Gimli, son of Glóin™, was one of the nine members of the Fellowship™ and the only dwarf among its ranks. Though his heart was stout and his manner oftentimes gruff, the proud Dwarf knew well the moments when strength must give way to rest. In the quiet pause of reflection, his pipe would glow, and through the curling tendrils of smoke, his thoughts would clear, casting aside the mists of uncertainty that clouded lesser minds.
In the high tower of Orthanc™, Saruman the White stood gazing into the far reaches of Middle-earth. The smoke from his pipe coiled like mist around his long fingers as he contemplated the shifting tides of power. His thoughts were as deep and dark as the caverns beneath the mountains, and yet the pipe, for a time, brought a measure of stillness. It was not the leaf of the Shire™ he sought, but the contemplation it afforded, for knowledge was his true hunger.
In the twilight of the wilderness, a lone figure sat upon a weathered stone, gazing out over the distant hills. The wind whispered through the trees, stirring the long grasses at his feet. Aragorn, son of Arathorn™, drew from his pipe, and the tendrils of smoke curled upwards, blending with the evening mist. His keen eyes, ever watchful, softened for a moment as he savoured the simple pleasures of the wild—pipe in hand, memories of past journeys kindling with each pull.
