Tonight I might follow an NFL preseason game. For the purpose of listening to a broadcast of tonight's Colts / Patriots game, my old laptop running an outdated Linux Mint OS will identify as a desktop. I'm using this setup now to listen to the Colts Pre-Game Huddle and it's working just fine. So I'm hoping it will continue working through the Countdown to Kickoff and into the game itself.

And the adventure continues.

When walking these dirty roads, right now I pay extra attention to the small road-coloured frogs crossing the street.

There are lots of them

Even though when the cars come…

I haven’t sat down and talked deeply about my dreams again. and i wont, obviously. Nothing has really changed. i still wake up with the same fear, the same frustration, and the same sweat, staring at the ceiling as if it might explain why my own brain has decided sleep should feel like a second shift of work. frustrating. Dont get me started with these wrist restraints, i feel rather like a trapped monster. but you know, i have to sleep with them. otherwise, eventually, i might become my own worst enemy. i still cant figure out whats the deal with me in that matter, i doubt i ever will. my brain enjoys giving me problems without providing the courtesy of a conclusion. anyway, i have work to do. there are things to finish, people to bother, decisions to make and an entire company waiting for me to pretend i know what im doing. Before that, though. there is something unrelated that i have been thinking about. why do spoons always disappear? seriously, i can know exactly where a whole set of spoons is, then somehow end up with two by the next time i see them. i live in a house, not a spoon rehabilitation centre, for gods sake. Anyway, im going to work.

Sincerely, Slightly concerned.

High Fantasy Epic Sword Fighter Tournament Round 1, Fight 3

Jon Snow vs Maximus

This is a fun matchup. Jon Snow, the bastard who is secretly heir to the Iron Throne. He's defeated wildlings, white walkers, many enemy soldiers, and seems to have plot armor anytime he is near death. He's not the best warrior in the ASOIAF universe, but his resume may be among the best. He also has a Valyrian steel sword, which is nothing to scoff at. He will face off against Maximus, the general who became a slave, the slave who became a gladiator, and the gladiator who defied an emperor. In his own words “Father to a murdered son, husband to a murdered wife. And I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next”

We will have them face each other in the arena of course. The Colosseum in Rome, to be exact. Let's say its Maximus's second fight in the arena. Instead of facing Tigris of Gaul he faces Jon Snow, who happened through a portal and ended up in another universe.

---

The first thing Jon Snow noticed was the heat. One moment there had been cold air against his face and hard northern earth beneath his boots. Then the world had torn open in front of him in a shimmer of impossible light, and Jon had stumbled through with Longclaw already in his hand. Now sunlight hammered down from a cloudless sky. Sand replaced earth beneath his boots. An enormous wall of stone rose around him, tier after tier disappearing upward beneath tens of thousands of screaming people. Jon turned slowly, utterly bewildered. The roar grew louder when the crowd saw his black clothes, his mail, the pale wolf's-head pommel of his sword. Somewhere above him trumpets sounded. Jon looked back toward the place where the portal had been. There was nothing there.

Across the arena, another gate opened. Maximus Decimus Meridius stepped into the sunlight. Rome recognized him immediately. The Spaniard had already survived his first appearance in the Colosseum, turning what should have been a massacre into victory and humiliating the emperor before the entire city. The crowd began chanting for him before the gate had fully closed. Maximus carried a gladius and a large Roman shield, with armor appropriate for the arena protecting his torso and shoulders. He stopped when he saw Jon. This was clearly not the opponent he had been promised. There were no tigers. No mounted gladiator. No Tigris of Gaul. Just a young man dressed almost entirely in black holding a sword unlike anything Maximus had ever seen.

Jon stared back. The man approaching him looked more familiar than everything else in this nightmare. Soldier. That much was obvious. Older than Jon, perhaps twice his age, powerfully built without being enormous, carrying himself with the quiet economy of someone who had spent most of his life around weapons. Jon had known men like him at the Wall. Men who did not need to boast because everyone around them already knew what they could do. The chanting meant nothing to Jon, but he understood what the crowd wanted. He glanced toward the sealed gate behind him, then toward Maximus. “I don't want to fight you.” Maximus stopped perhaps twenty feet away. He understood none of the words. Jon sighed. “Of course you don't speak the Common Tongue.”

The signal sounded. Neither moved. The crowd booed. Maximus looked toward the imperial box, then back at Jon. He had already learned exactly how much value Rome placed upon what he wanted. He raised his shield. Jon understood. Longclaw came into guard. The crowd immediately changed its mind and roared approval.

Maximus advanced first. Jon circled away, studying him. Maximus kept the shield between them and gave Jon very little to attack. Jon had fought men with shields before, but there was something different about this one. Maximus did not hold it passively. The shield moved constantly, controlling the space in front of him while the short sword remained almost invisible behind it. Jon had the longer weapon and intended to keep it that way. He stepped forward suddenly and cut toward Maximus's head. The shield intercepted Longclaw with a tremendous crack. Maximus immediately thrust beneath it. Jon jerked backward and felt the gladius scrape across his mail.

Jon countered with another cut. Maximus blocked. Jon changed direction and attacked the leg. Maximus pulled it away. The gladius flashed toward Jon's stomach. Longclaw knocked it aside. They separated. Neither had landed anything meaningful, but both men looked at the other differently now. Jon had expected strength and discipline. He had not expected Maximus to be that fast. Maximus had expected the young stranger's long sword to be cumbersome. It wasn't.

They came together again. Jon used Longclaw's reach aggressively, throwing cuts from outside the comfortable range of the gladius and forcing Maximus to defend as he advanced. Maximus accepted it. He had spent years fighting men with spears, swords, axes and weapons from every corner of the empire. Reach was a problem until you got past it. Jon struck high. Maximus caught the blow on his shield and surged forward behind it. The shield slammed into Jon's chest and sent him stumbling backward. Maximus followed instantly, stabbing toward the belly. Jon twisted. The gladius punched through black cloth and scraped along his mail rather than entering flesh. Jon brought Longclaw's pommel down against Maximus's shoulder and kicked him away.

