#BIRTHDAY RENDER FOR HERON!!!

[the-iron-orchid]

Celebrating Heron's birthday with a lil thirst-trap render, ft. the classic 'hint o' cock' :3

(Heron, of course, belongs to @vesuvian-disaster!)

Link to full size render under the cut...

[ Full Size Render ]

#my art #Heron Phan #arcana oc #nudity

[vesuvian-disaster]

Should be rendering something for Heron's birthday, but the holiday has me dead. lol.

[spiderdreamer-blog]

DuckTales: "The Last Adventure!" Review (MASSIVE SPOILERS)

After three seasons and 75 episodes total, the reboot of DuckTales has come to a close with "The Last Adventure!", a three-part finale that truly does bring the series home. It's an epic undertaking, bringing all the major characters into their apotheosis as, well, they solve a mystery and rewrite history. Perhaps even better, it rounds off this third and final season of cameos, drop-ins, and gleeful excess in a way that was so obvious I smacked myself for not seeing it coming. And I thought it fitting to dig into the how and why, even if I never did quite review the full series beat-by-beat.

The finale opens on a birthday party for Webby (Kate Micucci) at Funso's Fun Zone (one of many, MANY callbacks here, as is appropriate for finales) that is actually cover for a mission to infiltrate and destroy FOWL, the villainous organization led by Bradford Buzzard (Marc Evan Jackson), former head of Scrooge's board of directors. What they ultimately find are two clones of Webby: May (Riki Lindhome, Micucci's partner in their band Garfunkel and Oates) and June (Noel Wells). As the McDuck family tries to unravel this and other mysteries, Bradford sets his final plan into motion...

What I enjoy about this finale compared to the past ones in the series is how epic, yet strangely personal and intimate it feels. Season 1's The Shadow War had a grand Duckburg-wide throwdown against Magica De Spell, while Moonvasion in season 2 had Lunaris' full-on invasion of Earth that culminated in an epic space dogfight. By contrast, The Last Adventure takes place largely in a single (if gorgeously rendered and designed as ever) location, and just as much of it is focused on granular character interactions as it is on action movie spectacle. The earlier finales were good, certainly, but this easily tops both, particularly in its villainy. Bradford is such a perfect antithesis to the show's chaotic, adventurous, and self-aware tone: deadly, efficient, and practical (he has the perfect deadpan response to a climactic loophole), yet finally indulging in outright supervillainy and complaining all the way. Every hero on display gets moments to shine, too, with many showing how far they've grown: Launchpad rises up for the rousing hero moment he's always deserved; Lena stakes her claim as a protector of magic; Beakley gets some absolutely beastly takedowns; and Webby and Huey take center stage in ways that have clearly been built up from the start. The villains get great stuff too (this show has been a bounty of delightful ham content), such as Black Heron's unexpectedly poignant exit, or Magica dispensing a note-perfect punishment for Bradford in the end. Add in some delightful cameos like the absolutely cracked way Gargoyles is finally incorporated into this series' Disney Afternoon Cinematic Universe (when Keith David's voice came out of that character, my reaction was roughly "no FUCKING way"), plus stellar action choreography (highlights include Steelbeak showing off some newly acquired intelligence and a game of chicken between Dewey and Don Karnage), and this would be enough for most series' slam-bang endings.

But DuckTales goes further, incorporating all the series' themes and and preoccupations, lining them up like, well, ducks in a row. "Family" is the keyword to this show, and it's here that is truly examined for the final time: Donald considers his next adventure with a woman he cares deeply about while Della agonizes over that, Scrooge explicitly includes the kids on the final quest, and the amount of people willing to put their lives on the line for this family has grown astronomically. Of course, much has already been made of the shocking reveal that not only is Webby a clone (the "April" to May and June, which is a diabolically clever way of incorporating characters who are usually Daisy Duck's canonical nieces, though their recent depiction as such in Legend Of The Three Caballeros is a highlight of that series), but Scrooge's clone and thus his daughter. I personally rather enjoy this twist. It was clear early on how similar these two were more than anyone else in the family, how fascinated Webby was by this legendary man, and their dynamic has proven one of my favorites in the show (boy this adds a LOT of fun context to past moments to boot, doesn't it?). And while some have criticized this as seeming to say that blood overrides "found family"/the family you choose, the fact that Webby dismisses that idea outright is key. She still decided herself to reach out to Scrooge and the others, knowing nothing of that secret connection. I'm reminded of the episode "Epilogue" from Justice League Unlimited, where Terry McGinnis discovered that he was Bruce Wayne's son; there too, it was fate and chance that brought them together, and Terry made an active choice to become the new Batman. (I could say more about how I think "found family" has become an idea rather twisted by lonely and well-meaning people and myopic fandom trends, but that's another post)

