[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Dégas looked daggers at the men in front of him. He had travelled many miles from Minas Tirith in search of his twin. There was news she had to hear, and only from he would it be received. With the most incredible amount of luck, the young man had found her by chance, walking into an Inn in time to hear her voice. Glaring at Eodwine, he reached for his sword.

"Ah lad, you'd not be wanting to take on us all would ye?" Eodwine warned him.

"Bite your tongue man. You asked for proof, I give it freely, though for what reason my noble sister should be accounted your friend I may never know." Dégas drew his blade, flipping it deftly and handing it to Eodwine hilt first. "You have my blade. If you look to the hilt, you will notice, if you are truly my lady sister's friend, that hers is of identical make. You will also please to notice, sir, that you are now armed and I am not. Would one desiring to inflict harm pass over his only weapon of defense so freely?"

Stepping from behind, Ruthven grabbed the sword from Eodwine's hands, running knarled fingers along the flat, running ancient eyes along it's length. "'Tis the same all right, as I well saw last night." Dégas' eyes widened. He had helped his sister escape their brother... for her to come to be in an Inn at a table with people she barely knew? Where was her sense of propriety? He knew of her love of the common man, but he had always thought of it more as a theoretical love.

"Do I have your trust?" he asked shortly.

"No." Dégas' eyes flashed with impatient anger. Eodwine continued. "Lad, for all that you look like the lady, why would she run from her twin, if that be what you really are?"

"Sirs, ladies," he bowed. "It is of the utmost importance that I see my sister. If you refuse to allow me to see my own kin... I beg you to bring her to me."