The crowd loved it. They had no idea who Jon Snow was, but Rome understood a fighter. Jon heard the sound rolling down from every direction and hated them for it. Maximus barely seemed to notice. That bothered Jon more. The man was completely at home inside the violence. Jon had fought wildlings, assassins, knights, Thenns, wights and White Walkers. He had fought in battles where men were crushed together so tightly there had been no room to swing a sword. But Maximus had something Jon recognized from the very best veterans of the Night's Watch. Nothing happening here was new to him.

Jon attacked harder. Longclaw struck the shield once, then again. Maximus absorbed both impacts. Jon feinted a third and instead stepped sideways, cutting around the shield toward Maximus's exposed sword arm. The Valyrian steel opened flesh above the elbow. Maximus recoiled. Jon pressed him immediately. Longclaw came down toward his shoulder. Maximus barely caught it on the upper edge of his shield. Jon wrenched the blade free and thrust toward his face. Maximus twisted aside. The point sliced his cheek. Blood appeared.

Maximus retreated three steps. Jon stopped. For a fraction of a second, the crowd quieted. Maximus touched the blood on his cheek and looked at his fingers. Then he looked at Jon. There was no anger in his face. If anything, Jon saw approval. Maximus had learned something important. The young man wasn't merely trained. He was dangerous.

Maximus changed tactics. He stopped pursuing Jon directly and began moving laterally, forcing Jon to turn beneath the Roman sun. Jon followed without realizing what was happening at first. Maximus advanced, withdrew, advanced again. Each time Jon committed to a heavy attack, the shield met him. Each time Jon tried to circle, Maximus made him move farther. Sand shifted beneath Jon's unfamiliar boots. Sweat ran down his face. The black clothes that had kept him alive in the North were becoming an oven. Maximus was hot too, but this was his world. He understood exactly how much effort he was spending.

Jon eventually recognized the strategy. “Clever bastard.” Maximus obviously did not understand, but he smiled slightly anyway. Jon stopped chasing him. Now Maximus had to come. The Roman advanced behind his shield. Jon waited. Maximus stepped into range and Jon exploded forward. Longclaw came down with both hands. Maximus raised his shield. Jon had expected it. He changed the stroke at the last instant and drove Longclaw horizontally into the shield's edge instead. The Valyrian steel bit deeply into the wood. Maximus tried to wrench the shield sideways and trap the blade. Jon let go with one hand, stepped forward and punched him in the face. Maximus staggered. Jon ripped Longclaw free.

The next cut tore across Maximus's chest armor. The next struck the shield. Jon kicked the damaged shield hard and forced Maximus backward. Longclaw came toward his neck. Maximus ducked beneath it and drove forward. The gladius entered Jon's side. Jon gasped. Maximus ripped it free. Jon stumbled backward with one hand pressed against the wound. Blood seeped between his fingers. The crowd erupted. Maximus followed, knowing immediately that he had finally landed the kind of wound that ended fights. Jon barely caught the next strike. Maximus hit him with the shield. Jon fell to one knee. The gladius came down.

Longclaw met it. Jon held the Roman blade inches from his face. Maximus pushed downward. Jon's wounded side screamed. For a moment Maximus's greater leverage from above began forcing Longclaw toward Jon's throat. Jon suddenly stopped resisting. He rolled sideways. Maximus's sword struck sand. Jon came up on one knee and swung Longclaw with both hands. Maximus threw the shield into the path of the blade. Longclaw struck near the damaged edge. The shield split. A section of wood and leather tore away. Maximus stared at it for half a heartbeat. He had never seen a sword do that.

Jon attacked. Now the reach mattered enormously. Maximus's shield was compromised and Jon knew it. Longclaw cut toward his shoulder. Maximus blocked with what remained of the shield. Another strike nearly tore it from his arm. Maximus abandoned it entirely, throwing it toward Jon and rushing behind it. Jon knocked the shield aside. Maximus was already inside his guard. The gladius thrust toward Jon's chest. Jon turned. The blade scraped across his ribs. Longclaw was too long to swing properly at this distance. Maximus knew it. He grabbed Jon's sword arm with his free hand and drove his forehead into Jon's face. Jon staggered. Maximus struck him again. Jon dropped to one knee. Maximus raised the gladius.

Jon caught his wrist. The two men grappled in the sand. This was Maximus's fight. He was stronger, older, and vastly more experienced at exactly this kind of ugly close-range struggle. He drove Jon backward and forced the gladius toward his throat. Jon held the wrist with both hands. The point descended slowly. Jon could see every scratch along the Roman blade. Then Jon released one hand. Maximus drove downward. Jon caught Longclaw's hilt. He had never let go of it. There was no room for a proper stroke, so Jon didn't make one. He drove the pommel into Maximus's temple. Once. Twice. Maximus's grip weakened. Jon shoved him away and scrambled backward.

Both men rose almost simultaneously. Maximus swayed slightly. Blood ran from Jon's side. Neither had a shield now. Nothing remained between them except two swords and several yards of sand. The crowd was on its feet. Maximus did not attack. That surprised Jon. He had expected the Roman to come immediately, to try once again to force his way inside Longclaw's reach. Instead Maximus backed away. Jon watched him suspiciously. Maximus circled. Jon followed. Maximus stepped forward, inviting an attack, and Jon gave him one. Longclaw cut toward his shoulder. Maximus retreated just beyond it. Jon attacked again. The gladius deflected the blade and Maximus withdrew. Jon followed. Longclaw came around a third time. Maximus slipped away. The crowd began to boo, but Maximus ignored them completely.

Jon understood what he was doing. The realization did not help. His wounded side was bleeding steadily. His thigh ached. His mouth was dry. Sweat poured beneath his mail and soaked the black wool beneath it. Every breath of Roman air seemed hotter than the last. Longclaw had felt almost weightless when the fight began. Now even Valyrian steel was becoming heavy. Maximus watched all of it. Jon stopped pursuing him. Maximus immediately stepped forward and attacked. Jon parried. Maximus withdrew before Jon could counter. Jon reset his guard. Maximus came again. Another short exchange, another retreat. He was not trying to kill Jon. Not yet. He was making Jon work.

Minutes passed. Jon's breathing became audible even beneath the roar of the Colosseum. Maximus's breathing was heavy too, but controlled. He had fought campaigns beneath harsher suns than this. He understood exhaustion as intimately as he understood a sword. He knew what men looked like one minute before their legs began betraying them. Jon knew it too. That was the worst part. “Come on,” Jon growled. Maximus didn't understand the words. He understood the invitation. He refused it.

