ourladyphantom - Tumblr blog

[ourladyphantom]

"Oh God, you're gonna get it; you'll be sorry that you messed with us." - "Girls Against God" by florence and the machine

[ourladyphantom]

One of the things I see people often forget about Undertale’s Pacifist Route is that it’s… inherently Defiant. In a way, more so than the Kill Everything Route. 

Flowey is the only person who will gloat about it so explicitly but… a lot of people in the world of Undertale kinda believe this is a kill-or-be-killed world, or at least that this is a world where some problems have to be solved with violence. Pacifist Frisk is basically the only person to say “No! There has to be another way!!” and then goes ahead and proves it.

I know a lot of people are inspired to do their Pacifist Run by Toriel, and I think that this is very heartwarming - but it’s important to remember that she didn’t believe that a Pacifist Run was truly possible herself. She doesn’t like that idea, she thinks it’s a horrible thing, but she still believes this is the truth about the world.

That’s why she’s so overprotective, after all. In her mind, a battle can only end with a monster killing Frisk or with Frisk forced to kill the monster. Both equally undesirable outcomes. Her only solution is to stay by Frisk’s side as much as she can and scare away monsters with the threat of physical violence.

That’s why the combat tutorial is a bit obtuse when it comes to giving out MERCY. Toriel never explicitly explains how the Sparing mechanic works because she doesn’t really believe that it’s a good idea. A Froggit has to sort-of explain it instead. The player needs to kinda figure it out themselves to show that they are really committed to giving out MERCY and capable of thinking a bit out of the box for it. 

And the whole Boss Battle with her… Sparing her is basically about proving to her that non-violence IS worthwhile. She can only see two outcomes; either her showy-but-mostly-harmless fire attacks will scare Frisk back into safety - or Frisk IS strong enough to kill her thus proving they can FIGHT in the many battles there are to come. If you deliver the fatal blow to her, she is at peace with her death, because she feels that it’s an indication that Frisk might be able to survive what comes their way. Because “being able to kill” is the indicator for strength and survival in her mind. 

When you succeed at Sparing her, you prove to her that this is not the only form of strength. That your own Determination and conviction for non-violence is stronger than her desire to keep you in. You prove to HER that there is another way out of this fight outside of killing her. So there might be a way out of the Underground without killing anyone too. And it works, although Toriel is still clearly worried that this little nonviolent child is still doomed.

And the whole thing with Asgore’s plan (which also includes Undyne’s motivations, and every monster who aides with it by attacking Frisk) is that it relies on the idea that killing humans is the only way the Monsters could ever go free, the only way the Underground could ever have hope, the only way any of their loved ones could every be happy. And the same kinda goes the other way around. People who actually know about the Barrier works, know that the only way Frisk could ever get free themself is by killing Asgore. Either Asgore kills Frisk to let the Monsters go free, or Frisk kills Asgore and lets themself be free. Monster or human, freedom can only be won via violence. It’s kill or be killed.

Meanwhile, Mettaton wants to stop Asgore’s plan, and again, can only see it stopped in a violent struggle. Frisk isn’t a good enough fighter to stop it, and so they should die to give their SOUL up to Mettaton, who will become strong enough to kill Asgore so that he won’t kill the humans. Heck, Asgore’s and Frisk’s deaths are also part of Mettaton’s plan to become a famous Star.

(Not to mention, Asgore doesn’t see himself as deserving of Mercy. He sees death as the only suitable punishment for what he has done. So again, violence as the only solution anyone sees.)

Really the only major characters who do not see violence and killing as an answer to their problems in some way are Sans, Alphys and Papyrus.

With Sans, really the only reason why he doesn’t see violence as a solution to his problems is because he doesn’t see ANY solutions to his problems anymore. He’s not a pacifist, he’s just totally passive and lazy. And of course, the one time he DOES actually get up and does something proactive, it’s when he FIGHT in the Genocide Route. Believing that even if he can’t actually kill the Human messing around with the timeline, he can at least use violence to annoy and frustrate them into submission. (And ironically enough, knowledge of Sans’ super-powerful boss fight probably motivated more people into the Kill-Em-All Route rather than stopped them).

Alphys uses lies and deception instead of violence. Again, she still believes any encounter between Asgore and Frisk will end with one of them killing each other. And the only way she found to avoid it is to create an elaborate web of lies in the vain hopes that it could convince Frisk to not get into contact with Asgore. Her non-violent approach is very conflict-averse. The only way she finds to resolve the issue of Asgore and Frisk both forced to kill the others for their goals is to simply prevent any sort of meeting between them at all.

