That being said, he thinks he prefers the elven form. Not exclusively, too long spent in a single form and something starts itching at the back of his mind, but he thinks he likes it more than the dwarves. The design has Eru all over it, all expertly crafted and beautiful functions and layers and layers of perfect intricacy pulled into utterly bizarre directions. Like a master painter picked up a brush and painted a gorgeous, glittering vista, but with the perspective drawn at just enough of a skew to grate on the nerves of the viewer, even as they admired the craftsmanship. Maddening.
So of course he prefers it to the dwarven form.
The dwarves themselves were like their biochemistry; efficient, straightforward, practical. He could respect it, certainly, but it made wandering their streets unchecked a bit tricky. Also a bit boring, once he'd figured out the trick of it. Dwarves were many admirable things, and he'd be the last (well, second to last; after Aulë himself) to name them anything but a fine species, but they were so - so themselves. He'd never wish for them to be anything but, it clearly worked beautifully for them. Even so, after a while one gets very bored of bartering mutually beneficial trade agreements, properly worded contracts, and sound investments. There's only so much a Maia can poke at for personal amusement.
He's run out of options, he thinks. As delightful as their reaction to the singing mushrooms was, he can guess what would happen to anything else he threw their way. There's only so much sensible cataloging and pricing in tonal sets of singing mushrooms that he can stand, before he starts to feel less like the playful trickster deity and more like the slightly bizarre business venture deity. He adds another set of singing mushrooms in very marketable colors and tones in a nearby side cave, as a sort of acknowledgement of their skill in besting him, and then he takes his leave.
In the form of a local species of hawk, he soars above the continent, and wonders what he'll do next.
"And then we'll defeat the Enemy."
And then it's back to songwriting.
So what is to become of the Elves, when they arrive? 'Join us in rebellion, we're clearly correct,' or - what?
I think we'll leave them alone. Unless they attack us to avenge Valinor or something, then maybe try to convince them to sit down and see where we're coming from - it'd grate me to apologize for their pretty trees but it certainly improves on entertaining them while they try to be at war with us...
The Silmarils? No, those are ours. Have you checked how much they scorch you, yet? It varies. I lost a whole hand.
I think I shall enjoy it. Shame Melkor won't let us steal them to play.
And they go down to the throne room.
As he steps to touch one, he's afraid. He'll make light of it, certainly - oh no, poor Sánedel, the gems are going to burn him. Woe and despair and whatever garbage the idiots on the other side of the ocean parrot. The pain wouldn't matter, nor would the loss of limb. Pain's ephemeral, and bodies are simple to repair when one is a Maia. He wouldn't really mind, if it were just those. But it's not. They're beautiful, powerful, in a way the Trees weren't, in a way the Trees should have been. Brilliance and ingenuity and defiance towards the natural order. Shining proof that the Eldar can eclipse their Ainur guardians, if they just reach for it. That they can bring a better thing into this world. One that draws everything around after it, to the stars, to infinite potential.
It would hurt, to be burned by such a thing.
(Perhaps that's why Sauron wants to watch.)
Bah. Enough of his hesitance. If he is to be burned, so be it. It will be soon and then it will be done. He reaches out with a hand, and touches it.