typeracer

A deadly sword, a healing hand, a back that bent beneath its 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 throne. He stood upon the bridge alone and fire and shadow both defied. His staff was broken on the stone, in Khazad-dum his wisdom died.