Azaghâl wasn’t used to silent elves.
They called themselves talkers, and by the Maker if they’d ever gotten one thing right in their lives then that would’ve been it. Allies they might have been against a greater foe, but curse the conceited bastards all the same. They were arrogant and full of their own sense of importance, never short for words of how their very existence elevated them high above the children of Mahal. Stunted they called them to their faces; unwanted and unintended behind their backs when they thought they couldn’t hear or understand. Mouthy bastards.
The elves never made a sound as the Dragon tore through their ranks.
It was death for them just to be close to Glaurung’s inferno; the air the was rippling with the heat of his cursed flames and the elves had never been meant for fire. Their soft skin blistered and melted away like candle wax, and the air they were trying to breathe burned through them and they had no throat or lungs left to scream with as they died. Azaghâl had shut up several of the more offensive elves with his fist and spent substantial amount of time wishing he could've afforded to shut them up with his axe, but he couldn’t help thinking that this was taking it a bit too far.
It was funny, all the things that could pop into your mind on a battlefield.
Azaghâl breathed freely and raised his voice to a war cry. His axe was sharp, and his armour and helmet were steel inlaid with gold and gems and runes to ward off evil, and so were those of his children and kin. Glaurung screamed as their weapons bit through his scales and into his steaming flesh, and Azaghâl only wished that he could’ve lifted his visor before he led his people to their charge, so that the beast of Morgoth could’ve seen that behind his snarling mask the Lord of Belegost faced him with a smile.