When evening in the Shire was grey
his footsteps on the Hill were heard;
before the dawn he went away
on journey long without a word.

From Wilderland to Western shore,
from northern waste to southern hill,
through dragon-lair and hidden door
and darkling woods he walked at will.

With Dwarf and Hobbit, Elves and Men,
with mortal and immortal folk,
with bird on bough and beast in den,
in their own secret tongues he spoke.

A deadly sword, a healing hand,
a back that bent beneath his load;
a trumpet-voice, a burning brand,
a weary pilgrim on the road.

A lord of wisdom throned he sat,
swift in anger, quick to laugh;
an old man in a battered hat
who leaned upon a thorny staff.

He stood upon the bridge alone
and Fire and Shadow both defied;
his staff was broken on the stone,
in Khazad-dûm his wisdom died.

Head: Sun Hat dyed white
Shoulders: Medium Nadhin Shoulders dyed white
Back: Plain Cloak dyed white
Chest: Carpenter’s Robe dyed white
Hands: The Ancient Master’s Gloves
Legs: Blank
Feet: Lacquered Boots of the Ithilien Captain dyed grey
Main-hand: Reshaped Lore-master’s Staff of the First Age level 100
Off-hand: Dunlending Skirmish Sword
Ranged: Blank