[Cimmerian]

To the west, the dying sun spills its last life’s blood over the tall proud walls of the Elven Citadel.
To the east lies the path the fellowship has taken.

Azruk, now sits with his Uruks and feasts, there is much less ale guzzling than the previous day. They are feasting on freshly killed horsemeat, the carriers of the elven scouts that the Uruk-archers had slain.
His second in command, Narcis, an archer unparalleled in all of Mordor and responsible for many an ambush on Elf parties, recounted the hunt in evil glee.
The marauders were in high spirits indeed.

The time of carnage was nearing, warg scouts and crebain had reported that the defences at the Elven Citadel was frugal and almost all were in panic and confusion.
The Orcs howled and danced, painting each other with mud and the blood of their victims.

Azalel, the great black stallion reared up and snorted aloud, his demon blood raging to ride into war. His blood red eyes, deathlike and cold, gleamed at his master in anticipation.

Most of the orc army would be on foot; their large masses would run screaming and hurl their collective mass at the strongholds of the elves, forming a cushion for the elf arrows that would rain down. So that the melee warriors could rush in and raise hell, with wargs and crebain to cause nuisance.

Paving the way for the Uruks to move in for the final kill.

Elrond will fall, come the next life of the sun.