[Amanaduial the archer]

Atharen turned slightly to see Aelimur also draw a blade, and the sound of the metal in the rain could be heard as he came slightly closer. Ferethor tensed at the movement, and Atharen noted with some surprise that beneath the savagery there was something else - He is nervous? Afraid, even? Then why does he draw against me?

"Ranger, loth am I to draw blade against a son of westernesse and ally of Gondor, but my errand is of paramount import," Ferethor was watching him, his gaze as steely as his blade. "I have this question yet to ask of you, ranger. How came you to the conclusion that I come from Lord Elessar?"

Atharen returned the man's hostile glare with his: unreadable, unblinking, unspeaking. His hands were hidden from sight beneath his cloak - a useful aspect of it - and his left hand already had a firm grip on his dirk. The others were already almost out of sight, as the rain was getting harder and harder, causing them to almost vanish. Two adversaries, but it was raining, and he was ready to wager that he would have more experience fighting in such conditions than they; after all, even his age was deceptive.... After a moment, Ferethor seemed to snap. "Show me your hands!"

"If I show you my hands, it will simply be to show you that I have a blade there as well," came the quiet reply, before Atharen revealed his hands, the left one holding his dirk. Aelimur took a step forward, but Ferethor paused, watching. To show him he was a southpaw, a secret weapon in a fight, was a token showing he was not entirely hostile, but the fact he held a blade showed that he was not entirely friendly either. Ferethor knew this, and Atharen laughed softly, a note of danger in his voice. "You see, Captain, I myself am a double edged blade as well. And as for this curiosity, and these assumptions - I could ask the same thing. Why do you think I am one of the Dunedain?"

The man glared at him. "You spoke of being of the same descent as King Elessar. I suspect therefore you are Dunedain."

Atharen nodded, smiling very slightly, something that was continuing to unnerve the guard. "'Twas not hard to work out, now, was it? Yet it would not have been beyond the realms of possibility that I am also wrong. Indeed, you wear no livery now, clad in the fashion of the elves, almost, and with a similar blade. But look now - you have the mannerisms of Gondor, whether you know it or not, and your name speaks of the same. And your bearing is of a soldier." The other man seemed even more uncomfortable, and behind them Aelimur seemed frozen, waiting. Atharen came to his conclusion. "All Gondorian soldiers answer to the King, Captain, or should do; this business of Il Galoth is something different, a distasteful rarity. But you are no distasteful rarity. You have honour, I suspect, however much you distrust me."

His eyes continued to hold Ferethor's, and his hand continued to hold the blade. His smile widened slightly. "I would drop my blade, but it is rather a good blade," he smiled, before his tone became more serious again. "I do not expect you to tell me this errand of yours, although you have revealed you have one. But I do ask you to trust me - as your errand's importance is 'paramount', so is trust within this group, the reason I watch Miss Heart so closely. So, what do you say? Can you trust me, or..."