elrondfucker69:

I’m a little entranced by the idea of a Feanorian managing to have a child. Watch them grow, crafting jewelry as easily as forging armor. The blood of a High King crawls in their veins.

Maybe they were borne in secrecy, and they never know of their bloodline, but they prove to be masters at their craft, and the word ‘Feanorian’ echoes through their minds from time to time, but they never know what exactly it is. Elf mixes with Man, and through the generations, the power is never diluted, but it continues to hum in their blood.

Feanorians have mastered the skill of word and hand. Their blades come to glow with an eerie light. Their words can allure, influence thoughts, change minds. The power of their forefather lies within them, it answers when it is called, in fact, it grows stronger. They live through Arda, through generations, through new worlds.

What is this power, someone asks.

“Fëanor’s-” he says without much thought, though he stops. The name is foreign to him.

“Force?” the stranger asks, having misheard him.

“Yes. The Force.”