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.
"Then you," she says, "like every orc who hasn't been promoted to my personal attention, like every Elf who has died and hasn't met with Mandos's approval - will have to wait until I've got more resources at my disposal. Last requests or words or anything?"
"I'd write it down. If I encountered your mother in a conversation-amenable context I'd tell her. I can no more go looking for her than I can go rescue Vár."
"If I were you my opinions on the subject would be pretty thoroughly oath-warped. That's the problem."
"Which way does it matter? How do you know that it's not sending us back that gives him the wrong piece of information, and killing us that confirms whatever he wanted? And - we're people, we're not - pieces of evidence about you, you can't say 'killing people: what does this communicate to Thauron' like it's 'smoke signals: what does that communicate to Thauron'. And if you send us back you can send us with any message you want."
"I know you're people. All orcs are people, and you didn't get personier because you happened to be sent to me with a message and others did not. I know what causes orcs to attack Elves, I know that you are thus afflicted and that I cannot repair you, and the fact that I am on hand right now to make sure you don't attack any Elves does not change that. You could circle back while I'm asleep and attack the Men or local Elves. You might have contingent orders to do exactly that if I let you go which you didn't tell me about. Or you'll just go live quiet lives doing internal Angband things for a few years and then go out and kidnap Elves to be tortured into insanity because that's next on the mission list. And if you had those orders you'd follow them because you are under oath. I cannot supervise you. I have work to do and when I have done enough of it maybe I will be able to pry you out of Mandos's claws and fix the problem at the root but I don't currently have that luxury. I'm just thanking my luck that he can't send me adorable orc children with his next message because they can't have doubly sworn effectively."
Illusion draws its sword.
"Inconsistent with what I've heard from everyone except other orcs and Thauron. Possible that the usual torment of being an orc persists, possible it doesn't, but you're healed now. If there's a difference to be made I hope it makes it."
She can get them all in one ice blast. They won't see it coming.
She turns Lævateinn into a hook and turns the bodies invisible and drags them off, away, and makes a firebreak and burns them.
Everybody expecting gets a healing object to carry in case something happens and Loki herself cannot be fetched immediately.
She increases the guard. Some Elves, some Men. It should not be easy to sneak in and slit everyone's throats.