30 Day Movie Challenge

Day 12 - Favorite Remake

‘Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark’ to me was an improvement over the original television movie. A lot of what worked for me – the dark fairy tale aspect with the tooth fairies, the child protagonist, the mansion, etc – were all implemented by Guillermo de Toro (who didn’t direct but only wrote the script.) I think the story works better that way as an almost gothic horror/fantasy hybrid. I watched the original version later and found it less effective.

Prince Nuada || Hellboy || Requested

“Bloodlust becomes Bethmooran royalty? I was unaware.” Her tone is rigidly uninterested, though she turns a keen eye to him, “You would make yourself my esteemed Executioner all for the sake of entertainment?” A low sigh leaves bloodless lips. The longer she holds the throne, the colder it creates her. “And if I said the World, what then?”

"I'm glad he's dead."

      “And that is why you sit on a throne Dear Lady. Do you happen to have any other individuals you would rather see breathless? I find myself bored this eve and a bit of bloodshed would be a wonderful way to while away the hours.”

This actually reminds me of a song I totally connect to Sally: 

//i feel like this is relevant to littleorphansally somehow? 

Reign of the Accursed by Manzanedo

These 31 Cosplay Costumes Will Make Your Day Much Brighter. http://viraly.rocks/s991u-these-31-cosplay-costumes-will-make-your-day-much-brighter

She was too hot. She was too cold. She would never be that just right Goldilocks fit. Shoved, shoveled like ash into a pit, one end to another of the spectrum of sensation. She was so feverish she felt nothing at all. Only the dull throb of her head at her temples. She was not alive or dead. Neither here nor there. She was betwixt and between. She was the neutrality of Nothing. She had no feeling but the extent of her loss and therefore noticed none outside of it, from the chuff of not quite canine breath that rose air particles upon her torn stockings like delirious sugar plums to the black mass his more than unusually large dogbody presented in the space about them.  Only at the cold press of his nose did a sound like a startled dove leave her, whimper more canine than her sudden companion expelled from her lips, and she turned like a dying flower to a cold sun.  She had no care, nor caution....only the existing exhaustion after living through the end of all she held dear.  Tiny arms locked about his neck and drew him near, a child’s instinct to reach out and clutch at any show of affection, of aid.  Help me, help me, her body cried as she released her weapon and held the darkness that joined her in the form of a dog. Save me, save me, her shivers spoke. Her true audible voice only made a note between breath and silence, that silent scream of pleading into black fur. Seeking comfort, sewing cries into that luxurious coat like a mourner at a funeral. She had no thought, nor care.  Even his cold did nothing to dissuade her.  She was a child broken. And he was soft, to an extent.  That was enough.  Enough for her to give all her remaining strength to the act of holding him and wishing for an end to everything. She was as good as dead as it was. She cared not what came after.

The great black beast could smell the carnage and death on the air - not that he needed to. He felt it just as strongly, something guttural and visceral and pain. 

It pulled him to the place, like a moth to a flame…but when he arrived, there. There was something he hadn’t expected to see. The little girl, clutching her weapon, crusted in blood and dirt as much as she was.

Something - or somethings - had torn through here. Left her this way. Left her alone and afraid, not crying any longer but not looking as though she was able either, and in that moment he felt, for her. The poor, abandoned thing.

Large, heavy paws thudded softly across the floorboards, and brought him, trepidatious, closer to her tiny form. He chuffed once at the dusty ground, particles swirling upward into the air - and hopefully, the noise alerting her to his presence before coming any closer earned him as much a beating with that flashlight as she’d given the thing before him.

And so, he crept nearer still, until finally a cold wet nose pressed to her skin. It was followed shortly after with the press of the wolf’s neck and side into her shoulder. The fur that brushed past was just as cold as that nose, though not as damp at least - and softer by far. To the touch, it more closely resembled the downy touch of feathers, and this close seemed greener than black.

She does not release the sight of his weakness from the ungiving hold of her gaze. The shudder that tremors through him, recalls in her, the memory of a stone wall; cut and threaded with vines that crack the surface, until the even the base rattles and shakes apart, leaving only rubble and ruin in its wake. There were times that she herself had brought him to humiliation, reduced him to remain beneath her. She had the means, the ability to make him utterly vulnerable. But not in this way.  This was accomplished only by the cruelty of nature and his own lack of immunity. Another moment’s quiet consideration and then her shoulders rose and fell in time to the soft, decisive sigh that she allowed, before lowering her raised hand to lace into the fingers of one of his own, turning away softly and leading him as one would the blind to the safety and privacy of her own chamber where no other would witness him in such a severe state. “There are no protestations in dreams.  Come.  You are allowed to trust me here.”

"Have you not slept?"

    War.

    Wars, and whispers and names best left unspoken - That was all that occupied his thoughts. His chest heaved the heat of the night not a natural one as he pressed his palms to the sill, the breeze that caressed against fevered skin paltry, no relief for the King as he watched the battle that had ended long before, bloody and barbarous play out before him. Enemies. He had made enemies.

    Fingers raked through damp tresses, pale as moonlight, lank and lackluster as fever ravaged his body.. Sleep, rest, all a distant memory. More-so than the battles that had been long since buried that played out before him as he listened to the sounds of war of Fae and Human with swords lashing on no-man’s land in ways that had never happened before the truce and then—

          “What?”

