He is not afraid. Wary in thin filaments that will always ensnare his heart, yet that is just another thrill to being praised and exalted, especially by the press of those lips. Obediently, he walks beside Melkor, gathering his wits and strength so that his eyes burn in his skull when he uses them to search further afield than their immediate surroundings; listening, watching, gauging.

"This land is called Dorchadas, the dwelling place of a king and queen whose privacy is as a void in itself. They know I can See them and they fear none of their thralls. Reul and Morla. They see us as such, knowing us as little else once we are disgraced," he says, his voice deep and echoing as though all the places his Sight go also create walls around his artes. He frowns. "The Unseelie is how they name us, with shards of a precious gemstone alive in our very blood. This is what they covet. We are fine wrappings around each of these gifts."

Sauron drapes an arm around Melkor, not because he is scared but to simply feel him there after so long scrying in Mordor alone. Pushing his power to the limit, he finds new restrictions and hisses, squinting as his Eyes reach the borders of Dorchadas.

"They clip us like birds so that we cannot fly from here. Ah ..."

Bringing a hand up, he ducks his head and rubs at the instep of his lashes, blinking through thin smears of blood.

"They — They wish to win a war against the Seelie armies in the southlands."