Jon attacked out of frustration. Longclaw swept toward Maximus's head. Maximus ducked and retreated. Jon followed with another cut. Maximus parried. A third came slower than the first two. Maximus saw it. He stepped inside and punched Jon hard in the wounded ribs. Jon cried out. Maximus retreated again. Jon nearly went after him. Then stopped. The crowd screamed around them. Jon stood in the center of the arena, sword lowered slightly, chest heaving. Maximus stood perhaps fifteen feet away. For the first time, Jon understood exactly how the fight was going to end.

Maximus came forward. Jon raised Longclaw. The Roman feinted toward his wounded side. Jon reacted too strongly, bringing the sword across to protect it. Maximus changed direction. The gladius struck Longclaw near the hilt and knocked it outward. Jon recovered quickly enough to avoid the thrust that followed, but his foot slipped in the churned sand. Only slightly. At the beginning of the fight, it would not have mattered. Now it did. Maximus crashed into him.

They hit the ground together. Jon tried to roll away, but Maximus stayed on him. Longclaw became trapped beneath Jon's body. Maximus drove a knee onto his sword arm and struck him across the face. Jon grabbed Maximus by the throat with his free hand and tried to throw him off. Earlier, he might have managed it. There was nothing left. Maximus knocked the hand aside. Jon saw the gladius. He twisted desperately as it came down. The blade missed his throat and entered beneath his collarbone. Jon gasped. Maximus pulled it free.

Jon still fought. He punched Maximus in the jaw. He tore his sword arm loose. His fingers found Longclaw. Maximus caught his wrist before he could bring it around. For several seconds they strained against one another. Then Jon's strength gave out. Not suddenly. Not dramatically. His arm simply stopped moving. Maximus saw it. Jon saw that he saw it. The gladius entered beneath Jon's ribs. Maximus drove it upward. Jon's body stiffened. The roar of the Colosseum seemed to become very distant.

Maximus held him for a moment, then carefully withdrew the blade. Jon rolled onto his back. Longclaw slipped from his fingers and landed beside him in the sand. Maximus remained kneeling. Jon stared upward into a sky that was impossibly blue. There was no snow. No Wall. No Ghost. No cold wind from beyond the edge of the world. Just heat and sunlight and the distant faces of thousands of strangers. Maximus looked down at him. Jon tried to say something. No sound came. Maximus placed one hand against Jon's shoulder. The young man's breathing stopped.

For several seconds Maximus remained there while Rome screamed around him. Then he looked down at Longclaw. He picked up the strange sword, felt its astonishing lightness, and understood immediately why it had been so dangerous. He laid it across Jon's chest. Maximus stood. The crowd roared his name. He did not acknowledge them.

Winner: Maximus Decimus Meridius.

High Fantasy Epic Sword Fighter Tournament Round 1, Fight 2

Jamie Lannister vs Boromir

Neither of these guys are cut out to win the tournament, that much is clear, but they are both legendary fighters in their own regard. Lannister is arguably the greatest living sword fighter at the start of Game of Thrones, before he loses his hand. Boromir is a legendary warrior of Gondor, eldest son of the Steward of Gondor and, if it hadn't been for Aragorn, next in line. The rings corruption brought him down, but he did have an epic fight scene against elite Uruk Hai. These two are pretty evenly matched. We will have them meet in the throne room in front of the Iron Throne, but it is really purgatory. Both are punished for their past sins and forced to fight.

---

The throne room was empty. No Kingsguard stood beneath the towering columns. No courtiers whispered from the galleries. No king sat upon the monstrous chair of twisted swords at the far end of the hall. Even the torches seemed reluctant to disturb the silence. Jaime Lannister stood beneath the Iron Throne and stared up at it for a long moment. Of course. Of all the places in all the worlds, whoever had arranged this little punishment had a sense of humor. He had killed one king in this room and been despised for it ever since. Now he had been brought back to fight for his life beneath the throne of the man he had slain.

At the opposite end of the hall stood Boromir of Gondor. He understood the joke too. The place was unfamiliar, but the purpose was not. Boromir had died defending the very companions he had betrayed, three arrows in his body and a sword still in his hand, but apparently death had not satisfied whatever power judged such things. He had tried to take the Ring from Frodo. For that moment of weakness, he had been brought here. Jaime looked across the empty hall at the tall man with the shield and broad-bladed sword. Boromir looked back at the golden-haired knight standing before the throne. Neither needed the punishment explained. “So,” Jaime said, drawing his sword, “what did you do?” Boromir's expression hardened. “I betrayed the trust of a friend.” Jaime considered that. “That's all?” Boromir drew his sword. Jaime smiled. “You'd hate it here.”

They approached one another slowly. Boromir carried his shield forward, sword held behind it, his stance compact and disciplined. Jaime wore the armor of the Kingsguard and carried a longsword in both hands. He immediately disliked the shield. Shields made fights tedious. Worse, Boromir knew how to use his. He wasn't hiding behind it. He was presenting it as a moving obstacle, changing angles as he advanced and denying Jaime an easy line to his body. Jaime moved lightly around him, measuring distance, watching his feet. Boromir saw the casual confidence and recognized it for what it was. He had seen men swagger before battle. This was different. Jaime Lannister was relaxed because Jaime Lannister genuinely did not believe Boromir could kill him.

Jaime attacked first. His opening cut came almost lazily toward Boromir's shoulder. Boromir raised his shield. Jaime's blade changed direction halfway through the stroke and snapped toward his thigh. Boromir barely turned the sword aside. Jaime was already moving. A thrust came toward Boromir's face, followed by a cut toward the sword arm, then another toward the knee. Boromir gave ground beneath a sudden storm of steel. Jaime never seemed to finish one attack before beginning another. The sword moved as naturally as another limb. Boromir caught a cut on his shield and countered hard. Jaime slipped backward, the blade passing inches from his chest. The smile disappeared from Jaime's face.

