Once the anthill has been disturbed it isn't going to just lay to rest. The gates have been closed. No, if you would have asked yesterday, they would be closed. The gates are reinforced. Not even a raging troll could break them down now. Yet the half-orcs of Mudhlas Cadhus were not dealing with a troll right now. That would have been a small problem compared to this. The camp was quiet. The soldiers were already calling it the silence before the storm. Their leaders? They called it their last chance of adverting the coming onslaught.
On the overlook of Munudh Cadlus stood a table filled with maps. Around the table were eight individuals seated. The dead of anyone of them could set the White Hand war effort back for months, save for one. On the far left of the table the Uruk-captain Pizumu, the spymaster of Eregion, gave his report: "The elf-scum have laid waste to most of my messengers. I also have reports that those hillmen from Angmar are doing non the better. We simply do not have the men nor the defenses to hold of any more of these attacks. We have lost three dozen men and only four confirmed elf kills, none of them even this black armoured party." The Spymaster looked around the table for another moment before he continued with his conclusion. The words came without a hint of doubt: "We have to retreat behind the river!"
This didn't fell well with the other Uruk-captains. Three of them were already slamming their fists on the table, making it almost creak and bend under the sheer force. Captain Shatogtar was the first to speak out: "We will not be forced to retreat thanks to these puny long ears. I say that we dig ourselves in! We have gates so strong that these elves can never break them! We can hold them out until we pick them off one by one!" This plea was given more of a mixed reaction. Two of the captains cheered at it yet the others didn't seem all too happy with it. Râkhuga, First-tracker and maker of two of the four elf kills, spoke out next: "Retreating and cowering in our bases? You two sound like orc-filth! I say we muster up our forces, rally our allies in the caves, and bring the fight to them! They would never expect it. We will crush their home in one fell swoop!" Râkhuga was always direct in his approach and it had result. Not one of the Uruk-captains rejected this plan and their war shouts could be heard from all around the camp. The elves would have been assaulted by an unexpected attack, if it wasn't for the only non Uruk at this table.
The figure at the end of the table hadn't said a word for the entire meeting. He was dressed in a grey robe, his face shielded from sight thanks to a hood. The figure had heard enough and spoke out. His tone was clear and refined. His words dug deep in the ears of the Uruk-captains and they all looked shocked at the figure when he finally did utter them: "You will do no such thing. I did not journeyed North to have my plans changed so bluntly. The forces in Eregion aren't an invasion force nor will you divide the few allies in Moria that we have." The Captains all knew what they had to ask yet it took the First-tracker ten seconds to build up the courage to say them: "What will we do then, Master?" The grey cloaked figure stood up from his seat and looked out over the North. This defiance of the elves was to be expected yet the force in which they did so, alarmed the figure. In the end, it would be of little concern yet for now it is slowing progress. And time was not on their side. The figure spoke without looking at his Uruk-captains. His words were the pinnacle of wisdom and strategy for his audience. "We will rekindle some old enmities. An old foe close to Rivendell will prove useful and will occupy them long enough. Spymaster. Send the word out to the Thunder Lord. Let him know that I agree to the proposition that he had made me."
The Misty Mountains will be reminded of its grim history, for better or for worse.