Papyrus is really the only not-Frisk Pacifist in the cast. But a lot of it is due to characters leave him ignorant of some of the killing-related ultimatums in the game (he doesn’t know capturing Frisk means killing them and he doesn’t know Frisk needs more than a Human SOUL to pass the Barrier). He’s a sweetheart and I love him to death, but he’s an example of Pacifism that’s really dependant on naivete. Unlike Frisk, who knows what kind of no-win situations they get into and sticks by their (empty) guns regardless. Also, despite his goals being as humble as just wanting more friends - he can only see the prestige of the Royal Guard as the way to get there. That is, in a way, a value given to Violence. (See also: his inability to understand he’s not accepted into the Royal Guard DUE to his kind and nonviolent personality, rather than a lack of power).

The world of the Underground IS fun and whimsical and full of quirky and fun people. But many of these people also believe that violence and\or killing are necessary to achieve their current goals. Most of them don’t like that idea, most of them HATE this idea - but that is still what they believe. This is the kind of world Frisk falls into. And it’s purely a result of their own personal conviction and ideals that they manage to prove them all wrong. Prove that they are determined and clever enough to figure out a way out of every “kill or be kill” scenario the Monsters around them see as inevitable.  Prove that they can find a way to fulfil the Monsters’ goal without them having to kill Frisk or anyone else. Even if it means defying time and space and facing down a God of Hyperdeath to do so.

That is what it meant to be a Pacifist in Undertale, it’s not apathy, it’s not conflict-aversion, it’s not naivete, it’s defiance.

[ourladyphantom]

Inktober 23

[ourladyphantom]

Diversity win! The man who murdered your father has six fingers on his right hand!

[ourladyphantom]

Mona Alkurd , one of the Palestinians Israel is trying to kick along with 28 families out of their decades long homes in Sheikh Al Jarrah , the last Palestinian block in Al Quds ( Jerusalem ), to complete the restriction of the area to Israeli Jews .. simply an Apartheid by settlers.

“ Your posts and tweets are treasures to us “

Here a rough translation of what she said:

“ It falls on us and Palestinians and the honorable people supporting us with posts and tweets. You have no idea how much that means to us. Everyone who shares even one short post or tweet. Don’t feel like you’re doing nothing. Those posts and tweets are treasures to us. Help us get our cause heard. We are 28 families. 500 individuals. If we are removed, then there will be no Palestinians in Al Quds. And in the end, Allah is our hope. And it falls on us. And we will remain here to our last breath defending our lands and homes”

[ourladyphantom]

Charon

    Charon was the first god I met in the underworld.

    Ada’s Vespa screeched to a halt on the Pier and I nearly slid right off the seat and onto the black marble. Ada caught me by the sleeve. “Mind yourself, now. On your feet.”

    “My legs are atrophied, though.” I wondered when color had left the world.

    “Maybe so, love, but that won’t matter here. Lack of muscle never stops the skeletons.” 

     The Pier was no Pleasure Beach. There weren’t Ferris wheels or chippy shops or arcades filled with aged automatons costing 20p each. Far away there was a single structure, from this distance small as a blipping pixel on a heart monitor.

    “Can’t…can’t I just ride with you the rest of the way?” 

    Ada folded her arms over her leather jacket. “You’ve got to do this bit alone. Charon can see the unliving no matter where we are, but he’s blindsided by the living. Stick with me and he’ll probably mark you as an intruder and off you on principle. Walk alone, and he might admire your brass and spare you.”

    “He might.” 

    “Chin up, Finley. I’ll be waiting at the boathouse. Just ahead.”

    “…where?” 

    Ada leaned down and met my eyes, hoop earrings jangling. “You’ll know it when you see it, love. Now. Up you get.”

    I stumbled to my feet, wishing I’d thought to wear socks to the underworld. Ada blew me a kiss and rode on ahead, calling back over the gentle purr of her Vespa’s spectral motor: “Keep going, Finley!”

    There wasn’t any wind. I couldn’t understand where all the wailing was coming from.  I wasn’t familiar with the Stygian tide, the whorls of souls and their cries which would later become my lullaby. I thought I might be tripping on painkillers. Maybe I’d finally snuffed it.    I shuffled along the Pier’s surface, gazing at my hollowed out reflection in the reflective obsidian. My hair had stopped growing after the last round of chemo, and the hollows in my cheeks were deep enough to plant potatoes in. But against the colorless backdrop, my brown eyes and red freckles seemed far too bright. I looked away.

    I walked for an hour, or a day, or ten years or something. I saw loads of strange, emaciated birds, perched on the pier’s railings. Some of them had human faces, the twisted faces of furious women. I trembled at the sight, but I didn’t stop. 