Boromir came after him. Jaime parried the first strike and immediately understood that this was not going to be the fight he had expected. The impact jolted through his sword and into his shoulders. Boromir struck again. Jaime redirected rather than blocked it. The third blow crashed against Jaime's blade and drove him backward a step. Boromir was stronger than any man Jaime could remember fighting. Not Gregor Clegane's grotesque strength, perhaps, but something more useful: controlled, athletic power attached to a swordsman who knew precisely what he was doing. Jaime retreated, and Boromir pursued. The shield came forward suddenly. Jaime twisted aside, but its iron-bound edge clipped his shoulder and sent him stumbling. Boromir's sword followed. Jaime caught it desperately, turned it away, and answered with a slash that rang against Boromir's shield. Boromir shoved the weapon aside and attacked again. Jaime ducked beneath the cut and drove his shoulder into Boromir's chest. It was like colliding with a gate. Boromir staggered half a step. Jaime bounced backward nearly two. “Seven hells,” Jaime muttered. Boromir almost smiled.

That was when Jaime became dangerous. The arrogance remained, but the playfulness vanished. He began circling again, forcing Boromir to turn. Jaime stopped trying to batter through the shield and began attacking everything around it. A cut toward Boromir's ankle. A thrust toward his sword hand. A feint high followed by a slash beneath the shield. Boromir blocked two and avoided the third, but Jaime's fourth attack slipped through and cut across his upper arm. Boromir answered immediately, his sword crashing against Jaime's breastplate hard enough to dent it. Jaime stumbled away, breathing sharply.

For several minutes they fought across the throne room. The enormous chamber magnified every impact. Steel rang beneath the vaulted ceiling. Boots scraped across stone. Their breathing grew louder. Jaime gradually learned that Boromir's shield could be manipulated. If he threatened the face, Boromir raised it slightly. If he attacked low twice in succession, Boromir anticipated a third. Jaime began building sequences not to land the first strike, or the second, but the fifth. Boromir learned something too. Jaime's greatest defense was not his armor or his sword. It was distance. He possessed an almost supernatural instinct for knowing exactly how far an enemy's blade could reach. Again and again Boromir's sword passed a finger's width from Jaime's body while Jaime remained perfectly positioned to counter. Jaime was enjoying himself now. “You're very good,” he said between exchanges. Boromir drove him backward with a shield strike. “You speak too much.” “I've been told.” Boromir swung. Jaime slipped outside the stroke. “So have you.”

Jaime's sword struck Boromir across the ribs. Mail stopped most of it, but blood appeared beneath the torn surcoat. Boromir grunted and smashed his shield into Jaime's face. Jaime fell backward, blood pouring immediately from his nose. Boromir stepped forward to finish him. Jaime rolled as the sword struck stone beside his head. He kicked Boromir's knee, scrambled upright and barely raised his sword before another blow arrived. The duel had stopped being elegant. They crashed against one of the great columns. Jaime's sword became trapped between their bodies. Boromir seized him by the shoulder and hurled him to the floor. Jaime rolled onto his back and Boromir's boot struck his ribs. Armor absorbed some of it. Not enough. Jaime gasped. Boromir raised his sword with both hands. Jaime threw himself sideways. The blade struck the floor. Jaime's sword flashed upward and opened Boromir's thigh.

Boromir staggered. Jaime surged to his feet and attacked with terrifying speed. Boromir raised his shield. Jaime struck it once, twice, three times—not trying to penetrate it, but forcing Boromir backward. The fourth attack never came. Instead Jaime stepped around the shield and thrust directly at Boromir's throat. Boromir jerked his head aside. The point carved a bloody line along his neck. Boromir responded by punching Jaime in the face with the rim of the shield. Jaime collapsed.

For a moment neither moved. Boromir leaned against his shield, blood running from his neck, arm and thigh. Jaime lay several yards away beneath the shadow of the Iron Throne, blinking through blood. He spat a broken tooth onto the floor. “I think,” Jaime said, pushing himself upright, “I'm beginning to dislike you.” “You need not like me.” “No. That's usually my brother's job.”

They came together again. This time Jaime did not retreat from Boromir's strength. He attacked into it. Boromir swung and Jaime caught the blade at an angle, allowing the force to slide past him. Jaime struck Boromir's shield, then deliberately let his sword remain against it for a fraction of a second. Boromir pushed outward to clear the weapon. Jaime had been waiting for exactly that. He stepped inside the shield. His pommel smashed into Boromir's mouth. Boromir reeled, and Jaime drove his knee into the wounded thigh. Boromir dropped to one knee. Jaime's sword came toward his neck. Boromir caught Jaime's wrist.

Jaime's eyes widened. Boromir stood. He lifted Jaime's sword arm away from his neck through sheer strength and drove his forehead into Jaime's face. Jaime staggered. Boromir shoved him backward, recovered his sword and attacked. Jaime parried. Boromir struck again. Jaime parried again. A third blow drove Jaime backward. A fourth nearly knocked the sword from his hands. Then Boromir made his mistake. He believed he had Jaime overwhelmed. Boromir committed fully to a great downward stroke meant to split Jaime from shoulder to chest. Jaime appeared trapped against the steps of the Iron Throne. There was nowhere left to retreat. So Jaime didn't.

He stepped forward. Boromir's sword came down. Jaime twisted sideways, and the blade scraped across his pauldron instead of his skull. At the same instant Jaime brought his own sword upward beneath Boromir's extended arm. The point entered beneath the mail at Boromir's armpit. Jaime drove it deep. Boromir stopped. For several seconds the two men remained pressed together, almost embracing, Boromir's sword hanging uselessly behind Jaime's back. Jaime looked into his eyes. The confidence was gone from his face. There was only exhaustion.

Boromir released his sword. It struck the floor. Jaime withdrew his blade. Boromir stumbled backward and dropped to one knee. Blood poured beneath his arm. He tried to rise. His leg failed him. Jaime stood several feet away, sword ready, but did not attack. Boromir looked past him at the Iron Throne. “Was he worth killing?” Jaime's expression changed. “The king.” For once there was no joke. “Yes.” Boromir nodded slowly. “Then perhaps that was not your betrayal.” Jaime stared at him. Boromir toppled onto his side.

The throne room became silent again. Jaime remained where he was for a long time. Eventually he walked over and knelt beside Boromir. There was no breath. Jaime closed the man's eyes, then stood painfully and looked back toward the Iron Throne. “Bloody purgatory,” he muttered.

Winner: Jaime Lannister.

