#tithe series

[starrynightsxo]

HELP ME BUY A BOOK

help me guys I need opinions on what book to buy and why...

PLEASE PLEASE REBLOG for a bigger sample as I've only done the poll for ONE DAY SO I NEED VOTES I BEG <333

[faeish-art]

Kaye ˙𖦹 ⋆꙳ ໑ had some inspiration as I’m rereading my fav series :> photo one is glamoured Kaye and photo two is pixie Kaye!

[null1ty]

Ive decided to start posting Unwind fanart here too!! and I KNOW. I KNOW MY MIRACOLINA DEISGN ISNT CANNON. I KNOW 😭

[theaceofskulls]

No real spoilers for Tithes here, but I love that GW could've very much gone further with the time jump between Pariah Nexus and it, but chose to say "no, there's not been enough time to give Sa'kan a robot arm, he needs to keep being a chewtoy".

It's like they've realized that people like Dante, and the current status of Cato and Guilliman and said "every space marine needs to go here" and points to the Disco Elysium chair

[write-kin]

Prologue - Rebirth.

Eight hundred years ago, a king made a sacrifice.

CWs: Sacrifice, murder, painful transformation.

[Now on AO3]

--

Seventy-seven lives. 

Not that much, in the long term. Less than a village. Less than a regiment of men in an army. Two digits. 

Seventy-seven men. 

More than seventy-seven lives would be affected. These men had friends, wives, children, parents, siblings. Lives cut short too soon. 

Seventy-seven innocents, taken to a mountaintop. 

Seventy-seven lambs.

Seventy-seven slaughtered. 

Montresor stood among the bodies, breathing heavily. 

It had not been easy. 

The men had been his own soldiers. Many of them had served under him for a decade or more. 

On the battlefield, Montresor had sacrificed hundreds of his own men. Possibly more. It had been in the name of strategy. Of victory. And it had worked. Their deaths were not in vain, as they died under his command to secure victory for those who mattered. Eventually, the victories of those in charge became his own. 

Many of the men whose bodies laid before him tonight had been instrumental in the coup that made him king. Their bravery and valor and willingness to sacrifice the lives of others had brought him here. 

And yet, for all those whose deaths he had caused, to slit the throats of his own men was difficult. 

His arms were heavy. The dagger he had brought was dulled by the blood caked onto it. His heart was heavy, like the weight of every man he had slain laid upon it. 

There was one more. The seventy-seventh. Like the others, he stood before the ornate metal basin. 

Magic was a tricky thing. On his own, without the assistance he was receiving, Montresor would have collapsed under the strain of putting so many under his thrall. These efforts were already taking their toll on him.

The final sacrifice was the hardest. It had to be. It was necessary. 

The general stared ahead. His hair was tied back, and the sweat and blood couldn’t conceal the scent of lavender that always lingered around him. 

He was small, before Montresor. Everyone was. But the way the general carried himself, you would never know. 

He had always been a lucky man. Montresor had so often spoken of him as a good luck token, his own rabbit’s foot. Any battle with him leading the men was sure to end in victory. 

These sacrifices were necessary. He had committed to this. He had sworn. There was one more throat to slit. 

The man before Montresor had been Lusalle Luchesi, once. Lusalle. His own. 

And perhaps it was cowardice, or perhaps it was a lingering tenderness. He wouldn’t know. He wouldn’t ruminate. He would do what he could to cast the memories from his mind. But whatever the reason, Montresor dropped the thrall once his arm was around the general’s chest; holding him in place. He held Lusalle still, even as he yelled, as he panicked and began pleading to Montresor, asking him those horrible questions like why and for what purpose? 

Montresor was silent as the blade ran across the general’s throat. As his throat spilled into the bowl. Like all the others. As his body fell down at Montresor’s feet, making its final noises. 

Montresor did not weep. 

He would, later, alone. And he would weep, and be done. He would have better things to do than shed tears. 

But for now, he stood. Removed his gauntlets, exposing his hands to the cool night air. 

As he had been told to, Montresor laid his gauntlets aside. Took his hands, and dipped them into the basin. 

The blood was still warm. 

When he drew his hands up, the night air stung them. The blood dripped down to his wrists, under his clothes, drying onto his skin. 

He brought his hands up to his mouth. The blood was sickly and metallic as it entered his mouth, and he choked it down. 

Another. His hands dipped back into the basin. He drew them to his mouth. 

And again.

And again.

And again.