    Charon’s Deckhouse was a modest building, about as big as my Nan’s council flat. I suppose it did have a sort of mausoleum look to it, all pillars and stone. As promised, Ada waited on the step, biting her nails. She beamed like a spotlight when she saw me.

    “See, love? I’m always right.” 

    The Deckhouse’s door eased open on its own. The reek of sea-rot and smoke was enough to make me gasp. Ada led the way inside. “Stay behind me.”

    Charon sat in a driftwood armchair beside a strangely silent, glowing hearth. A dozen dogs lay at his feet, sprawled atop each other, their limbs entangled. I’m calling them dogs, but they can’t have been. They didn’t smell like dogs – they smelled like saline and bad sushi.     Some of them had too many heads. 

    Charon had only one head, but he too smelled like the sea. Most of the unliving I’ve met since then – skeletal reapers like Post, eagle-faced blokes like my mate Mahaf, even the harpies – they don’t look remotely human, but they don’t feel half so wrong as Charon did.

    By the flickering light, his face might almost belong to any grandfather. But his teeth were slate, his beard forged from curling steel wires, his eyes actual oil-spills. He harpooned us with his stare. On each of his shoulders sat a woman-faced bird: one was young and ginger-haired like me, but with the feathers of a red hawk. The other was older, grizzled and owl-bodied, with only one unblinking blue eye. 

    Ada didn’t buckle. She gestured for me to sit among the hounds, then placed herself firmly between me and the river god. Nodding at each of Charon’s harpies and then meeting Charon’s eyes, she cleared her throat and started pleading my case in a booming voice, like she was a goddess herself rather than a middle-aged reaper wearing purple denim overalls. I was too busy trying to avoid the not-dogs’ sea-slug tongues to listen properly. 

    Ada finished speaking. The quiet grew deep enough to drown in. 

    The younger harpy shifted on Charon’s shoulder; the older one whispered in his ear.

    “You are requesting no small thing, ankou.” Charon’s voice fluctuated from high to low, the groaning of a ship’s hull. “You say this mortal is a thing of twilight, caught between life and death. And, you say, because I am a patron of these twilight shores, I should be sympathetic to his plight. That I should let him remain among the unliving?” 

    “That’s the measure of it, old one.” 

    “I am a transporter of souls, not of their vessels. The living are not my jurisdiction; nor are the half-alive. Even the dead are not, once they pass over the dunes. The twilight shores are a waypoint, not a destination. I cannot be responsible for him.”

    “That’s fine,” Ada said, eyes flashing. “I’ll be responsible for him.” 

    The dogs growled as Charon raised his eyebrows. The blue-eyed harpy tittered like Nan used to whenever I insisted on wearing sock with holes in them. 

    Ada glared at each of them and they fell silent, cowed by the sudden sharpness of her teeth, the silver that took root in her eyes. I looked away from her, hands shaking. From the moment she’d rolled into my hospital room on Heelys, I’d fooled myself into thinking Ada was an eccentric Welsh Auntie. That she was…you know. Human.  

    “Tell me, reaper.” Charon’s face creaked as his expression shifted. “Why haven’t you done your job? Why haven’t you cut his soul from his body? It is not too late, even now. Throw the mortal from the Pier and into the soulsurf. Why deny him your gift of death?”

    “As you’ve said, his life is not your jurisdiction. And if you toss this lad into your bloody river, old man, I’ll tear the Pier down piece by piece, and do the same to you and your hounds and harpies. Bone by bone, whisker by whisker, feather by feather, gaffer.”

    Charon clicked his tongue against his teeth. The dogs clambered to their spidery feet – they all had far too many joints and ankles. They surrounded Ada and me, raising their stinking hackles, drooling river sludge through sharkish rows of teeth. The harpies did not move, but their stillness was galling.

    I should have been petrified, but I still thought I might be tripping. And thing is, there was one two-headed mutt that reminded me of Joanna’s peppery little schnauzer, Jaws. 

I tapped the hellbeast on the nose. “Enough of that. Play dead.” 

    The hound blinked at me through dumbfounded human eyes – definitely, actually human eyes, ye gods – and started spitting like a serpent.

    Charon clicked his tongue again; the hounds stilled. His expression was unreadable, but the older harpy looked livid. Ada looked like she wanted to throw me into the Styx after all.  

    “Sozz,” I said. “I’m really more of a cat person.”

    Charon’s ribs expanded and shifted like a splintering bow beneath his sealskin Mackintosh. A wheezing emanated from his throat. “Mortal. Do you think yourself amusing?”

