Azog makes camp upon the broken ruins of Amon Sûl
High above the Eastern Road the Pale Orc looks out upon the unknown lands to the west, waiting for word from his warg scouts.
Weathertop is the last and tallest of the line of bluffs known as the Weathered Hills and it stands looming over the East Road.
There was no better place to watch the western half of the great Road, then from the heights of Amon Sûl. The remnants of the tower sat like a broken crown upon the old hills head and commanded a view for miles in all directions.
Azog stood upon an outcropping of rock and looked out upon the open Road, it would be from the west that Oakenshield would come. The White Warg came and stood beside him, her keen night eyes scanned the lands about Weathertop, Azog laid a hand roughly across her furrowed brow and she reacted with a low growl from deep within her throat. The Orcs behind him went about making a fire and setting up the camp. They would need to stay here in this place, until his warg riders returned with news of the hated Dwarf. Word had come just this night that a company of dwarves was heading east along the road, from one of the Necromancers spies in the west!
Azog the Defiler had been sent out to search for Oakenshield, a bounty upon his head. With his good hand, Azog gripped the iron claw embedded into the flesh of his left arm. In the moonlight his pale hand stroked the black iron that was all that remained of his severed hand. There was a score to be settled and vengeance to be had with the vile Thorin Oakenshield. An ugly grin of rage ripped across the face of Azog, as he contemplated the blood of Durin at his feet and the line of the dwarf-scum broken forever!
Though it was not only his desire for vengeance that burned hot in the chest of Azog, it was also the will of his Master that spurred him to action. After long years of silence, the Master had risen once more and was quietly preparing for war in the dark heart of Mirkwood. Azog had been summoned from Moria, where he himself had laid hidden for countless years after the Battle of Azanulbizar at the eastern gate of Khazad-dûm.
The Master called him to the ruins of Dol Guldur, along with many of the Uruks of Moria. The Master had shown him visions of vast armies marching on the wicked Dwarves, Elves and Men with Azog himself leading the dark armies, but first he must finish what he started long ago and complete his vow to crush the line of Durin forever.
The desire to rend and tear and destroy filled him with a hot wrath. He would have his vengeance and it would be sweet like the taste of blood upon his lips. He went to the fire and took the largest shank of meat, roasting upon the fire and began to devour it with ravenous zeal. All of the other orcs bowed and scraped about the fire in fear of Azogs anger, they did not want to end up on the fire spit as Gragûk had done when he crossed the powerful pale uruk. The meat was good… but it also filled them with fear.
A full moon, round and fat moved in and out of the clouds above. It’s silver light illuminated the road below, which appeared as a long ribbon winding this way between the darkness of the trees. In the distance Azog could hear the howling of wolves. It must be his warg scouts returning with news of the dwarves.
Azog looked out upon the Road and waited. A time will soon come when all of these lands west of the mountains will burn with the fires of war and then his kind will rule at last with an iron fist, taking what they will and killing any who oppose them. Then the whole of Middle-earth with be theirs to plunder and burn! Any left alive will be enslaved and will toil forever under the Power of the Shadow.
On the Road below, Azog could just make out a swift moving Orc pack coming eastward with great speed under the pale light of the night sky.