Over and over, until his knuckles scraped the bottom of the basalt, until the last of the blood had long since seeped into the porous stone. 

And when it was done, the pain began. Like a shot of white-hot agony tearing through his mind, burning all that it passed. Down the back of his throat, the pain snaked into his spine, and traced veins and muscles as Montresor collapsed to his knees. 

He bled. His canines fell into his bloodied hands, replaced with ones that were sharper, stronger. His body remolded itself, becoming something else. His eyes, once a brown so deep they were almost black, opened again as a deep crimson.

The blood he coughed up- his own, already the dulled black ichor of one long-dead- did not return to him. His skin paled, a near paper-white pallor left behind. 

When he closed his eyes again, the pain returned, and with it came visions. Shapes. Colours. Incomprehensible gifts. Some, he thought he could perhaps understand parts of. Others were esoteric and alien to him. Flashes of red. A sword. A pipe organ. A child. Movement. Power. Patience. But power, he understood. Patience, and power beyond his wildest dreams would come to him. The visions were barely comprehensible. But all of a sudden, they left, and with them went the pain. 

And there he was. 

King Montresor Valdemar, knelt before a basin of stone, taking unnecessary gasps of air. Surrounded by seventy-six bodies, and one laid over his knees, staring up at the night sky. 

Montresor took Lusalle’s body in his arms. The dagger laid there on the mountain’s stone, long forgotten. They looked up at the sky together. 

The stars were gone. 

The moon was blood-red. 

Just over his kingdom. Just for this night. Just as he’d agreed. 

He was near-immortal now. He had killed seventy-seven men. He was a being that defied death. His power was more than any man could dream of, and more would come to him. The only man who could have slain him was cradled, dead, in his arms. In mere moments, he would turn around, making his way back down to his castle. 

And yet, staring up at the moon that stared back, he felt something he would never have to feel ever again. 

Montresor felt small. 

[grabyoursaintsandpray]

Remy LeBeau

[ritz-stimzz]

🕸 🕸 🕸 × 🕸 🦟 🕸 × 🕸 🕸 🕸

kind of tithe themed stimboard

[godzilla-reads]

Before I started reading The Folk of the Air series, I started with The Modern Faerie Tales series and I still think it’s my favorite series by Holly Black.

[coconutsnowart]

Aren't we all a little like Kaye? Who remembers our green skinned, ink drop eyed pixie with moth wings? 🦋

[bopeisdope]

Most character opinion bingos!

@sirofreak

Sorry I got to this so late, I got distracted and then was too busy

Grace:

Lev:

[acsuttles]

4K – Assassin’s Creed Origins – A Tithe By Any Other Name – Side Quest –...

#Bayek #AssassinsCreedOrigins #Origins #AssassinsCreed #AssassinsCreedSeries #ATitheByAnyOtherName #SideQuest #Level10 #PlayStation #PlayStation5 #UBISOFT

[starrynightsxo]

anyone know what the tithe series by holly blck is about? tryna do some reasearch here. is it similar to the folk of the air or completely different? is there a romance subplot (not that I want there to be but I wanna know if there is? who's the main character? who's the love intefest, if any? I really appreciate any help !!

[anchoredwithhisword]

Biblical Tithe Series: Part 8: Is the Tithe Only Food?

[null1ty]

doodles :D !!

i saw a head canon abt Conner playing basketball and i COULDNT stop thinking about it…. So i drew it :)

+ baseball Lev !!!

Im working on another drawing like the last two that arent doodles & are fully shaded, but idk when ill finish it, and i KINDA wanna post daily Unwind stuff but idk how long thatll last before i get burned out/art block

[faerytalesfromtheabyss]

With The Stolen Heir out in the world, I thought it would be helpful to bring this post back

Welcome to Faerie Land: A Guide to Holly Black’s Extended Faerie Universe

With Wicked King making the NYT Best Sellers list and more people reading The Cruel Prince/The Folk of the Air Series, I decided to make a quick guide to the other books in Holly Black’s Faerie universe. 

One of the things I love about Holly Black’s books is how they interrelate. They give you background information about the world and side characters in TCP. But it’s not necessary to read these books to understand TCP. Also, since Jude has been in Faerie for almost her entire life she sometimes brushes over certain faerie rules that new readers might not know (eg. the effects of cold iron and faerie true names). Holly Black’s earlier books lay out these rules much more effectively.

