feanor.....new and improved ✨
The figure before him reached up to push back the deep hood they wore, letting moonlight flash off the silver knuckles of their left hand. Turgon gritted his teeth instinctively and then let out a long, quiet breath as the cloth fell back and shadow fled from the planes of a familiar face.
His uncle’s skin was decorated with a smattering of stress lines, cheekbones framed by a fall of silver-white hair pulled back into a braid. His age and exhaustion were apparent in his eyes and scars, similar enough to Turgon’s own. But his expression remained sharp - as quick and vicious as the claws that the king knew lay inside his famous silver prosthetic.
- silverfist, ch. 1















