– Det er viktig å skape nye historier, sa han. – Ikke bare leve på de gamle.

Det var kjøreskolelæreren min som skulle vise seg å bidra med den største innsikten jeg har blitt servert på en god stund. Han er 70 år, har kjørt motorsykkel lengre enn han kan huske, og har ingen planer om å gi seg før kroppen streiker. Det er hans måte å skape de historiene han vil leve. Det var dypt inspirerende der vi satt i salen og nøt svinger og landskap om hverandre.

Det er lett å bli hengende ved de gamle historiene, leve på dem hver dag. Man lar de definere en selv og ender ofte opp med å gjenfortelle gang på gang når man sitter rundt kaffekoppen med kamerater eller kollegaer.

Samtidig er det lett å tenke at alle nye historier må være store, må stadig overgå. At de må være grandiose og imponere. Det har ikke jeg tid eller mulighet til, kan man tenke.

Det er lett å tenke på livet som det som har skjedd, det man har opplevd. Men det er vel så mye det som gjenstår å oppleve. Historiene man ikke har skapt, som ligger der og venter. Ikke som en uoverkommelig bucket list, eller et jag etter å leve hver dag som den siste, men som en motivasjon og noe som kan skape glede og forventning. Noe å se frem mot heller enn å bare kikke i bakspeilet.

Det kan være vel så verdifullt med de må hverdagseventyrene som de store som bare skjer en gang i tiåret. Forsøke noen nye hobbyer. Gå nye stier i skogen – ta med middagen. Ta badstue med noen kamerater. Kjør motorsykkel. Spill frisbeegolf, eller vanlig golf. Eller begge deler. Lær deg å strikke. Hopp i fallskjerm.

Historier kan være så mangt og det viktige er å lage deg noen du kan leve, ikke bare fortelle de samme gamle om igjen.

Woke became an insult. What does it mean to be not woke? To oppose all the things that could bring humanity to a brighter future, like wisdom, common sense, empathy, acceptance, logic, education, science, etc.. Judge and hate people for the color of their skin, for who they fall in love with, for where they were born, or for no reason at all. Decide who should have and who should have not. Even when presented with solid evidence, deny that more of an iceberg exists beneath the surface than what can be seen. Life is all black or white with no in between. Don't listen to reason, and ignore any inclination to investigate anything. Cancel critical thinking. Don't care about how much suffering closed mindedness, greed and violence causes. Measure success by how much power and The Dollar Almighty a person has taken by manipulation, greed, or brute force. If you haven't achieved this (false) success for yourself, admire those who have, and elect them as leaders.

I have been getting a lot more matches on, and there’s this one person that I was talking to a lot today she really matches my energy. I also thought she was funny And she matched my freak. She also mentioned that she has had therapy in the past, and she lives pretty close by which I’m excited for. We have our first date on Saturday. I’m nervous but excited.

He did not settle upon my heart with the coziness of a warm blanket. He clawed his way through terror and rejection, roaring in silent defiance until I granted audience. Until I opened my eyes to see what stood before me.

It is said, that when the leaves blush in longing dance, air and water will unite to set flame to ways long rotting. What they forgot to mention is that the earth must tremble, cracking until mountains rise to spew fire into the heavens. Forever igniting our best minds to blaze in remorse. The unyielding storm holds no syllables in that passage.

Storms do not yield. They flood. They rupture. They clean the slate and leave a debris field of memories for us to learn from. But we haven't learned. Neither have I. Neither has he. We just are. Two victims of a cunning value. Little more. Little less.

We are taught that we must never gaze into the eyes of our heroes. One does not ascend to such great depths by doing what they are told. I dared to peer into the travesty of his gaze, and in that monumental moment of a not-so-insignificant contact—

the world tilted.

© 2026 AnOublietteofThought. All rights reserved.

WTF.

Today started out with the reminder that it may be my dogs last day. I am still not ready.

It was not quite as productive and busy yesterday. I can’t tell if that is a good thing or not, because I felt as if I had to fully acknowledge how I am feeling, which resulted in a lot of crying.