So if you’re a new reader of Holly Black’s books, welcome! I’ll try to stay away from spoilers, and I’ll add links to Goodreads for more in depth summaries. If you’re a veteran, here’s a quick review of the other books in the Faerie Universe and a little bit about how they relate to TCP.

Keep reading

[shadowandlightt]

Of Nightmares and Memories |seven| Azriel X reader

Series Warnings: Kidnapping. Mistreatment. Cursing. Pining. Violence. Depression. Talks of suicide. Eventual smut

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six

A/N: Little bit of a filler, setting up for the second act. I'm very excited for you guys to see where this is going <3

The week that she was gone was more miserable than most. Your fae healing would kick in, leaving little trace of Tamlin’s brutality, only for him to return and beat you to a pulp once more. You were starting to lose track of the days, only seeming to exist in between Tamlin’s visits, when Feyre reappeared. Not looking worse for wear, but instead looking a little lighter than when she left, but filled with the same amount of anxiety. 

You could hear Tamlin lock her away into the study, questioning her on everything about the Night Court. Feyre saw so little though, you knew that. Your brother wouldn’t put the Court at risk by bringing her anywhere but the Moonstone Palace. But she met with Mor, and that was enough to bring me to my knees. Just knowing she was alive was enough. But then Feyre mentioned Cassian and Azriel and tears started to flow freely. Because they were alive and in one piece. After everything they made it, they were alive and well. Rhys wouldn’t have mentioned them otherwise. 

You sobbed on the floor of your rooms, curled in a ball. Because he lived. Despite it all, Azriel lived. And maybe, somehow you would see him again. Maybe, just maybe, you would be able to escape and make it home. Bide your time until the faebane was out of your system enough to reach out to Rhys for help. 

The Tithe came a week later. You hadn’t left your rooms in months, hadn’t felt the sun on your face. Food was brought to you by Alis, sometimes Feyre would sneak into your rooms for a moment. You wish she would’ve after she returned from the Night Court so you could learn how Rhys and Mor were first hand, instead of having to strain to hear it all. 

You watched from my window as Feyre sat beside Tamlin, looking like the picture of a Spring Court lady. It made you sick. She belonged here just as much as you did. You couldn’t hear from where you stood, but you could see them just fine. The way half of the people barely had enough to pay the Tithe. It broke your heart, Tamlin should have delayed it again. Should have given his people more than three months to recover from the fifty years of pain and suffering they had to endure. But Tamlin was proud, too proud. 

So when Feyre gave her jewels to a water wraith, you knew he would be furious. You could hear it over the dinner that followed. The way they snapped at one another, and then silence, like Feyre left the room. 

It was hours before you heard the sound of what seemed like an explosion. You couldn't move to find out what happened, so you strained my ears to hear whatever you could. All you could hear was Tamlin apologizing over and over again to Feyre. He keeps promising he’ll do better, keeps promising they’ll get through this and that things will change. You wonder if she knows it’s all a lie? 

Rhys comes for her a few weeks later. In the middle of the night, while you’re all fast asleep. You don’t wake until Tamlin comes bursting into your rooms, demanding to know how he can get Rhys to release Feyre from their bargain. When you tell him that your stubborn brother would rather die than give Tamlin something he wanted, he beat you. And then beat you some more, until you were nothing but a bloodied mess on the floor. 

He was waiting by an oak tree at the end of the week. Your body was sore and broken, but healing slowly. Rhys appeared with Feyre in tow, looking exhausted as always. You were beginning to truly worry about her, because it was obvious she was a shell of the human you met months ago. A shell of the one who slapped Tamlin and dared to go against Amerantha. 

Now she was nothing. And there was nothing I could do about it, and hardly anything Rhys could do in one week every month. He could try to get her back, but in the end she would return her and fall deeper and deeper. She was right when she told Tamlin she was drowning. 

All hell broke loose the following day though. 

Though Ianthe returned, you were finally allowed to leave your rooms for a time. You found Feyre standing by the front door, begging Tamlin to take her with him on his trip. He refused, of course, leaving her alone in the doorway. When Feyre said she was coming whether Tamlin liked it or not, you could see something change in him. That’s when she slammed against an invisible wall. That’s when you realized we were both fucked. 

She begged and begged, but he kept moving. He mounted his horse and rode away. Lucien lingered for a moment, saying something I couldn’t quite make out from the ringing in my own ears. She was going to rip herself apart or die in this manor house. 