Plus, it's DuckTales, so it's just damned funny and exciting. In addition to the high-flying action scenes, in particular, Gyro gets some unexpectedly choice zingers, Drake and Fenton have some absolutely priceless interactions (it's such a hilarious twist on the original that Drake thinks Fenton is the bee's knees and Gizmoduck sucks, much to Fenton's consternation), and Louie subverts attempts at heartwarming tropes with just the right amount of panicked cynicism. The voice cast is one of the finest ever assembled in the modern age of cartoons, and to list them all here would take a fortnight, so I'll try to keep this (relatively) short. I was skeptical of David Tennant when he was first announced as Scrooge (he's one of my favorite actors, but seemed a tad young for the eternal grandpa), but he made me eat considerable amounts of crow time and again, becoming as iconic in this role, possibly even more so, as The Doctor. He and Micucci, always a sprightly and lovable presence, have to do a lot of heavy lifting here in a short amount of time, and both are more than up to the task. Jackson, so well known for his dry yet sinister managerial tones, takes that in a delightfully twisted direction and sinks his teeth into every syllable. Danny Pudi brings Huey home in the best way possible, channeling all that anxiety and knowledge into figuring out THE mystery to solve all mysteries, and Toks Olagundoye does series-best work as Beakley when her secrets and facades all come crashing down. And while many of the guests here only get a few lines, all fit perfectly into the chaotic, freewheeling tone (in particular, Jason Mantzoukas' Steelbeak has become a real highlight in his brutish yet distractable menace).

Among the many reboots that children's television has had in the past few years...Voltron was a fixture of my childhood, but I only came to Legendary Defender because of its creative team being the best in the business at their brand of action storytelling. The same goes for She-Ra and how Noelle Stevenson's unapologetic queer identity gave that reboot its crucial underpinning rather than any preexisting nostalgia on my part. But DuckTales is special to me. It was one of the first series I really vividly remember watching and potentially even understanding. Sure, the original has its clear flaws now as an adult even if I still cherish it (unfortunate racial stereotypes say hello), and the new version has, like the other aforementioned reboots, arguably improved on its predecessors in many conscious ways. But I remember being on the edge of my seat at some of those cliffhangers, gasping for breath as I wondered how Scrooge would get out of THIS one. I remember thinking how cool it was that Darkwing Duck featured Launchpad as a major character, and wondered how that happened in the story. That love, that JOY of creation, has permeated the new DuckTales to its very core thanks to the efforts of Francisco Angones, Matt Youngberg, and their army of writers, actors, and artists. Are there episodes I like more than others? Sure. Are there "flaws"? Art is naturally imperfect because human beings make it, and WE are imperfect, so of course. Are there disappointments I have now that the series is on its way out, promises I yearn to see fulfilled someday? Most assuredly.

Yet ironically, I am far less sad than I was when I first realized that this would be the end for now. Because this ending, even with its notes of finality, doesn't feel like one. It feels like a promise: these characters have been around for decades. And even if they don't exist in this current form in this specific medium, they will continue to endure. Scrooge, Donald, Della (god, PLEASE incorporate her into more stuff, she's such a rich and wonderful character), Huey, Louie, the third one, Webby, Beakley, Launchpad, and all the others will continue to have adventures. Be a family. And that's a comfort to know, as they fall down in the sky, connecting with each other, in the final credits.

Thanks for the ride, you crazy ducks. I guess now I'll just have to put the theme song on repeat.

Until we meet again.

Life is like a hurricane...

#ducktales #ducktales 2017 #ducktales spoilers #dt spoilers #reviews #analysis

[baronsofbalderdash]

Local Restaurant Owner Launches Manhunt For Skandian Prankster

Jennifer Dalby, owner of Redmont's nationally acclaimed restaurant The Heaped Platter, has launched a search across the entire fief for Skandian wolfship Heron's crew member Jesper, who is visiting Redmont on a diplomatic mission with his crew.

Jesper is under suspicion for a particularly daring "practical joke" against the Heaped Platter, where Dalby's sack of sugar was exchanged for salt. Nothing was stolen, Dalby reports, as the sugar was simply hidden elsewhere in the storeroom, but the salt was inadvertently baked into a batch of desserts, rendering them inedible.

Gilan, Ranger to nearby Whitby Fief (and honorary Ranger to Redmont for the past few weeks) is a regular at the Heaped Platter. Here's what he had to say about the search:

"I don't think Jesper meant to ruin the desserts. More likely that salt was only meant for my coffee when I came in yesterday and he wasn't in time to switch the sacks back. But it doesn't matter now. The die is cast. Jes, buddy, if you're reading this, I'd get as far away from Redmont as you can."

Baron Arald of Redmont has stated officially that it is in his and Araluen's best interest to sort this matter out before it causes an international incident. It must be said, however, that his efforts to stop Dalby's manhunt have been minimal. Perhaps the fact that one of the affected cakes was intended for his birthday celebration factors into the matter, though Arald's secretary, Martin, denies this allegation vehemently.

Jesper's skirl, Hal Mikkelson of the Heron, says the rest of the crew were not involved in the joke.

"He's always doing stuff like this and I tried to warn him that it would catch up with him one day," said Mikkelson. "If we find him, we won't be turning him in - brotherband loyalty, after all - but neither the Heron brotherband nor Oberjarl Erak of Skandia condone his actions."

Jesper of the Heron crew is currently running for his life and could not be reached for comment.

#jesper brotherband #brotherband chronicles #rangers apprentice #jennifer dalby #gilan davidson

[krispyweiss]

Sarah Jarosz: World on the Screen Livestream Part 2, May 9, 2021

- Show features live debut of Blue Heron Suite LP

Sarah Jarosz had to wait nearly a year to perform World on the Ground front to back after its 2020 release. It took her two days to play Blue Heron Suite in full.