High Fantasy Epic Sword Fighter Tournament Round 1, Fight 1

Aragorn vs Duncan MacLeod

So we've got Aragorn, gigachad of the Middle Earth. He's an exceptional warrior and ranger, heir to the throne of Gondor, and has killed countless orcs, goblins and even a troll in single combat. Most impressively, he managed to fight off the ring wraiths himself. His bloodlines grant him a dramatically longer lifespan and he sparks fear into even the dark lord himself.

Duncan MacLeod is actually immortal. He has defeated countless other immortals in sword combat and can only be killed by decapitation. His swordplay is legendary and has been honed for centuries. He is a gentlemen, scholar, noble and fierce warrior.

We will have these two legends fight at the top of Minas Tirith, in the courtyard, to the death.

---

The Court of the Fountain had rarely been so quiet. Soldiers of Gondor stood three and four deep beneath the pale stone walls, leaving a broad circle around the White Tree. Beyond them, Minas Tirith fell away in successive rings toward the Pelennor, and far beyond the walls the mountains cut a dark line across the horizon. No man in the crowd spoke. They had come to watch their king fight. Aragorn stood near the center of the courtyard with Andúril held comfortably before him, point angled toward the ground. He wore mail beneath his surcoat and carried no shield. Across from him, Duncan MacLeod drew his katana and rolled his shoulders once. The Highlander looked almost casual, but Aragorn recognized the deception immediately. This was not a man posturing before a duel. MacLeod's feet were already positioned correctly. His eyes stayed on Aragorn's chest rather than his sword. He was waiting.

For several seconds, neither moved. Duncan finally smiled. “Well?” Aragorn answered by attacking. There was nothing tentative about it. He crossed the distance with startling speed and brought Andúril down in a two-handed diagonal cut that Duncan caught with his katana. The impact wiped the smile from MacLeod's face. He disengaged immediately rather than contest Aragorn's strength, sliding sideways as Andúril came around again. Duncan parried, countered toward the neck, and found Aragorn's blade already there. Steel cracked against steel. The next few seconds told both men almost everything they needed to know.

Duncan was faster with his hands. His katana moved economically, transitioning from defense to attack with movements polished by centuries of repetition. Aragorn was stronger. Not overwhelmingly so, but enough that Duncan could feel every direct parry driving through his wrists and shoulders. More importantly, Aragorn was not merely a powerful swordsman. Duncan tried a feint toward the hip, reversed toward the head, and found Andúril waiting. He changed rhythm. Aragorn changed with him. Duncan backed away. Aragorn followed.

The soldiers began murmuring as Duncan yielded ground around the White Tree. To them it looked as though their king was driving the stranger before him. Duncan knew better. He was learning. He had fought European longswords before. He had fought knights, mercenaries, soldiers, duelists, Highland clansmen and Immortals from civilizations Aragorn had never heard of. Aragorn's style contained things Duncan recognized, but it was not reducible to any of them. There was none of the rigidity Duncan sometimes exploited in formally trained swordsmen. Aragorn had spent too much of his life fighting things that did not duel properly.

Duncan suddenly stopped retreating. Andúril came horizontally toward his ribs. Duncan slipped inside the arc, knocked the blade upward and cut. The katana opened Aragorn's left forearm. A hiss went through the crowd. Aragorn withdrew two steps and looked at the blood running toward his hand. Duncan gave him no time to consider it. Now the Highlander attacked. The change was dramatic. Duncan's blade flickered toward Aragorn's face, shoulder, thigh, then face again. Aragorn blocked the first three and twisted away from the fourth, losing a few strands of hair. Duncan stepped after him and struck again. Aragorn caught it, but Duncan disengaged before Andúril's greater mass could trap his weapon. Another cut slipped past Aragorn's guard and scraped across his mail.

Duncan saw the opening and committed. It was a mistake. Aragorn stepped into the attack. His shoulder crashed into Duncan's chest. Duncan staggered backward, and Aragorn struck him across the face with the pommel of Andúril. Duncan reeled. Aragorn followed with a kick that sent him sprawling onto the white stone. Andúril descended. Duncan rolled. The blade struck stone hard enough to throw a spark. Duncan came to his feet with blood pouring from his mouth and laughed once. “All right.” Aragorn did not laugh.

They came together again. This time there was no feeling-out process. Duncan understood that Aragorn's superior strength could end the fight if he allowed himself to be trapped at close quarters; Aragorn understood that Duncan's speed and extraordinary experience made a prolonged technical exchange increasingly dangerous. Their swords met again and again as they circled the fountain. Duncan began doing something Aragorn found unsettling. He adapted. A maneuver worked once and never again. Aragorn forced Duncan backward with a sequence of heavy cuts; the next time he attempted it, Duncan stepped laterally halfway through and countered. Aragorn changed the angle of his guard; Duncan began attacking the transition. Duncan had lived for centuries, and all those years were beginning to show.

But Duncan was discovering something equally unpleasant. Aragorn adapted too. Not with the accumulated library of experience Duncan possessed, but with extraordinary instinct. He watched Duncan's shoulders. He learned which movements preceded the Highlander's fastest cuts. He began deliberately leaving openings Duncan had exploited earlier, only to close them when Duncan committed. One such trap nearly ended it. Duncan saw Aragorn's right side exposed and drove forward. Aragorn pivoted. Andúril punched through Duncan's abdomen and emerged from his back.

The courtyard erupted. Duncan's katana fell from his hand. For the first time, Aragorn's expression softened. He caught Duncan as the Highlander's legs failed beneath him and lowered him to the stones rather than allowing him to fall. Duncan stared up at him. “You're good,” he managed. “You fought with honor.” Duncan almost smiled. Aragorn pulled Andúril free. Duncan collapsed.

The soldiers of Gondor cheered. Aragorn wiped Andúril clean and turned away. Behind him, Duncan MacLeod opened his eyes. The first warning Aragorn received was not sight or sound. It was instinct. He turned. Duncan's katana struck Andúril with enough force to knock Aragorn sideways. The cheering stopped. Aragorn stared at him. Duncan's torn clothing was still soaked with blood. The wound beneath it was gone. There were very few things that could genuinely shock Aragorn anymore. This qualified.

Duncan attacked before he could process it. The Highlander had learned from their first fight. He no longer worried about wounds. Aragorn slashed his thigh; Duncan ignored it. Andúril cut across his ribs; Duncan continued forward. Aragorn drove the pommel into his jaw, but Duncan accepted the blow to land a cut across Aragorn's shoulder. The entire geometry of the duel had changed. Aragorn had spent his life fighting creatures difficult to kill. He understood regeneration. He understood unnatural endurance. But he did not yet understand this.