You watched as Lucien and Tamlin disappeared. Watched as Feyre crumbled in on herself and slowly began to lose control. Darkness seeped out of her, then fire and ice. She was wrapping herself in a cocoon of it as she crashed to the floor. your heart broke, because you had no power to help her. 

Alis called her name, begging her to calm down. But Feyre couldn’t hear her, or chose not to. You felt the need to vomit as I watched on, feeling more helpless than you ever had before.

“Help her!” Alis demanded, finally seeing you standing there. 

“I can’t,” you choked out, “I have no power. Your master….he…I can’t do anything.” 

Feyre was going to die. There would be nothing left of her by the time Tamlin and Lucien made it back here. She would be nothing but a pile of ashes at this rate. you felt utterly sick, and angry. Angry that you had no power left to help, angry that you’d been locked away too for too long. Angry that Tamlin would even think about locking Feyre away like this, knowing that she would react poorly. 

But reacting poorly is an understatement. She was going to bring the whole place down around us. We would all die at her hand, and she wouldn’t mean to do it. She would topple the Spring Court tonight, without meaning to do it. And you would finally be free, in life or in death. 

But then the very foundations shuttered, and the sight of blonde hair filled my eyes. you  fell to your knees, because it was Mor, whole and beautiful as ever. She couldn’t see you from where you were, but you could see her as she reached into the cocoon of darkness and pulled Feyre out. 

“Go,” Alis whispered to me, “Go with them.” 

You shook your head, unable to move. Surely it couldn’t be that simple. Surely there would be something else to stop me from leaving. you  couldn’t even make it to the gate before. Why would now be any different? 

“Please-please take care of her,” Alis begged Mor, “Take care of them both.”

“Both?” Mor questioned. 

It was then, with the thought of Azriel and finally returning home to Valaris. Finally being able to fly again and feel the sun and wind on my face. Finally being able to feel Cassian’s bone crushing hugs, and Rhys….oh Rhys. It was only then that you got to your feet and moved from your hiding spot. 

Mor faltered upon seeing me. You  thought she might even drop Feyre as a sob ripped from her lips. Feyre seemed to be unconscious in the woman’s arms, unaware of what was happening. But Mor knew, the second she laid eyes upon me, she knew. Even though my body had changed and I’d matured, she still saw me. 

“How is this possible?” She questioned, taking a small step towards me. 

“You don’t have time,” Alis warned, “Someone will have alerted the High Lord, he’ll be on his way.”

“Take me home Mor,” you beg, “Please Mor, take me home.”

“Consider yourselves very, very lucky that your High Lord was not here when we arrived,” Mor warned. 

With tears in her eyes, Mor nodded towards me and took a step towards the door. Feyre finally took in a breath, deep and shuttering. You swallowed hard and followed them out of the door. Mor told Feyre that nothing was going to keep them from her, and that Rhys shattered the shields without a second thought. 

What would he do when he realized what else he freed? Would he be happy to see you again after so many years? Or would it be too painful for him, after moving on hundreds of years ago. Because surely they all moved on. Surely they didn’t think about you the way you thought of all of them. Surely they didn’t spend every day mourning the life you could have had if Tamlin hadn’t told his father and brothers where to find you that day, or if Rhys hadn’t told Tamlin, or if he’d simply showed up to meet you that day. So many things could be different. 

“Hold onto me,” Mor told you , tears streaming down her face. 

You grasp onto her arm and hold tightly to it as she winnows you. Your eyes strain against the bright light that floods your vision. Rhys is leaning against a tree, and straightens the second he sees the three of you. He falters, just as Mor had. Eyes blinking furiously as if he’s trying to clear his head. 

“You-” 

“Rhys,” your voice cracks, “It’s me. I promise.”

“I-” He shakes his head, “You’re dead.”

“No,” You whisper to him, “That’s what they wanted you to think. I’ve been locked away this whole time.”

He reaches for you. Like you’re a ghost that’s going to disappear the second he touches you. Only you don’t, because you’re living and breathing. He breaks then, tears streaming down his face as he pulls you into a tight hug. 

“We need to move, Rhys,” Mor reminds him, “The faster we’re in the Night Court, the better.”

“Take me home,” You say again, “I just want to go home.” 

“Oh, Little Star,” for the first time in hundreds of years, the name is said with such love and adoration. You don’t flinch when you hear it, you don’t expect it to be accompanied by a blow. Because you know you’re safe now. Safe and loved and protected, “Let’s go home.”

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