The song cycle, released May 7, was the subject of Jarosz’s May 9 World on the Screen livestream from Brooklyn. It followed her April 29 virtual run through Ground.

As with the studio Suite, Jarosz played alongside upright bassist Jeff Picker and electric guitarist/vocalist Jefferson Hamer. Together, the trio churned out a note-perfect recreation that ran a tad longer than the 30-minute record, owing to between-song tuning as Jarosz switched between acoustic guitar and octave mandolin.

Unlike, say, the Eagles, whose perfect performances seem rote, Jarosz and company’s flawless rendering added to the excitement of the livestream and reinforced the purity of the album, recorded in 2018. In the three years since then, Jarosz has released not only World on the Ground, but worked with I’m With Her on the trio’s full-length debut and supporting tour.

Two weeks ago, Jarosz was barely able to contain her joy at playing with a band again. This time - presenting a collection of songs inspired by her mother’s successful battle against breast cancer - Jarosz was serious and studious.

No banter. Just business.

And it was appropriate. Because although Blue Heron is 11 songs in theory, it’s in reality a single - and singular - piece of music. While all of the songs, including those with words, instrumental interludes and reprises, can stand alone, they soar together, when context, linkages and recurrent themes make one of many.

The 60-minute pay-per-view wrapped with a mini-set that included “Build Me up from Bones,” Jarosz’s cover of “one of the best songs ever” - Bob Dylan’s “Ring Them Bells” in honor of the bard’s upcoming 80th birthday, one day after Jarosz’s 30th - and a joyful rendition of Dolly Parton’s “Why’d You Come in Here Lookin’ Like That.”

“Hopefully we’ll see you in person again, at concerts, real soon,” she said in announcing the finale.

In the meantime, there’s Blue Heron Suite, which caps a stupefying, three-album run from a woman still in her 20s.

Grade card: Sarah Jarosz: World on the Screen Livestream Part 2 - 5/9/21 - A+

5/10/21

#sarah jarosz #blue heron suite #world on the ground #i’m with her #sara watkins #aoife o'donovan #bob dylan #dolly parton #the eagles

[still-finding-our-way]

R5, R6

(SX 540672) 12/12/ 2020

Serendipity, rhizomes and lines. 

On my studio desk I have a number of rocks, stones and pebbles. None are particularly rare or precious, most have been collected locally yet every one is an object of beauty. One such stone is a sharp piece of flint. Small enough to hold in my palm, it has become my go to de-stress stone. I like to let its razor sharp edges bite, just a bit, into soft skin. My teasing wake up call. It has volume and weight, four planes—a tetra. One side runs smooth, curving to meet a granular knobbly surface, bone-like and skeletal, like the indenture of a clavicle or ankle bone. The underside of the stone is cut sheer, sliced through its core, creating a flat expanse onto which it is able to stand upright, before rising into a terraced plane, each step the size of a thumb print, a patternation that reveals the cryptocrystalline formation of flint (‘crypto’ meaning ‘secret’ or ‘hidden’). I found it on a beach in Cornwall. A dark grey stone with a white thread running through its centre. Its shape and size tickles my imagination, and as I turn the flint over in my hand I play with the idea that it was used as a Neolithic arrowhead, chipped away, stone on stone some 5000 years ago. The structure of flint requires a level of skill and expertise to shape; one wrong strike will send fracture lines through the stone rendering it useless as a tool. Our early ancestors were artisans and makers. Over and over, I have drawn this stone, feeling it’s texture, the sharp edges and definite weight in my palm. It does not take up much space and yet every time I draw it, a different angle or plane opens up. It is never the same. A small rock, inert and fixed, offering infinite possibilities.

You think you know something, someone, some place. A line on the horizon, a spit away from the sea and moor. Clambering over rocks, swimming in icy rivers and streams, climbing trees and making dens. 'Whence cam'st thou, mighty thane', pronounces Duncan in Act 1 of Macbeth. The utterance of such a question now comes with a cautionary red flag, one that implies exclusion and ‘you are not from here’. Too bad, coming from a white working class background, where histories and lives are lost, undocumented and unrecorded, I have no idea where my roots are tangled. I cometh from nowhere, no fixed abode, shallow rooted, spun together by frail relatives that can’t, or don’t want to, remember. To remedy this unknown, I was gifted by my eldest daughter a DNA test for my 50th birthday. The results from my spit reveal a blueprint that aligns with peoples who cluster around the North East of England, with a smattering of Swedish, Norwegian, Icelandic, Scottish and Irish. Farmers and seafarers I suspect, a web of people who somehow managed to survive hunger and disease, violence and brutality, the lustful fumble in the hay and the traumatic birth. The odds were not good—about one in 400 trillion chance of being born according to the boffins. In staking a claim on the improbability of existence we got lucky, very lucky.