    “Yeah, a bit. But no one else does, really.” 

    “He’s not amusing,” Ada said. “And he’s not special, not to anyone apart from me. Charon, I’ll ask again – as a personal favor – please, let him stay here.” 

    “If the Furies discover this deceit, I will be reprimanded. The boy will be obliterated.”

    “I’m aware.”

    “And still you request this, for a nothing child.”

    Ada shrugged. “I do.”

    Charon stroked his beard, letting the silver whorls bend and squeak against his fingernails. “You will owe me a favor of equal weight. And you will not refuse this favor, no matter how distasteful it may seem to you. Your loyalty to me must be greater than your loyalty to any other being, godly or otherwise.”

    “Fine by me.” Heat rose in my cheeks – Ada agreed so quickly. 

    Charon leaned back in his chair. One hound pressed an icy snout against my palm and I knew: I wasn’t tripping, I wasn’t dead, and I was in for a weird time. “If he is discovered, I shall feign ignorance.” He tilted his head. “Tell me, mortal, where do you hope to hide, where even the Furies will not find you?”

    “Um. I don’t suppose there’s a B&B nearby?”

Charon made the creaking sound again – was he laughing?

    “Don’t worry about that.” Ada grinned, revealing syringe-pointed teeth. “You’re not the only one who’s fond of mongrels, gaffer.”

[ourladyphantom]

The Queen of Snails by Mother Eagle Via Flickr: Original freehand hand embroidery, cotton, metal thread, plastic filament, carnelian and rock crystal

[ourladyphantom]

hey i haven’t seen this gofundme circulating here yet, but this is organized by the son of Hyun Jung Grant, one of the eight atlanta shooting victims.  his mother was a single mom and they don’t have any other family in the united states, so he will be raising his younger brother and organizing the funeral on his own.

please consider sharing this link and/or donating to alleviate some of the stress and in memory of his mother and the other victims in atlanta.  the original goal at this time has been met, but this family will be dealing with long-term expenses on top of the trauma they’ve suffered. 

[ourladyphantom]

the shooting in Atlanta of 8 massage parlour workers by a white man was a white supremacist hate crime and the latest in a series of attacks on Asians in the US. however, it’s also extremely important to note that the group he targeted are a community that is already more vulnerable to state violence than many, in form of police raids, deportations, and systematised stigmatisation. this is an industry that’s often conflated with and overlapping with sex work, and the industry has faced decades of criminalisation and dehumanisation, with a long history of being targeted by cops and systemic injustice along with racialised misogyny and fetishisation. they are also often excluded from conversations about the latest rise of anti-asian racism in the US, since many do not fulfill the “american” part of asian-american. 

if can donate, also consider donating to red canary song, butterfly, and swan, grassroots organisations and activists that fight for migrant and labour justice for migrant workers and sex workers.

[ourladyphantom]

Button embroidery crafts

[ourladyphantom]

sweet citrus

[ourladyphantom]

[ourladyphantom]

[ourladyphantom]

[ourladyphantom]

Humbug, doe kept from Sandstorm’s X-Files litter

[ourladyphantom]

I had an idea for a Play

It’s Hamlet 

No Stage, just a bunch of chairs and props scattered around the room, audience sits wherever they want 

A Disclaimer is given at the beginning of the play: “There Will Be Blood, and Audicence paticipation.”   “You will be expected to stand up and yell “STOP!”.”   “You’ll know when.”

Play continues as normal, but maybe with a little more Verve than usual 

Just let the actors be Real Unhinged 

Make it clear somewhere in the second act, that the actors aren’t pulling thier punches- 

Those are REAL broken noses, that’s REAL blood on the floor and those swords sure as hell aren’t blunted 

HOPEFULLY someone in the audience stands up and yells “STOP” before rosencrantz and Guildenstern are killed on stage 

From that point on, the play is Improv 

Whoever stands up is treated by the actors like another character in the play- Hamlet will try to convince them to aid his cause, Polonius to get them to Kill Hamlet, Ophelia to get her the hell out of there etc. 

The Doors Are Locked

Efforts to make them break character will be ignored, they can only be reasoned with “In Character" 

It is now up to the Audience to try and stop The Tragedy. 

 This is a terrible thearer production, a great horror movie or a fantastic prank on theater critics.

[ourladyphantom]

oh, to be the owner of a small bookshop on a cobblestone street with roses climbing the front of the building, where books are stacked about in piles and there’s always coffee brewing and a sleepy shop dog lifts his head at the sound of the door’s bell and thumps his tail against the hardwood