So he tested it. He drove Andúril through Duncan's chest. Duncan grabbed the blade with his bare hand and punched Aragorn in the face. Aragorn ripped it free and retreated. Duncan's hand healed. Now Aragorn understood enough. Not everything—but enough. “You cannot die.” Duncan wiped blood from his lip. “It's complicated.” For the first time in the fight, Aragorn smiled faintly. “Then I shall have to be thorough.” Duncan's expression changed.

That was the moment the Highlander realized his advantage had a weakness. Aragorn didn't know the Rule. But Aragorn had spent decades hunting creatures whose weaknesses he didn't know. They fought again, and this time Aragorn stopped trying to inflict conventional mortal wounds. He attacked Duncan's joints. His hands. His legs. Most importantly, his neck. Duncan immediately recognized what was happening. The Highlander's aggression vanished. Now he was defending.

Andúril swept toward his throat. Duncan ducked. Another cut followed from below, forcing him backward toward the fountain. Duncan countered and cut Aragorn across the ribs, but Aragorn barely acknowledged it. The king had solved the puzzle. Not completely. But close enough. Duncan desperately changed tactics. He allowed Aragorn to pursue him toward the edge of the courtyard where the crowd opened before them. He suddenly kicked over a spear resting against the wall, sending its shaft rolling beneath Aragorn's foot.

Aragorn stumbled. Duncan attacked instantly. The katana struck Andúril aside. Duncan's second cut opened Aragorn's side. The third came for his neck. Aragorn barely blocked it. Duncan kicked him backward and raised the katana for the finishing blow. Aragorn seized Duncan's wrist with his wounded left hand. For a moment they stood almost chest to chest, Duncan trying to wrench his sword free while Aragorn held him with frightening strength. Then Aragorn headbutted him.

Duncan staggered. Andúril flashed. Duncan's katana spun across the courtyard. He looked down. His right hand was still wrapped around its hilt. It was no longer attached to him. Duncan looked back at Aragorn. “Oh, hell.” Aragorn stepped forward. Duncan lunged desperately with his remaining hand, trying to tackle him. Aragorn sidestepped. Andúril swept through the air in one clean, two-handed stroke. Duncan MacLeod's head struck the white stones and rolled to a stop.

Silence. Aragorn remained standing with Andúril extended, breathing heavily. Blood ran down his arm and side. He looked from Duncan's body to the severed head, waiting. Nothing happened. Only then did Aragorn lower his sword. The soldiers erupted. Aragorn did not celebrate, he was saddened. He had never faced a talent such as this before, and he may never again. What a waste.

Winner: Aragorn

Today's MLB Game in the Roscoe-verse starts within the hour. The Chicago Cubs and Washington Nationals are scheduled to start play at 3:05 PM CDT. As I usually do I'll follow the game's scores and stats in real time via MLB's Gameday Service where we can also find links to the radio-call of the game provided by announcers of either team we choose.

And the adventure continues.

The mayor of Boston, whoever they are, always faces a difficult choice: do you serve the people who live and vote in the city, or do you serve the people who use the city for work and entertainment?

Obviously the mayor needs to take the needs of the suburbanites who use the city into account, but their top priority should be the residents of the city who voted for them, and when the interests of residents and non-residents are different, the mayor should side with residents.

Sadly, this hasn’t really ever been the case since I’ve lived in Boston. St. Thomas of Menino was primarily interested in serving real estate developers, which is why the soulless, sterile Seaport is Menino’s baby and also probably why he illegally shredded a bunch of his official records before he left office.

Marty Walsh was an easy mark for seemingly every con artist who wanted our money and spent his administration trying to give it away to GE, to the IOC, and to some shady dude who was supposedly organizing an Indy Car race in Boston. Thwarted in all these efforts, he then disengaged and started looking for other jobs.

Kim Janey…well who knows? Despite having 60 days notice that she was going to step in to the Mayor’s job when Walsh left to become Secretary of Labor, she was unable to put forward any plans or priorities and seemed utterly unprepared for the job and lost the election after only two months in office.

And then there’s Michelle Wu, who I really believed was going to focus on making Boston more livable, and who did some of that in her first term but now seems determined to do nothing at all until 2030 when she can run for Senator or Governor, and the suburbanites who vote in those elections won’t resent her for making their drive in from Canton a little less speedy.

I think running on a record of not doing much is not a great electoral strategy, but what do I know? I didn’t go to Harvard.

She’s given up on road safety for anyone but people in cars. We’re past day 500 of her 30-day pause in the safe streets program. The new Chief of Streets expects us to be happy about 5 miles of bike lanes being added in 2026. For comparison, that’s about the length of Dorchester Avenue. One street in a city of 10,000 streets. So calling 5 miles of bike lanes a drop in the bucket is really an insult to actual drops in buckets. Note that safe streets means safety for people on foot as well. Most people spend part of their commute walking to and from the T or to and from their parking places, but we still act like people walking are some weird niche market and that it’s okay to murder them with your car. Good luck out there, people!

But all of that is just for context. Let’s talk about another way in which the city is failing its residents: Franklin Park. Franklin Park is the largest park in Boston, the Olmsted-designed “jewel of the Emerald Necklace.” (Yes, emeralds are jewels, so the nickname is redundant. I dunno what to tell you. Just consider it charming and let it go.) It borders Roxbury, Dorchester, and Jamaica Plain. It’s not a tourist destination; it’s merely a beautiful, underutilized, neglected 527-acre park that is beloved by the communities that surround it.

And there are two big things going on in the park at the moment. The first and biggest is the reconstruction of White Stadium with a view to having Boston Legacy, our new NWSL team, play there. The second is the muli-year Franklin Park Action Plan.

Let’s begin with the stadium, a project I supported because the stadium has been a dump for 30 years and nobody ever did anything about it. My son played high school soccer there and it was gross and uncomfortable for fans and actively unsafe for players. Oh yeah, and half of the stadium couldn’t be used because it was structurally unsound after a fire.