Where we come from and who we are. Layers of paint, fresh applications, still wet bleeding into others, making new colours and new pictures. Blending and binding. Some work and some don’t. It seems so arbitrary how we come to be. I should make time to salute the stream of past people, winding all the way back to the bones of dear Lucy, 3.2 million years ago, and her mother and grand-mother, all coming and going, doing their time. But, I won’t, it's enough to breathe in the noise of now. One heart beat, a blink of the eye and we are gone. Serendipity, luck, random, the throw of the dice. The cells didn’t bind in the correct sequence and the possibility of life just slipped down the toilet. Is it any wonder we seek out patterns to create order and structure, finding comfort in numbers and story; assigning value in the unexpected, and agreeableness in what wasn’t sought. Ones and zero’s, lines and dots, giving shape to all things. Artists do this all the time. Seeking opportunity in the accidental and unintended. Any stick, stone, door, book, conversation opening up new creative possibilities. The rhizomes seeking out a good place to settle, a place to nourish. The patterns, whether real or not, helping to make sense of the intensity of the here and now. 

Jennie’s story is fascinating. Her blue eyes, flaxen hair and Bridget Bardot pout might have you thinking she is of Swedish heritage, whilst my dark skin, hair and black eyes has in the past suggested Mediterranean roots. Not so, the paint palette is muddied. I will let Jennie tell her story. One thing to note here though, Jennie is an adventurer, she has travelled all over the world: on her own, through work, with friends and lovers. Occasionally I have joined her but mostly I skirt the edges of Western art history, moseying around European capital cities, museums and galleries. Both of us are wanderers in different ways. Parallel lines. The same but different. I am amused to read that women of ‘a certain age’ partake in what Jennie and I are doing—walking and exploring local history. I also note the term ‘a certain age’ is often used to describe middle-aged women, usually accompanied by a roll of the eyes and a double-fingered quotation sign. It is basically code for women no longer of a fertile age—post 40 and therefore deemed unattractive, and given age tends to gift experience (though not always) they carry a certain confidence i.e., speak their mind and know what they want.  

A simple stone. We are breathing, blinking and unstill. 

We ask ourselves how did we not know about this walk? It is literally a stones throw from Jennie’s parents village, just over the hill yonder, where Jennie spent her teenage years and part of her adulthood, and where I lived for awhile whilst homeless and lovelorn. Of all the places on Dartmoor this is an area that I would confidently say we know well, and yet here we are discovering new trails, hidden valleys, different perspectives and layers and layers of history, a thread of which connects with Jennie’s recent travel’s with her son to the other side of the world. The walk begins in the small Devon village of Meavy on the southwest of Dartmoor, a place I have cycled and walked through many times, enjoying a sup or two at the Royal Oak on the way. The route follows the river Meavy upstream to Burrator dam not far from Down Tor, where Jennie first set this adventure in motion as we glugged champagne and watched the setting of a glorious October sun. From Burrator, the road winds through Sheepstor village and into the woods where earlier in the year, at the height of bluebell season, I waited with my children for the badger's to come out. Hunkered down amongst bramble and fern at dusk, quiet as mice, hearing the birds hush and darkness settle. The children were not scared but reverent and awed by being in the woods at night, a time and place synonymous with the darker side of fairytales: of wolves, witches and being lost, and where the unknown and the unformed lurk. We whispered and signed to each other in the darkening gloom, until we no longer needed words and laid back in a bed of fern, faces turned upwards, watching the patchwork of sky between the canopy high above turn from indigo to midnight blue and then merge dark into the tall trees, the cool air lulling us to sleep. 

The ax strikes and life reclaims as swift as the blade can cut. My hand brushes the damp surface of a lopped off tree stump in the woods down from the reservoir, and I stop to observe a platter of squirming, burrowing, scuttling, squirrelling, decaying life; three empty acorn shells evidence a previous luncheon. I have set the objective to notice more when I am on these walks, to seek out habitat changes and to learn and know the names of things. But always I surrender to just being, breathing in the light and air, the atmosphere. I feel happy on these walks, a sense of euphoria and lightness washing over. It feels good to leave aside the cerebral and to let the physical, the motion of walking awaken a realm of sensing and scanning. She doesn’t say but I know Jennie has arranged this walk pre-Christmas because she is aware I am struggling with sadness—a sadness caused by my natural melancholia and tendency to ruminate, and a much bigger life crisis. Battle hardened to general romantic crisis’ I am not so experienced with career rifts, and so I have withdrawn and pulled down the blinds. But it won’t do and I know, as Jennie does, that the moor will help to alleviate the mental muddle I am in, and even if the effects are only temporary, it will store up the memory bank, to plunder and remember during the times when I get locked in. 

Ten minutes into the walk Jennie spots a Heron standing stock still in the woods by the river Meavy. Camouflaged against the bare trees, charcoal grey and ochre, we watch it rise and drift across the valley. Great grey wings, near 6ft in span, pulse slowly, its head and neck arrow-like thrust forward piercing space. It has a primordial presence. In mythology it is linked to the sacred Ibis, a bird revered by the Egyptians as representing Thoth—their god of wisdom, writing and magic. I take it as a good omen. The wood is dazzling, ice cold water tumbling down from Burrator reservoir. Wood, rock and foliage glisten from the early morning downfall, the ground water-logged from weeks of incessant rain. The element of water is strong here, 4210 mega litres—enough to quench the thirst of a city and the surrounding hinterland—held in check by towering granite slabs that form a 23.5 metre high gorge. Completed in 1898 and extended in 1923, the reservoir pools run-off from the surrounding moor and water from the river Meavy. Standing downstream from the dam in the wooded valley I hope the granite wall holds strong. The sun breaks through and turns up the volume on colour. Saturated greens: acid, moss, lichen, pine and fern. We watch a man on the other side of the steep valley, oblivious to our presence, pissing freely, a spray of urine forming a perfect arc; glinting golden droplets catching the sunlight.

