A sigil of a victory, I make commitments true. A sign my form is starting to fail is when the air is blue. Collected by many, and cherished dear, To form their personal hoards, You may have met me by land of green hills, Or a novel about my lord.

Humbly invented in nineteen sixty five, i was created to keep football players alive. Named after a creature so mean and green. What am I?

I speak in tongues of ancient stone, Of Cyclopean towers overthrown, My thoughts are eldritch, cold, and deep, Where nameless horrors writhe and creep. In queer geometries minds are lost, And blasphemous truths exact their cost.

Three I extend, firm in stance, a keeper still in sacred trance. Upon me sat the oracles of old, their tongues ablaze with truths untold. Neither beast nor man am I, yet I have stood where gods drew nigh.

Three golden artifacts created by ancient goddesses, each representing a virtue required to rule in the highest. Link us together and make a wish - and it shall come to be.