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.
He starts laughing.
"Oh, darling! The Valar think you're unobjectionable! What a terrible insult!"
"One wonders!" Hug. Kiss.
"There's that delightful blasphemy out of the way, thank you beloved, let me finish up the list. Yes, pretty gem, I did just kiss a man, and you should see what he's going to do with me later! Eru is a madman! The Valar are beaten in intellect by most species of moss! Valinor is horribly tacky." Boop. No burn! He cackles.
He laughs. "Well, well, isn't that something."
(Damn. Damn. He knows that look, of course Sauron has something in mind, damn damn damn -
No, away, onto the shelf with you. He's busy.)
"You should petition our lord for permission to play with the shinies. Figure out how to break things with them."
(He's not angry, he's just disappointed.)
"Me? Break things? Why, I'm not sure I'd know where to begin!" But he has long learned that 'no' should not be in his vocabulary. "But I suppose I could make the effort to learn."
"Would you, dearest? It'd mean so much to me."
"I am very sure you won't disappoint me." He bites down lightly on his ear. "You so rarely do."
(Moved to threatening early, didn't he?)
"This really matters to me." Kiss.
"You really matter to me. And you know you're very clever. Figure it out."
He beams at him. "You'll have so much fun, you know you will."
"Oh, most likely. It does look like an interesting problem."
"And you liiiike them."
He clears his throat. "My lord! May I have leave to study the Silmarils?"
(Somewhere in the back of his mind, where it safely cannot upset the precarious knife's edge upon which he balances, something in him screams.)
Calassúrë is starting to become strangely accustomed to darkness. Before, it had been rather like living in a waking nightmare. Like the whole world had been submerged in ink. There had been darkness in Valinor before - indoors, in the shade of trees - but never like this. Never everywhere. She'd looked upon the darkened world and thought that there would be no way anyone could become used to this. The way it slowed everything down, made everything more difficult.
But without the Light of the Trees, she can see the stars, twinkling in the sky. Their beauty could never really compare in a direct contest to the Light from the Trees, but Calassúrë decides she likes them. While they are cold and distant, there's something very solid about them. Something quietly comforting. Maybe there's something to be gained from such a tragedy as the Darkening, like there is something to be gained from silence instead of a symphony. The symphony is prettier, more well put together, but in the silence you can really pick out the details of something. Hum a tune all your own, and compose something new, now that the symphony is out of the way.
She takes to songwriting under starlight, for the practicality of having light to work by, and because it's pleasant. There's something poetic about it. Humming stray bars of an unwritten song to the stars. It's peaceful. Peaceful and comforting.
It's about the only comforting thing around, really.
Fëanor surely isn't. He does inquire about the project to relight the world - expected to take about five Years, and to serve as a beacon of hope to the world and provide an opening to the forces fighting the Enemy. "So it's not a reason to stay here, but rather a reason to be sure we're there by then. Not that I am willing to spend five years waiting."
Food is gathered. Swords are forged. People are having nightmares - long, lingering, astonishingly clear ones they nonetheless cannot relay to anyone else.