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.
They're getting all tame! Worst comes to worst they will assign us streetsweeping.
I think you would have to grovel. Are you any good at groveling?
Are you any good at groveling at people who are sanctimonious buffoons, I mean.
He runs a hand through his hair and makes a pleased noise. Then let's go.
Valinor is protected by a mountain range that defies the geological principles so strenuously obeyed by the rest of the continent. It goes high enough they cannot easily fly over it, the air too thin to support any body with wings substantial enough for motion. They can go high enough up elsewhere, insubstantial, and then glide in. It's glorious. The Trees, however stupid a concept, are stunningly pretty.
Too bad about the local Ainur residents. He might actually like this place, if it wasn't for the annoying and omnipresent gilded-cage feel. Yes, such a lovely and perfect paradise, lit by these gorgeous trees, while all the rest of the world is dark, and all incarnates who enter find no way to leave.
Bleh. He's already annoyed about being here, and he's technically not even in Valinor yet.
They glide on in, serenely, and come to rest - the winds control where - in a hilly area in the north. Once there's air they can change to songbirds.
Yes, fine, songbirds, songbirds it is. Groveling. They can even match, that'll make Sauron happy.
It does! Tirion-wards - yes, he says delightedly, Melkor's here -
Of course! They'll have him at it for years - he sighs with satisfaction - it's fine, we can wait -
Oh, I don't mean wait in Valinor for Melkor to get off parole, I mean wait until Melkor is off parole to derail the Plan.
That last part was teasing. Or - meant to be. He could be persuaded to seriousness, but he's not there yet.
Tempting. But no, wander around, get bored, make their mushrooms sing.
Yep. Valinor. Still - pretty itself.
Have the elves come up with any neat inventions lately?
... But he does think he'll take the time to learn to read the language. And then their libraries.