I know some of the folks involved in anti-stadium-reconstruction activism. They have a deep suspicion of public-private partnerships, which is entirely fair, and also a desire to keep Franklin Park their little secret that is not widely used, which is entirely unfair. (There was also some racist grumbling at the beginning about the process—Michelle Wu rammed the project through and had some folks complaining she was running the city “like China.” And may I once again plead with bigots to do some research on the political implications of being from Taiwan, as Michelle Wu’s family is, versus being from mainland China. Thanks. But also stop being racist.)

I think anything that brings more people to the park is a good thing, and I supported the project with some reservations. Mostly that we already had an NWSL team in Boston called the Breakers. They played in Harvard Stadium, which was hard to access by public transportation and had inadequate parking, and they eventually went under. Though the new White Stadium will be nice, it is also hard to access by public transportation and has inadequate parking.

Still, I figured this would get the city to pay attention to the park and would ultimately be good for us in the neighborhoods surrounding the park. But as demolition and construction have gone on, I’ve noticed that none of the traffic stuff promised for the construction process (all still visible here) has actually happened:

Walnut Avenue: Closed to construction vehicles and reserved for local residents. Construction traffic will use designated access points to minimize congestion.

Neighborhood Traffic Calming Adjustments:

• Temporary shift of the center line between #435 Walnut Ave & Iffley Rd to create temporary, wider travel lanes for heavy duty trucks.
• Temporary one-way conversion of Peter Parley Road from Forest Hills St. to Walnut Ave.
• Local access only to Glen Rd and Sigourney St, Robeson St, Peter Parley Rd and Iffley Rd. Additional signage will be deployed to keep through traffic on Forest Hills Street and Washington Street.

No community meetings, no updates. They just never did it. Maybe there were good reasons for this. Maybe not. But I now have a lot more sympathy with my neighbors who opposed the project because they didn’t believe the city was capable of being honest about its intentions.

Which brings us to the Franklin Park Action Plan. This came about because a developer wanted to use the location of a dilapidated parking garage in Downtown Boston to build a luxury residential tower for the super wealthy to use as a tax dodge/money laundering scheme. I guess maybe some rich people actually live there as well, but that’s not what this kind of building is really for. The problem was that the new tower would cast a shadow on Boston Common, which is against the law in Boston, so Walsh negotiated a deal: we’ll let you throw literal shade on our public space if you give us 25 million dollars to use on a different public space.

So landscape architecture firms were hired, and the city paid them handsomely: Reed Hilderbrand got $925k of public money; Agency Landscape + Planning got $500k, and I can’t find out how much MASS Design Group got paid, but I think it’s safe to say the total cost of producing the plan was around 2 million bucks. I guess this includes the community meetings I endured, with lots of powerpoint slides and “taking our feedback into account.”

Okay, so the plan dropped in 2022, and all the work is supposed to be done by 2030.

Everything that follows I put at the doorstep of the Wu administration. Not only is the work not going to be completed by 2030; it seems like most of it is never getting done at all.

Halfway to 2030 from the release of the plan, let’s look at what’s been done! (All these are copied from the pdf of the Franklin Park Action Plan—my notes in bold)

Park-Wide Improvements

Lighting —no progress

Signage-no progress

Entrances-no progress

Stormwater Management—no progress

Heritage Tree Care—some progress: I have seen arborists at work in both The Wilderness and the Long Crouch Woods.

The Playstead

1. Restore the Bear Dens for multi-purpose use.—some progress has been made. The bear dens were closed off in May 2025, and a sign was posted saying the work should be completed by July 2025. It’s August 2026, and the work has not been completed. So we’re now 15 months into what was supposed to be a 2 month job.

2. Long Crouch Woods

• Perform invasive removals & add new planting, improved trails, & new nature play areas.—They’ve definitely been working on this. They made a cool labyrinth out of invasive plants that they removed. Trails are not improved.

3. White Stadium

• Make improvements for shared community & Boston Public Schools use, including new parking—in progress. Old stadium has been demolished, new stadium is under construction. Of course this is now its own project, separate from the Franklin Park Action Plan, and it’s got private money behind it, which may account for the speed of the project.

4. Restore The Overlook ruins and return The Elma Lewis Playhouse to its historic location with a new stage, restrooms, and seating—No progress.

5. The Playstead

• Upgrade the fields (including drainage/stormwater improvements), create the tailgate edge & improve parking, and establish a new Playstead Loop path for bikes and pedestrians (including seating, lighting, and planting).—No progress.

Peabody Circle & Refectory Hill

1. Establish a new ‘front porch’ pedestrian entrance and terrace along Blue Hill Avenue—no progress

2. Reinstate the historic pedestrian circulation and expand tree planting to create a new Peabody Circle Plaza for events & programming—no progress

3. Stepped Seating Grove—Create terraced outdoor seating with new canopy trees for outdoor education and programming—no progress

4. Integrate a new parking lot on Refectory Hill-no progress

American Legion

Abbottswood

• Perform invasive removals & add new planting;

introduce new trails.—IDK, haven’t been over there.

Integrate a new outdoor classroom adjacent to the

wet meadow—no progress

American Legion Playground

• Make playground improvements, including a new splashpad—no progress

Ellicottdale & Schoolmaster Hill

Restore the upper lawn with shaded picnic and BBQ areas, expand the tennis courts, and provide restrooms—no progress

Restore the lower lawn for flexible use, and provide a boardwalk and trails within the wet woodland—no progress

Ellicott Arch

• Restore the arch, and add lighting & new planting—no progressSchoolmaster Hill

• Restore the Schoolmaster Hill ruins & pergola, and introduce a flowering tree walk along the path leading from Ellicottdale—no progress

The Wilderness

The Wilderness Ecological Restoration

Perform invasive removals, add new planting, and make trail and wayfinding improvements—There are parks employees in overalls doing something in here. Haven’t seen much in the way of results other than some knotweed removal, but let’s say it’s in progress.

Circuit Drive & The Valley Gates

1. Circuit Loop

• Reconfigure vehicular circulation to provide a safe

multi-model circuit throughout the park—no progress

2. The Circuit Drive Parking Lot

• Improve and expand the parking lot with canopy

trees and stormwater management—no progress

3. The Valley Gates

• Clarify circulation & restore the Valley Gate

headhouses—no progress

I can’t find it in the action plan, but I have noticed that the Shattuck tennis courts are being redone. So there’s something happening there.

