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Long has it been since Azog has dreamt. He requires little sleep as it is and cares none to dwell on the memories that have been the fabric that has stitched his dreams together for they are filled with little else than darkness and pain.
If he shuts his eyes while his wargs recuperate and his orcs fill their bellies with whatever meat they have managed to snare, it is to remember his son’s face. It is to remember his son's untimely death at the hands of those Durin filth. If anything, it is to keep the fire of his hate and rage burn inside him as hot as the everlasting fire of Mount Doom.
With the sound of his son’s scream in his ears Azog opens his eyes to the boiling clouds above. The pale orc grins viciously, the weather a fitting echo to his mood and as the sky splits open to pour freezing water he joins his wargs as they howl into the falling night.
Let them know he is coming. Let them quake in their boots.
If it is the last thing he does, he will see those wretched dwarves perish.
Finis