Having learned nothing from our previous walks we decided not to take the obvious path and instead followed the course of the river upstream. This meant having to clamber over rocks and fallen trees, until we reach the imposing dam wall and are forced to scrabble up the steep bank, thick with mud, to get back on the road. Jennie leads the way, an experienced hash runner not deterred by the muddy terrain, she turns into a sure-footed mountain goat, while I, slip-sliding, defy gravity and somehow fall up the slope. Walking over Burrator bridge we pass the man we saw pissing earlier and beam broadly, making sure we hold eye contact for a bit longer than comfortable for him. We then follow the road up to Sheepstor village, and—given we are women of ‘a certain age’—we are keen to nosey round St Leonards, the C15th village church. But sadly, the door is locked so instead we admire the Lych gate, a covered over a double gate with a lychstone to rest the coffin before entering (‘Lych’ or ‘lich’ meaning corpse in Old English). At the time I did not notice the foliate skull carving above the main door, only a little while later when we sat for lunch under a massive oak tree, which we reckoned to be near on 500 years old given the size of its girth, do I undertake a little online searching and read to Jen a short history of the church and its whereabouts.

So intrigued by what I find that I go back a couple days later, this time with my dog and younger children in tow. In particular I wanted to see the foliate skull above the porch. In recent years there has been a growing interest in Pagan symbology such as the ‘Green Man’ and the ‘Three Hares’, several examples of which can be found in churches across Dartmoor. The ‘Green Man’ is usually represented as a carved face with foliage growing from the head, mouth, nose, ears and eyes. It is presumed to be a pre-christian Pagan symbol representing renewal and life—from death comes life—that has been absorbed into Christian ideas of resurrection and life after death. Often found in churches and cathedrals across Europe, its more macabre cousin, the foliate skull, is said to have appeared after the Black Death in the 14th century. The skull at St Leonards church is carved with ears of wheat sprouting from the eye sockets above an hourglass. The suggested date of its making is given as 1640 and it is suspected to have originally been part of a sundial. Now it sits behind glass in a small recess above the porch, and on this particular day was partially obscured by condensation so I could not see the inscription incorporated into the sculpture: ‘UT HORA SIC VITA’ (As the hour so life passes), ’MORS JANUA VITA’ - (Death is the door of life) and ‘ANIMA REVERTET’ (the soul will return).

As a motif representing vegetation, rebirth and resurrection, the ‘Green Man’ archetype is found in many cultures across the world, including the ancient Egyptian God Osiris, the god of fertility, agriculture, death and resurrection, who is often depicted as green skinned, alongside several green figures found in Nepal, India, Iraq and Lebanon, the latter dated to the 2nd century. I wonder how far the Green Man story goes back? As a cross cultural archetype it suggests a commonality of belief about the life cycle that is interconnected with the land. Whilst its incorporation into ecclesiastical architecture alongside other apparent Pagan motifs, points to the fluidity and evolution of belief systems, which subsume and build on pre-existing ideas, even when the incoming authority seems most rigid and contained. Most of the what we know about the ‘Green Man’ is based on speculation and supposition, as we have no historical evidence as to why and for what reason they were made. Instead the ‘Green Man’ motif has been reclaimed and remoulded at various points in history from Romanticism to Neo-Paganism and most recently as a symbol for the environmental movement.

A little village church under the shadow of the looming granite tor on the southern edge of Dartmoor, connected through culture and shared beliefs with a much wider world and history. If the Green Man does not provide enough evidence of these interconnections, then the large sarcophagus, protected by iron railings in the churchyard, and housing the remains of James Brooke, First Rajah of Sarawak (29 April 1803 – 11 June 1868) alongside two other White Rajahs should affirm the connections without doubt. It was whilst peeling the shell off hard-boiled eggs, freshly laid by my chickens that morning, at the foot of the big oak tree that Jennie realised that she had previously encountered the story of James Brooke whilst travelling through Borneo with her son. A sultry jungle, 7,000 miles away on the other side of the world tied by empire and colonialism, violence, power and trade to this peaceable village. I find out a little more about James, the questions concerning his sexuality and love for men stick with me more than the dates, titles, skirmishes and conquests. I go back again to the church on new years day and with fresh snow on the ground, sipping steaming hot chocolate on the bench overlooking Brooke’s slab of a tombstone, I retell the story of what I know to my children. They hang off the iron railings and argue over the remains of the Christmas chocolate, I don’t think they were listening.

SC

Reading: Lyon, N., (2016) Uprooted: On the trail of the green man (London, Faber & Faber).

https://www.legendarydartmoor.co.uk/sheepstor_church

[hearsaykrp]

                 Presenting — oh byul as the heron.

— info.

name / oh byul birthday / 900328 pronouns / she/her occupation / investigative journalist

— traits.

( enigmatic, stubborn, opinionated, logical )

Enigmatic When you have little to share about yourself, it sure leaves a lot of room for people’s imaginations to run amok, but consider this: it’s almost always never that deep.

