With regard to the Forodwaith visitor scenario and the comment that only Mairon | Sauron gets toys...
Imagine, if you will, that you are an emissary of some sort. Elven or Human, it doesn't really matter. You come from a family just noble enough to want more -- power, wealth, land -- and just barely worth the Dark Lord's notice. Other siblings and kin are obligated elsewhere with war and politics, and perhaps are better-favoured by your family, so when a chance to seek an audience with the Dark Lord arises, it is you who gets sent off.
You cannot fail in this mission. This has been made explicitly clear. You shall return successful in your negotiations, or not at all. If the Dark Lord asks something of you, anything, and you think it might help secure your cause? You'll do it.
So you do not flinch away in fear or disgust when he introduces you to his Uruk servants, though many are large and frightening and foul, with their claws and fangs and cat-like eyes the colour of jewels.
"They seem... strong," you say. "A capable sort."
"How charitable of you to say so," the Dark Lord smirks, the tone of his response failing to match the courtesy of his words. You dread having insulted him somehow, fear settling low and slithering in your belly. Perhaps you came across as insincere? But then your host raises his voice, welcoming another into the conversation.
"Our guest has such kind words for your children, Adar. You must be very proud."
A dark haired figure appears almost as though from Mairon's shadow, silent and dour. He nods in your direction, eyes never meeting yours, but the barest upward tilt to the corners of his mouth suggest your paltry praise of the Uruk mean far more to him than it ever could to their master.
Later, as you dine at a table spread with an extravagant array, the Dark Lord broaches the subject of your visit. He understands your family's plight, he assures you, and sympathizes. You chew and swallow with rigid politeness as he speaks, trying to ignore the hunger in your stomach that only seems to grow with each mouthful of beautiful but strangely bland food.
Still, there is only so much he can offer. After all, yours is a weak house, and it is clear to him that your family do not respect his power -- after all, they sent you, a lesser child, on their behalf. If your family had truly been serious in offering their allegiance, they would have sent the first-born, or the mightiest brother, or even a gift...
Jewels and finery had not seemed practical for the journey to the holdfast of Forodwaith, nor had there been much sense in carrying anything beyond what was necessary for yourself given you had not even been sent with a retinue. You had come as you were bid by your family, but now the shame of your arrival burns hot and stinging.
"Forgive me, Lord Mairon, I-- I-- know not what could be offered which you do you not already possess."
Your host reaches for a decanter, pouring a stream of red into a goblet before offering it to you. You accept it without question, heart beating fast with the anxiety of offense, of failure.
"Perhaps a favour then," he demures, "a way for me to reward one of my own for his service."
The Dark Lord pours himself the same wine, and the ringing, crystalline sound of his goblet lip against yours is unnatural in the otherwise empty dining hall.
"I am at your command," you insist, thinking only of duty, of getting home. The wine, when it touches your lips, is the first thing that tastes real since you have arrived.
There is something utterly predatory in the way Lord Mairon's eyes watch your throat as you swallow.
"My servants from before, you meant what you said?"
You nod your head, wary but adamant
"Do you think you could continue such favourable observations under more pressing circumstances?"
"I'm afraid I do not follow, my lord."
Your host moves with appalling speed, a hand at your throat, food and wine clattering to the floor. A startled, wet noise escapes you, but little else.
"Could you praise them still, with your polite little words, all while stuffed full of orc cock, hmm? Show how 'strong' and 'capable' you think they are with your body, like a whore?"
Your face is hot, from his grip on your throat, from the embarrassment of his words, from the horror of his implication. But, you said you would, you need to do as he asks, for your family... A shadow starts to cloud your vision, black spots dancing, and then Lord Mairon's hand at your neck is a phantom of a memory. You both are sitting, as you were, with nary a plate or platter upended. He smiles at you, gentle and accommodating.
"Of course you can," he lets out a light chuckle, confident. "Your family might not think much of you, but you're a good girl, I can see it."
Something muffles your mind at that, as though his hand were back on your throat, but warm and without threat. Nor is there any lie for you to rankle at. You are good, obedient and pliant.
The Dark Lord grins, and you wonder why no one ever told you that elves could have such sharp teeth.
"Wonderful," he declares, "so glad to have that settled. Finish your meal, my dear, and then we'll get you sent off to Adar straight away. It's been so long since he's had someone show him any real appreciation."