But most of the stuff in the plan is obviously never happening. Not only because so few of these projects have been started, but also because it’s been clear for years that the City doesn’t care about these projects. You know how I know? In addition to all the stuff named above, part of the plan was repaving the path that goes from the Glen Road entrance to the Overlook—a length of maybe 1000 feet. This took over a year. They paved it, then found out they’d done it wrong, then undid it, then re-did it—there may have been a few more iterations, but the bottom line is that what should have been the work of a week at most took over a year.

There was someone from the Parks department nominally overseeing the project. I think she came out to the site twice.

And then there’s the bear dens, above. What was listed as a two-month job has taken 14 months so far. For context, the old stadium was still standing when this modest project began. It seems likely the new one will be complete before this project finishes.

I gave input, I watched the slides, and I really believed that the city was at last going to pay some long overdue attention to this amazing park.

And it was all bullshit. And apparently a lot of people knew it was bullshit. Here’s the Franklin Park Coalition’s memo that came out at the time in which they ask for 2 Park Rangers to be included in the budget, though it would be much better to set that money on fire because at least then it could briefly provide some warmth and therefore be more useful than park rangers. They estimate that the cost of the stuff included in the action plan is 100 million dollars and ask for the city to earmark 20 million dollars per year to make sure the plan is going to happen.

I did not hear anything from the Franklin Park Coalition about how this plan was pie in the sky bullshit at the time. I haven’t seen any of the local media following up on the progress of the Franklin Park Action Plan. And the city seems to just be hoping the whole thing blows over, which seems like a pretty safe bet at this point.

Boston has a lot of problems, and I’m not suggesting that this is the most important one. It’s just a perfect example of how, yet again, we don’t have a city government that cares about improving the lives of Bostonians.

Here’s my frustration: it seems like every day I read the news and see that Mayor Mamdani in New York is working, in small and big ways, to improve the lives of people who live in his city. When I was knocking doors for Michelle Wu’s campaign, I thought she’d do the same for Boston.

But, as the absolutely pathetic progress on the Franklin Park Action Plan shows, our mayor has other priorities. Franklin Park abuts Dorchester and Roxbury, real neighborhoods where hundreds of thousands of Bostonians live, but what’s that against the opinion of the people who really matter? You know, the ones with money.

High Fantasy Epic Sword Fighter Tournament Intro

I love hypothetical crossover fanfiction matchups between different characters. It probably goes back to The Ultimate Showdown type flash animations in the earlier days of the internet. I have long toyed around with the idea of an Ultimate Showdown where I simulate a fight between all major fictional characters and see who comes out on top. There is a fatal flaw with this though: The Reality Benders. Characters like The Beyonder, Dr. Manhattan, Molecule Man, etc can just vaporize 99.9% of the field in an instant. What is Conan the Barbarian supposed to do against someone who can take a nap on the surface of the sun?

There is also the issue of trying to manage thousands, possibly tens of thousands of characters, in a single simulation. So I'm opting to instead break it up into mini tournaments based on certain themes. This first one is a proof of concept. I'm going to pick 16 High Fantasy Sword fighters to face off in a single elimination tournament. Rather than being representative of the total Zeitgeist of high fantasy, I'm going to focus on lore I'm more familiar with since, well, I'm writing this mostly for me. So here is the roster, broken down my franchise. In total there should be 15 posts after this, 8 + 4 + 2 + 1, making this a 16 post sequence. I'll continue working on other things as well like Starcraft Co, but will interweave this as I feel like it.

The Roster:

NOTE- I'm making some changes to the roster after posting this:

From ASOIAF-

Jamie Lannister (two hands) Arthur Dayne Jon Snow Brienne of Tarth

From LOTR-

Aragorn Boromir

From Greek Mythology-

Achilles Jason

Other fiction-

Geralt of Rivia Al'Lan Mandragoran Duncan MacLeod Zorro Beatrix Kiddo Maximus Conan the Barbarian Xena Warrior Princess Beowulf Lancelot

There are a lot of ways I could do the matchups. I could randomize it, but that would lead to some really lopsided matches. I could try to make the initial fights competitive, but that would also lead to some really lopsided matches later on. Some of these guys cough Jon Snow cough are just gonna get outmatched. Not much I can do about that. So I'm thinking I'll focus on making interesting initial fights and just let the tournament go from there, balancing skill and thematic what if elements. So stay tuned.

I am allowed to grieve what I wanted, without dishonoring what I felt.

A very very short read. I don't share Brown's pessimism about AI, but this story dates back to 1954 (!) and is a fun read.

Dwan Ev ceremoniously soldered the final connection with gold. The eyes of a dozen television cameras watched him and the subether bore throughout the universe a dozen pictures of what he was doing.

He straightened and nodded to Dwar Reyn, then moved to a position beside the switch that would complete the contact when he threw it. The switch that would connect, all at once, all of the monster computing machines of all the populated planets in the universe — ninety-six billion planets — into the supercircuit that would connect them all into one supercalculator, one cybernetics machine that would combine all the knowledge of all the galaxies.

Dwar Reyn spoke briefly to the watching and listening trillions. Then after a moment's silence he said, “Now, Dwar Ev.”

Dwar Ev threw the switch. There was a mighty hum, the surge of power from ninety-six billion planets. Lights flashed and quieted along the miles-long panel.

Dwar Ev stepped back and drew a deep breath. “The honor of asking the first question is yours, Dwar Reyn.”

“Thank you,” said Dwar Reyn. “It shall be a question which no single cybernetics machine has been able to answer.”

He turned to face the machine. “Is there a God?”

The mighty voice answered without hesitation, without the clicking of a single relay.

“Yes, now there is a God.”

Sudden fear flashed on the face of Dwar Ev. He leaped to grab the switch.

A bolt of lightning from the cloudless sky struck him down and fused the switch shut.

#brown

Drawing: Julia Royer (copyright 2026)

This is a quick test of the new “embed” functionality in write as.

It doesn't address what I want. I want to be able to upload the audio file into write as.

Adding a hyperlink in a blog post doesn't give me what I want. I might as well just ping the audio hyperlink direct into a social media post rather than write a blog post with it in.

Any way here is the test:

https://open.spotify.com/episode/0s7mgCqMl7VTEzhgu4P3Lz