Stubborn It’s the nicer word for “spoiled,” except she knows when to take a “no” when prompted. The problem? No one’s really given her a good explanation to follow up such a denial that she’s ever deemed acceptable. It doesn’t help when she’s assertive by default.

Opinionated The only times she’ll ever open her mouth and won’t shut up is when people cross the line with their assumptions about anything. Nothing gets her simmering like a flippant remark deliberately done in poor taste.

Logical Intensely grounded, be it in general outlook or methodology. She’s decisive that way, maybe too decisive. Regret doesn’t exist in her vocabulary, either—that’s done is done, and there’s no point in ruminating over what’s been set in stone.

— about.

Mama’s arrogance is omnipresent. In the soil that’s been toiled by the women before her, the proud nimbleness of their fingers tending to each young leave and tendril. A testament to how their crop flourishes without fail every year, fields of fruit that sprawl red and ripe resplendent each summer.

Mama’s arrogance is earned. What wealth that began with the first of their family has no intention of leaving them any time soon. Effort only means something if you’re faithful to its means, keep it running through the years, a steady, steady momentum that can’t afford to be disrupted.

Mama’s arrogance comes with whispers through the grapevine. That she says nothing because she has nothing to say to such lowly folk of their sort and when she does, it’s enough to strike one numb to the bone. That the meek thing of a husband she has is only one strung along of the nameless, faceless many. That the daughter of her very splitting image has a chance to make amends if they play their cards right.

Children this young are inherent skeptics. It goes hand in hand with their innate curiosity.

Byul is no stranger to the rumor mill, but she carries sense and a strong distaste for anything that has none in equal parts. She looks at Mama across the kitchen table, gold-rimmed cat-eye sunglasses sitting on the bridge of her nose even indoors, when the high noon sun hits the smooth curve of her cheekbones as so, and holds the small truth of it all close to her chest.

Like her mama and her mama’s mama, Mama’s left eye is starting to change—from the deep brown of Byul’s own to a milky, lifeless gray. It hurts sometimes, but bright lights only make it worse.

Mama doesn’t tell a single soul, so neither does she.

—

Byul’s apathy is obvious. Rooted in the nonchalant tilt of her chin angled to look straight ahead and above the rest of the crowd. Whatever bets the women of the town have placed on her character were in vain, it seems. Just like her mother: aloof, unforgiving, all ego and cruel vanity. The disbelief and awe it brings carry as much value as the way absolutely no one dares to say a thing to their faces.

Byul’s apathy is decisive. She’s a creature of instinct by design; the fact that it runs parallel to her train of logic only pure, dumb luck. It finds her other companions, pursuits, reasons to believe that these would be her formative years to remember. Her world doesn’t expand beyond these few, true commitments, tethered down by time.

Byul’s apathy is defiant. Periods of silence that last too long, and when it breaks, it shatters. A twofold catalyst for exasperation and impatience, from peers and adults alike. She writes that way, too, in sharp, observational astuteness. With sheer, provoked audacity.

Chaekyung is reluctant at first. Byul doesn’t care to change her mind. Simply lets the nature of second thoughts take their course until a second pair of footsteps eventually catch up from behind. After sundown, the school building is rendered to its basic elements, brick and glass and meaningless grievances. On a good night it’ll be spray paint. In moments where catharsis was much needed, it’s a baseball bat swiped from her Papa’s garage.

The spiel down at the police station is about as uninspired as the reasons why they’d been brought over at all. Kids being kids, only when they’re girls, it’ll only be a matter of time before they’ll be broken in proper, and that time will be over and done with. Time here doubles for money, and with enough of it tucked into the right pockets, the ordeal ends as predicted.

Chaekyung doesn’t take her chances again for a while after that. Byul carries on. She’s only sorry for being caught, anyway.

—

A woman’s resentment begins with the self. Ambition is as elusive of a concept can be, so the obsession with it is almost comical: Chaekyung’s strive for perfection, the intolerance for anything less; the other’s total devotion to some vapid pipe dream.

She defers her enrollment at Chungnam by a year to give the business one last chance. Appreciation isn’t expected here—Mama isn’t that kind of woman to dole out for the bare minimum—not when it’s a matter of paying her respects where they’re due. It ends in sullen realization. The thick of it lies in her hands, thin and dainty and anything but careful—nothing like her mother’s, or any of the mothers before her. There’s no forcing a gap to close that is destined to remain from the start, and no amount of assertiveness can fix what refuses to be done.

This brings surprise to no one, Mama least of all.

“Is writing something you love?” She asks. They’re at the kitchen table again. Mama doesn’t look right at her, finds no need to. Her right eye’s starting to go, too.

Byul drums her fingers on the edge idly. “No,” she answers. “It’s something I’m good at.”  

Mama nods. “Good.” The rest of it goes unsaid. Anything but passion.

—

A woman’s resentment grows in others.

Byul can only watch, the silence from within deafening, a call with no echo. She wishes it’d stopped there. But the whispering, it persists, festers, hand over hand and passed to the next onlooker. All that pity, conspiracy, hesitant condolences, and the insipid whines that are meant to pass for grieving. Bit by bit, they tear Chaekyung apart—girl, gone, ghost. When they’ve had their fill, all that remains of her is smoke and dissolution, her form nothing more but a haunting, left to spoil in the deep of the dark.

