share,
No odious mood nor deceptive snare,
The ways of Arda, its heart, core and lore,
I sense in honest will, of the Minstrel Contest thou longest to know more.
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The clash
Valour of old, awake! At the grim hour courage has been summoned, and the Lady accepted such imperative challenge,
She came forth as the Elven Queen she is, composure of the ancient sort and resolution firm, for she was adamant in the guarding of her sunny domain,
Defeat was no option or alternative worthy of mention, lest doom were over all that by the holy touch of light was made,
How could truce be found via the means of sword and menace, signing a treaty of death without glory or wit?
The regency of Lórien was to give its utmost best, in order to fend off whom the just defender should always battle, who is the impious assailant, governed by ruthless thirst for blood,
Lesser minions, thrown in the heat of harsh war, with the sole objective in mind that is for us all the least guise of demise,
Raw servants, bred and forged, stain of felonies and many past faults,
They were of the immortal kind once, like lost tales record, blessed by innocence and love, until preys they had become in the hands of whom is cause of all which is wrong and which from piety detaches.
Nay, evil intelligence behind your mere tricks, it was not enough to bend the Lady's will and climb over of triumph the peaks,
Your obscure devices were simply rendered useless, for fool is the one who on the devilry of science and industry relies,
Seeking for wood to reduce into ashes and for slaves to exploit in all sorts of malicious deeds, as from the Ring of Isengard fell smoke we beheld, which was in truth a cry of pain and somber request, because trees were made to suffer and ever-sensitive to be, those who silently observe and live, an existence of testimony as old sentinels that the burden of toil never detest,
The broad green of this grey world, despised by darkness and often mauled by its fangs, it is instead preserved within the rule of justice and love,
You shall see, odious foes, the grudge of nature and of the whole earth, this is what you are to contest, for murder rectified will be and ultimate vengeance we predict as last outcome of eventful days.
Hers is a soil of gold, untainted and never-altered in the course of centuries, evidence of majesty that still persists among gloomy shades,
It's the domain of the Queen, renowned for her locks, memory forbidden to the most of how Arda used to be in antiquity, not bare nostalgia nor grievous remorse,
The mightiest Elda, of the Third Age, disenchanted shires, now grown weary, she's thus the beacon of hope which its very last radiance to Middle-earth has yet to gift,
Behold her, the Princess of Kôr, eight millennia she made lit and joyful, and secure any guest was within her reign,
The ultimate act of might of hers, she's yet to perform that and annals shall recall this day in glory, as glorious as the indomitable will to aid the Good's cause.
She is to make her way to that cursed hill,
Dwelling of sorcery and foul arts, it is a gaol in which many lives their tragic twilight saw,
The lair which the Dark Lord sheltered, when he first appeared as phantom to seek a newer scope for return,
Those ghoulish stones shall crumble and wail, dismembered and severed in wrath, upon the ladyship of Galadriel the gates of the eerie fortress down are to be torn, in akin manner of the brightest gem which is counted among the Eldar, but the fate of Men she had eventually chosen, after a legendary quest of extraordinary peril, when an erstwhile stronghold of Sauron by the sung incantation of Lúthien was equally conquered.
Ranks and ranks of hideous creatures were annihilated by the charging of Lórien's gallant host, as skilled warriors took down that multitude of evil with the most decisive resolution and incredible firmness. The Silver Lord of the woods breached the lines of his foes and commenced the just slaughter that had to take place. It had to befall, while the forces of the good side were striving and suffering in other places, at the resistant gate of the Lonely Mountain and under the strong marble of the Sentinel-city of Gondor, which is a lone shrine of hope against thick ashes and fires infuriating on the horizon, beyond such dreadful chain of hills and sharp rocks; the hazardous ways that lead to Mordor, fell heart of the Enemy and realm of tyranny. Thus, the flames of war reached the fine earldom of the Golden Wood. Blood ran through grass and soft ground, at the edge of those bewitched forests. It was all a mess of howls and gore. Dead remnants lying solitary as plain reflection of the conflict. That was gruesome experience and spectacle to behold. Yet, the valiant guardians of the millenary domain had not flinched nor faltered. Henceforth, victory was near and close.
The tales of the battle were made richer and longer by the lucky intervention of Festus the Red. Wavering temper, yet fiery will. His spells of fire brought death and sorrow for the opponents, and his prowess grew and was made livelier via the usage of an uncanny ring. It is perhaps one of the Rings of Power that of much trouble were authors in this world. Their nature is deceptive and treacherous their final goal, apart from the hidden Three. To the Wise they had been entrusted; three mighty figures of an ancient past of bliss. Sensing that a Ring was near, the Lady opted for direct combat: while her Ring was impenetrable shield for any blade or venomous spear, the sole gesture and flick of her hands were waves of energy and bright lightning in a night without many stars, rumbling as thunder and vicious weather, that was the fury of the Princess of Kôr, assuming a dreadful fashion in the time of urgency and foremost need. Then, the horrid foes realised that doom was upon them and the chance to flee they therefore seized. Yet, once they were about to cross the river, full of corpses and desolate ghouls, the Lady had already headed thither too. She spoke words of condemnation and the very river she summoned at her behest; the spirit of those waters raged and its course became a stormy juggernaut that none could halt, for the Orcs had dared throw in its water all sorts of filth and deceased beings. Moved by the Queen's decree, the river drowned all those filthy beasts and that was just retribution for anything which had thitherto tormented the ways of blue and ponds.
A word of wisdom
''Fiery friend of ours, Festus the Red, hearken to me, your Lady who dwells in the core of the enchanted green. May you hear this word of wisdom of mine. You are after sham plans and designs. Phoney advices you have paid attention to, alas, of a bogus benefactor who proclaims to act for your good. The one-time White Wizard is no more, for he's thus a beggar covered in shame and regret. A new white Istar has just taken the guidance of our war in his sacred hands. Can't you perceive what is befalling in the South? Men of diverse kingdoms are chanting in joy, because the Tyrant was vanquished and is finally gone. The Ruling Ring was undone in the fire from whence it had emerged. The other artefacts of that sort are soon to undergo the same destiny; this is an inexorable consequence, my buoyant ally, in that all Rings were crafted through the same general art, of which Sauron was disgraceful inventor and doer. My Ring is to vanish and fate, in equal terms. Hither, where we have come in far eras before, we shall face decay. Only, a possibility for immortal beings rests still available: the Valar left the door ajar...
Festus, follow me. And the chief of your order and the kind Lord of the Valley. We're due to abandon these grey shores, sailing to the realm of the Archangels of the World. We shall voyage whither, where naught dies and all lives in endless eternity under the skies of Eä. You can join our journey, if you desire. If you long for blessings and merriment without end, you ought to elect our path. And I shall speak in the old tongue again; the tongue of Aman and Valinórë itself. Our home and definitive harbour of happiness.''
Eldamar, thee I shall behold again,
Thy green hills, treasure carved in the wall, in which the fortunes of my House began,
I am certain, the dawn of my life thou hast fashioned, I wonder,
To the primeval seat of the Powers' throne, I shall go yonder.