There's an amphitheater, a place where a hundred of the stone walkways twine around to create space for a hundred thousand people to sit in close proximity, and someone is giving a lecture or a demonstration at the base of it, the seats closest to him filled with eager, tiny, bearded Dwarf-children.
And they spiral down, and down, and down, past waterfalls and egg-sized gemstones left half in the rock and halls of crystal. Everything grows gradually more ornate and more perfectly maintained and the clang of hammers fades behind them. "People say," her guide says, "that we only have a council instead of a single King because there were nine winners of the competition to design the throne so we couldn't just select one person to sit it." And they push open the doors to reveal, indeed, nine thrones so elaborate it would be hard to choose between them, and nine squat bearded people sitting them.
This is probably not a great place to wander in uninvited; Tyelcormo, can Huan confirm from here that Thauron's still occupied?
She steps in.
Werewolves, tower, not even a trap. "Hi," she says. "Your boss is having a real bad day. This'd be a swell time to defect if you were considering it."
"The werewolves I killed were attacking people," Loki says. "You're not attacking anyone right now, good for you."
"I can fix it too," she says. "And all I need is time. Time which keeps getting eaten up by having to protect people from even more untimely deaths because, oh, werewolves attack them."
"Oh, is that how that works. Well, if people wanted to turn into werewolves and that's all it does that sounds fine as long as you don't attack them in the night and have them working for Thauron."
And she steps back out.
Werewolves. They're scared of me. Been building a tower, which does not seem rigged to explode if visited. Being a werewolf is contagious. Thauron's been fairly decent to them.