Contempt is something she’s always felt on the behalf of others, and only as needed. That very moment, it shifts, takes the shape of an entirely different kind of animal.

How pathetic.

From then on, there’s no looking back.

—

A woman’s resentment is neverending.

Daejeon is the right amount of removed, even well within the heart of the city. Sticking to the principle of things couldn’t be easier—remaining methodical and marking down all that’s required, meeting a level of expectations of job well done, and never rising for the greater occasion. University feeds into an entry position that promises a steady rise up the regional newspaper there until she decides a staff journalist is where she wants to sit pretty for the next decade and onward.

Mama visits every other month. She’s not alone in the habit of wearing sunglasses indoors, now. Thankfully not for the same reasons.

Next time, it’s Byul’s turn.

The Prius pulls up to the driveway without warning, but Mama’s face betrays none of the emotions that should come with the unexpected. “How long will you be staying?”

Papa reaches out from behind her for any suitcases, only to find none. Byul shrugs off her backpack, flashes him an apologetic grin before her gaze shifts to the woman in front of her. “Not long, I hope.”

For the sake of everyone, at least. Whether there’s a threat in the sentiment of that thought, Byul has yet to decide.  

Mama is silent for a moment, before she moves to the side. “I hope so, too. Come in.”

#hrs heron #hrs jung sooyeon #hrs accepted

[the-iron-orchid]

Me, making a thirst trap render for Heron's birthday: "I should make him smile a little, like he's happy to see you, you know? Otherwise the pose makes him look vaguely depressed, or like he's channeling Julian."

@vesuvian-disaster : "I'm Julian Devorak and no-one understands my pain!"

#the life of a 3d artist #shitposting #it's like this all the time around here tbh

[the-iron-orchid]

Day 2 of Heron’s Birthday Shenanigans is go!

For my part, I intend to redo an old render of the QPP, rebagel some more of my fave Bromance posts, and then harass @vesuvian-disaster with more characters bringing Heron presents. You should, too!

#heron's birthday shenanigans

[hearsaykrp]

                 Presenting — yoon haejoon as the tern.

— info.

name / yoon haejoon birthday / 930501 pronouns / he/him occupation / freelance video editor

— traits.

( critical, sly, independent, dynamic )

critical – haejoon tends to view things in a negative light, easily finding fault in everything and everyone, himself included (at least internally). and he’s not afraid to share his findings in blunt words, whether his opinion was asked for or not, which can render him off-putting.

sly – though he can be blunt when he wants to, he can just as easily be dishonest and cunning if it’s in his best interest, whether that means cheating systems or tricking people into trusting him or otherwise. in the end, his goal is always selfish as he believes he’s all he’s got.

independent – to a fault, haejoon often relies only on himself. on his thoughts, on his knowledge, on his instincts, on his own beliefs and opinions, and so forth. which, while sometimes preferred and commendable, can also leave him with a blind spot or have him stuck in his own echo chamber.

dynamic – haejoon’s dynamic in that he is energized in a way that’s non-stop and obnoxious. he is always driving towards his goal, and will stop at nothing to get there by any means necessary.

— about.

i.

haejoon’s birth, much like the rest of his life, was inconsequential.

this is what his father’s always led him to believe, anyway, and so it came with no surprise that he’s spent his life trying to disprove it.

an accidental second born to a family already struggling to feed three wasn’t exactly a welcome one, but haejoon has always made his presence hard to ignore. from loud cries to incessant whines of, “mom, look,” to constant calls from his teachers complaining of disruptive behavior and everything in between. he’s never hidden his desperate need for attention, and his mom was happy to give it to him for the first five years of his life. with an old clunky video camera in hand always documenting his growth and a warm smile on her face, haejoon grew attached. perhaps not any more so than most children would, but importantly so. because when his overworked father never viewed him as anything more than an inconvenience, and his older brother was a constant comparison propped up on a pedestal, where else would he get the affection he so needed in that household?

nowhere, he soon found out.

even now he remembers that night so clearly. the loud patter of rain against the window, the knock on the door of their tiny one-bedroom apartment, the way his legs turned to jelly as the police officer told his father the news. a suspected drunk driver hit-and-run accident, and they were trying their best to catch the culprit.

they never did.

and just like that, a five year old haejoon learned of loss and lived with unresolved closure.

ii.

they say there are five stages of grief. but for most of haejoon’s life, there were only two.

denial, which consisted of him begging the police officer to tell him he was joking and to bring his mom back. then anger, which motivated most of his childhood and teenage years.

he started talking back when his dad would yell, instead of begrudgingly accepting and apologizing for things he shouldn’t have had to like his mom always told him. he started picking fights with his brother out of frustration and jealousy and resentment. and soon enough, as he entered high school, phone calls from teachers turned from harmless disruptive behavior calls to something more bloody. bloody knuckles, bloody noses, bruised eyes, cut lips. a scrawny boy with a big mouth and an equally big fake ego unknowingly built out of self-preservation, taking on things twice his size.

his only solace in such a stifling environment was that clunky old video camera, the same one his mom loved dearly and used to capture haejoon through her eyes.