    A voice. He had heard a voice. Malekith turned, a brow raised as he stared at the Queen, bloody, but undefeated. Smeared with the life of her enemies, his kin her— And then nothing. No more crimson tide at her feet. No more symphony of metal upon metal. Simply the silence of the night and— “What I not… I- I do not recall.”

Chapped cupid-bow lips opened in a hollow croak.  The air was dry and scratchy like the sand-papery hide of a lizard in her throat, scales raking the swollen lining of her esophagus until flecks of blood were haggardly hacked up, staining the cherub mouth. Merely a child who ate too many cherries...who stepped in toadstool rings and spoke to voices in the walls. Who offered friendship and flesh so innocently, so naively as to forget to barter for it or to ask what the required payment would be in exchange. Dust caked and hardened into a mask upon her face, rivulets of stained salted silver streaked paths upon it, long since dried, tattooing the terrain. She was trampled upon, this shivering mass; flashlight still in hand, clutched like a stuffed animal to her chest, the crusty remains of the creature she had killed with it stamped to the bottom of the base. She was alone. From this moment forth always alone. Ever an orphan.

The uttering settled like a serenade in her ear, the brush and stroke of it luxurious - like a living thing. Unwinding and unwound, coiling serpents of sound. She hummed in air, low and soft. "Thank you." Another Fae law broken, which would only make her crime all the more heinous. "It's lovely."

Send my character a ► and a command. They must obey.

littleorphansally

The Unseelie hissed through his teeth, stepping forward to loom menacingly over the human female. Yet the compulsion to do as she bid tugged at his bones. He had to obey. Leaning in to speak directly into her ear he said the name that would grant her ultimate power over his person. It sounded sort of like ‘Ayl’ but it was melodic and every stop or extra hum was a part of the Name.

Collecting all my writing for Sally from this plot line from threads, memes, drabbles and so on but only from my writing.  Currently the amount stands at 6,168 words and 26 pages.  And I'm not done, still grounging up little pieces here and there.

The dispatching had been elegant, effortless, but then…that was the Elven Folk for you. Fortnight upon fortnight in their presence had given her practice enough to deduce a shallow concession from a sincere one. Conciliatory constructs, it took all her will not to curl her lip in retaliation; rather instead, she reached for the familiar fabric of her monstrous neutrality. Implacable impartiality. “Hmm.” The hum left her, barely above the tonal vibration of a breath, as she considered him and his answer. She rose steadily, for one with mead painted lips, and approached; stepping over carnage as carelessly as though walking upon a blanket of crushed rose hips. She gave no note of concern to the hem of her gown, even as the ruddy color climbed the delicate fabric. Once aligned to him, she staunchly stared with a relentless rudeness, no political politeness to the way she peers. She can be more brazen than he has seen yet. “I think there is a game you like better.” Her finger taps to the curve of her goblet, her lips lift; and within the tight tipped edges resides the proof of her instability, or perhaps it is the glassy, distanced sheen to her gaze that does that. “You should have allowed them through.  You would have won the round.” Her smile is tight, without warmth, and does not reach her eyes. A dead fish, no longer gasping. A dead fish that does not die. She presses her glass into his free hand, “Or are you hoping you’ll be the one to end me? I can only advise that you stake your place now… as there is a rather extensive wait list, as it is.” She turns and removes herself from the scene, choosing to retire for the evening. She’d gladly accept ten thousand knives over being in that one’s presence.

"Muckrot," the intoxicated Mortal Queen posed, "What is the most satisfying game you've ever played?" ((I don't know what's going on, my muses have slipped the noose on me this evening. Anne Boleyn is drinking Ambrosia with THor of all people, jesus))

The corpse of a fallen, elven spy stares blankly up at the ceiling. The gash in his throat is deep and neat, delivered by a hand long-practiced in the art of execution. Muckrot steps over the corpse, wiping his serrated bone blade off on the leg of his pants. He studies the mortal queen who sits so brazenly in Accursed’s castle, then inclines bows his head in an empty gesture of respect. "The Wild Hunt, Majesty," he answers. His deep voice echoes throughout the massive chamber, cool and composed in spite of the events that transpired moments earlier. There is something grudging about this admission; after all, the Hunt is a frenzied sort of thing: moon madness and the baying of hounds. A forked tongue skims over his bottom lip, sweeping away a spatter of black blood as he remembers. “Perhaps.”

Her gaze narrowed and refocused to his outline.  The world was swimming. Koi in the blood stream of her veins, "All Fae libation is spiked...to a mortal."

Lord Jagged of Canaria smiled, sipping from his own glass. “I beg your pardon, Milady. My mistake. You see, I just wanted to be sure it wasn’t the mead you indulged in. I understand that it has been…spiked. One of the Duke’s not-so-practical jokes…”

Still…for a party at the End of Time…so far this one had been singularly uneventful. How long could that last?

The Darkest Part of the Forest by Holly Black

Where others saw ruin, and black nights, and spite you looked into my eyes, and whispered, “you’re so full of life.”

From the pen of the fantastic Inskinned (via nakedhipstercircus)