"Ah. I'm sorry I can't do more to help; I wish very much that I could. In - probably not more than two hundred years, which is too long and I hope it's less - but in probably not more than two hundred years I should have a spell ready to go to other realms and we can see if other healers can help you."
Loki puts her hand on Vár's shoulder. "Thank you. For understanding. Can you explain to the others?"
"The Quendi are planning to have a party tonight; will that bother any of you?"
"...They didn't mention tying you up for the party, they just wanted to make sure it wouldn't alarm anyone."
And Loki looks for the nearest Quendi, makes sure that the right people were listening to that conversation, and then flies.
To Angband.
Invisibly.
She circles the fortress, flying slow, getting a good look at it so she'll be able to make a reliable model illusion later.
...Loki skims closer. In case someone morbidly asks her who died.
Elves, all of them, most of them grotesquely disfigured: eyes stabbed out, genitals mutilated, scars running down their bodies that appear to have healed and been reinflicted repeatedly. Some of them might be recognizable if she were to show an illusion to their relatives. It is not obvious that would be wise.
Well. They can show her osanwë, and she can say whether she saw them or not.
She clings to the cliff-face, feet silent on the stone.
Are they conscious? Is the ground below clear? How bad is the drop?