he continued what she started soon after she was gone, recording himself through the years as she might have, even occasionally talking to her through the camera, giving updates on his life. he slowly grew out of it by the time he got to high school, but by then his love for the art of video and film blossomed. he retired his mom’s well-worn camcorder to the safe depths of his drawers, and scraped together money from odd jobs and slipped from his dad’s wallet to buy a more modern camera. it was with that, his first prized possession, that he shot and edited a multitude of stupid skits he thought were masterpieces at the time. all uploaded to video sharing sites and only ever garnering a few hundred hits.

but that didn’t matter then, because in the beginning haejoon just enjoyed the process. enjoyed the fact that it gave him reason to leave the apartment and sneak back in at one in the morning. enjoyed the zone it put him in when he could sit for hours just editing on his second most prized possession, a refurbished laptop, and tune everything else out.

so, when a routine argument with his father came to a boil and ended with his laptop broken into pieces strewn all over the street below their apartment window, it was no surprise that he moved out the moment he could.

iii.

it wasn’t easy, of course. haejoon was a recent high school grad with little money to his name and grades too poor to get into any good universities, after all. but still, he tried. sending applications to many small colleges in cities far from daegu, and impulsively taking the very first to accept him in a town as inconsequential as his birth.

with needing two part-time jobs just to pay for rent and tuition, and his general lack of discipline in school, he took an extra year longer than most to finish. but even after he did, not much changed. the name of his school held zero weight in the industry and his diploma in film was useless for most non-entertainment entry jobs. in the end, he had no choice but to carry along with his part-time jobs busing and delivering food to feed himself.

no setback stopped him, though. the always stubborn, yoon haejoon. he drafted screenplay after screenplay, and shot non-stop to bring them to life, sending them off to film festivals both big and small and getting uniformly rejected year after year. all of which he blamed more on his lack of prestigious background than his lack of talent. his body of work gradually became a graveyard of failed short films and a few commercials shot for small local businesses that pitied him after weeks of constant convincing.

it was only in the past two years that he found small success, if one could call it that. after all, being a freelance video editor for small youtubers and streamers wasn’t the most glamorous of jobs, but it allowed him to quit his soul-sucking customer service jobs. and, more importantly, bought him more time and energy to focus on making his own films once again.

iv.

back at the drawing board and with the rise in the popularity of documentaries, haejoon found himself back at his roots.

of course, six year old haejoon wasn’t shooting any ground-breaking documentaries when filming himself learning how to play the piano like his mom always wanted him to – but, the idea was the same. documenting reality.

or, well, framing reality in a certain way.

it was with this in mind he found ilmyo. after weeks of trawling through news article after news article in all the small towns he could think of, it was the deaths of kim donghyun and choi goeun that reeled him into the rabbit hole that was ilmyo’s mysterious history.

there was little information to be found online and no one seemed to be talking about it outside of town, but that had been a selling point too. no one knew of ilmyo and he would be the first on the scene. the first to shed light on a dark past and help unravel a questionable mystery – and, really, wasn’t that what audiences wanted these days? intrigue and justice?

that had been enough for haejoon, who quickly packed his things and took the first bus to town the following day.

v.

now, haejoon lives in a dinky old motel situated a few blocks away from the supposedly scenic stretch of birch trees. it’s a boring town, a far cry from downtown daegu, but then so was the previous town he called home for several years. and so he’s settled in easily – as easily as a nosy, obnoxious outsider can in these suspicious times.

haejoon hasn’t bothered making his presence a secret. by now, he’s sure almost everyone knows that the outsider is making a documentary on the tragic missing persons cases, whether they like it or not. he’s made sure of it, announcing himself and his purpose to anyone who will listen, and would they care to be interviewed? it’ll be shown in the busan international film festival next year, he’s falsely promised time and again.

he knows none of them believe him, knows that most of them despise him if the glares and groans he gets when he enters a room are anything to go by. but, unsurprisingly, that hasn’t weathered him down any more than the cryptic death threats thrown his way. haejoon’s more than used to being disliked, and it was never part of his plan to stay in ilmyo for long, so who cares if he makes any friends when he’ll burn his bridges soon enough?

hawk and heron are all he cares about being friends with anyway, and it’s only with them he bothers to tone himself down. first by offering a positive light to hawk in his documentary in exchange for insider information. then by attempting to bond with heron, offering to watch each other’s backs in a kind of strange truce to investigate together and share information (albeit selectively from haejoon’s side).

but trust has been slow to build and haejoon’s been growing impatient.

with most reluctant to share anything with him, he’s resorted to taking matters into his own hands. after his own investigation in the matters and his belief in occam’s razor, he’s concluded that magpie and starling are the likely suspects. there’s no smoke without a fire, after all, and magpie and starling have too much smoke surrounding them. as far as he’s concerned, they’re guilty and the police are just too close to everyone in this small town to do anything about it when the proof is all circumstantial.

so, it wouldn’t hurt if he falsified concrete evidence, would it?

if the culprits never paid, what’s the point in all of it?

he would just be giving the closure he never received to the families of the lost ones.

vi.

but there is one thing. if this is going to be his breakout piece, he wants it done without getting his hands too dirty.

for now, haejoon’s biding his time, false evidence lying in wait in a locked safe. only time will tell if he’ll have to use it.

#hrs tern #hrs min yoongi #hrs accepted