these fancy shmancy gold decoration covers make me SO MAD bc for book 1 it's an illustration of feyre shooting andras, but ofc he's just some wolf and the bracelet has a wolf and an arrow and I'm MAD, that was a person and that person is gone and it's just an aesthetic, it's just a badass moment for feyre, noone asks the wolf how he's doing yk
and I'll continue: then there's also the ~inspirational~ quote by rhys (king of waffling), "you are a wolf and you cannot be caged", and it's like??? what even is the wolf imagery anymore?? feyre became the wolf she killed???? a tool in a high lord's larger and more important story where her life and death will be rendered senseless and irrelevant?????
"Blood Rite” by Andras is a raw, ritualistic black metal invocation that plunges listeners into a nightmarish ceremony of chaos and unholy ascension. With thunderous riffs by Marchosias, blasting drums, and Aerik Von’s venomous vocals, the track summons Andras—the demon of discord—through vivid imagery of blood moons, shattered seals, and apocalyptic fury. Lyrics paint a vivid scene of darkness overtaking light: legions rising under Tiamat’s wing, churches burning, and humanity descending into ecstatic ruin, all crowned by a triumphant roar as Satanas claims the highest throne. It’s a savage, immersive anthem for those drawn to the abyss—unrelenting, blasphemous, and drenched in sulfur and shadow.
“Blood Rite” is now available for streaming and download on Bandcamp: https://aerikvon.bandcamp.com/track/dark-highway
"Andras, grand marquis of Hell. He is seen with the body of an angel (and) the head of an owl." The owl head symbolizes nocturnal malevolence and secret knowledge; the wolf, ferocity; the angel's body, his fallen character.
Why did Andras choose Feyre to kill him if she's 14-15 in my rewrite at the start of it? Here's why! (Its a fic)
I ran.
I ran with four horrid paws and many wicked teeth, the date of faeries on my back, with true evil on my heels.
My eyes were old and cunning, and though they were the eyes of a wolf, I was still a faery.
Always a faery.
Born a faery.
I'd die a faery; today.
I was old and cunning.
I had teeth for ripping, claws for running and mauling, and terrible terrible eyes. But I had all those things already, for I was truly and always a faery. My mouth, now filled with horrid jagged bones for wild vicious means, that now spoke in huffs and howls used to speak in horrid jagged vicious means instead of house them. And I needed not think before I spoke, for I was a faery and my mouth always knew what to say, when to and how.
I saw her. With my wicked, horrid eyes. She was young. She was no woman.
No she was a gangly ugly child. But she was perfect. Small and starved. Her eyes held no malice. Just fear. Understanding and fear.
*Shoot* I commaned with my wicked eyes.
*Be my end* I begged.
I was old and cunning. And I knew many truths.
Tamlin would never fall for a human, much less one who stole a faery's breath.
He would never love a woman, he always found a greater appreciation in the masculine, but he would never find love in a human man who drained a faery of their blood.
But what he could do. Nurture and play.
The High Lord of the spring court. It was all he knew to do! He could nurture a fiddle who's strings were old, play it though it was worn and any other hand rended agony from its strings. But Tamlin? He coaxed a tune from it. That instrument laughed with him as he played.
If he could coax a tune from a dying violin. He could coax love from this starving child's heart. It wasn't even a question of if she would coax it out of him.
She looked like him. Bright eyes, though dulled with survival and fear and hunger. Long light hair, though matted and tattered. Fair skin, though winter's deathly embrace held her soul. Intelligent from what I could see here alone.
The understanding in her eyes. Tamlin would enjoy raising her. Teaching her. She would grow a quick wit under him. Lucien might despise my decision. My choice of a child. He was too stubborn to see my view. But he perhaps would enjoy bickering with her. Teaching her the words of our kind. She was perfect.
The curse never said Tamlin must fall in love with a human. But that he must coax it from a human heart who had spilled faery blood. And that heart must do the same to him.
*Shoot me* I huffed. I did not growl. She feared me enough.
But she did not. She drew her breath. And her bow. And she aimed for the deer beside me. I took the deers place. I saw the arrow approach. I could have moved out of the way.
I did not.
It was quick. I did not register the hit. Nor the fall to the ground as I collapsed. Nor my last breath. I registered hands in my thick wicked fur. I registered tears and an apology, a beg for forgiveness.
Tamlin would love her.
And I forgave her for my death. For it was not her fault.
I did not register my last breath. I registered the cold winter air. And then I was in the mother's embrace.
