[Feanor of the Peredhil]

"I broke my fast on the road," Degas answered swiftly, "but I thank you for your consideration. My business with the Eorl truly cannot wait."

Self-consciousness overbore him then, and he wondered at how Adragil could command the attention of a room without effort. Walking in and speaking in as low a rumble as he could produce - for Adragil's voice was like thunder: loud and deep - Adragil still managed to send maids scurrying to do his bidding. Even silent Farahil seemed to have legions of loyal followers at his command: if not the men of his fleet, then the men and women of his household it seemed would fight for the honor of providing the man with what he desired. Degas, with business more urgent, perhaps, than ever had he been entrusted with before, could think of no way to channel either Adragil's brazen strength or Farahil's shadowy certainty.

"Is there any man here who knows where he can be found?" Degas peered around him, his eyes unable to adjust to the darkness through the door of the tent. Even so soon after dawn, the sun was bright to ride toward, and standing in it still, he could not make his eyes see who stood or sat, greeting each other and the day mere steps from him.

This would be another problem for him to deal with: Linduial came from stock of men for whom others would gladly lay down their lives. Degas's people had known little of him during his childhood, for he had been the shier of the twins, and had left home early to learn his art at Elessar's court. He would be hard pressed to win their allegiance after the iron fisted rule of Fenrir.