I could not eat this morning, the best I could do was a cup of coffee, which I hate taking on an empty stomach. I think I doomscrolled for a bit/started packing in short bursts of energy. It was weird. The energy was weird. The weirdest of all was my dog acting and looking completely fine and normal. It is disheartening and charming at the same time. Does she even know that I am just waiting for her to be ready? However, I have to leave in just a couple of days so I can’t wait any longer. My heart feels physically broken – like my chest physically hurts.

I am pulling every single string so I can have her for just one extra day.

It is too much. Everything happening right now is just too much.

To top it all of, I had an ATM machine malfunction on me on my last errand. Now I have to go to the bank tomorrow and get it sorted out because my deposit did not go through :/

Thank you for your message. I am currently out of office with no set return date. I will get back to you when the time is right.

Well, today was kind of busy ~ kind of sad.

Started with a bang at an oil change appointment. It was kind of annoying (another expense while having no paycheck), but also productive because I finally started writing my speech for my brother’s wedding!

Went to urgent care (finally) for my cough/congestion… only to be told it may be really bad allergies and to just continue taking allergy medicine.

Then I went to pottery and got quite a bit of work done with the trimming and stamping of a couple of pieces. All before heading to therapy for an hour. It was helpful, but man was it a lot to unpack this time.

Ran home, finished some laundry, and saw the dogs before going to a workout class! Continued on by another short pottery session of glazing a few other pieces with my mom. Proceeded to meet up with my dad and dogs at the dog park for what I have to assume is the last time (?!)

And finally, came home for the day.

Thank you for your message. I am currently out of office with no set return date. I will get back to you when the time is right.

I enjoy alt-media news much more than I ever really enjoyed mainstream media news. But something so strange happened during the whole Covid-19 thing. So many people got shadow banned during that event who were just being inquisitive and trying to find out what was going on. Legitimate doctors who were having successful results in treating Covid in many ways were harassed and even lost their licenses. As I watched all of this happen many alt-media lost a lot of their viewers because of being shadow banned or banned on Youtube, Facebook, Twitter, and probably more that I’m forgetting. Then some of them built back up on either their own platforms or other platforms. Now after all the dust has settled many are going back to their corrupt masters at Google and posting on YouTube. They talk about how they were banned and how lame the company is for doing that but still use it and post on it and funnel traffic to that beastly company. Isn’t this pretty much the definition of “selling out?” And all of us who disliked that whole thing, aren’t we selling out by still using the platform who thwarted free speech? I had Covid twice (untested cause I don’t trust the PCR test as viral diagnostics, neither did the inventor Kary Mullis. See a snippet article on the topic here and an open forum interview with him here skip to 48:30 to 52:11 for the reference about PCR testing, but the whole thing is interesting) and it wasn’t all that bad by taking vitamin C and D with zinc. Some doctors were harassed for saying such a thing, and that is known to help your immune system fight against just about any virus. I later learned that nicotine can help with long lasting Covid symptoms (and here). I did have decreased smelling for quite a while and got used to it. But after I heard about that I used a few nicotine patches cut up into small strips and nicotine gum. That gave me back a lot of my smell! Why won’t the main outlets give us at least the basics. Go get fresh air and sunlight for vitamin D, boost your vitamin C intake and make sure you have some zinc. That alone can keep many viruses from taking hold, and when they do they often will not be too debilitating.

Personally I have tried to avoid YouTube for many years now. There are some rare occasions that I do but I use it through third party platforms that block ads and hide my identity. I use a VPN, FreeTube, and/or PipePipe. I’ll switch to other things if/when those stop working. There is a constant little battle going on with YouTube trying to block those services and then those services get patched and they start working again. If I’m going to go use that platform which I dislike I’m not going to support them by watching their ads and letting them profile me. I’d rather not watch the video if I cannot do it on my own terms.

One of the biggest reasons I still ever go to YouTube is for the DIY and tutorial type videos. There are some decent alternative platforms for news, politics, and rantings of sorts but there isn’t much out there in the DIY and tutorial world besides YouTube that I have found. I would love a simple video site or video blog site to come along focused on that theme. Keep the bulk of the nonsense videos, politics, and compilations of silly animal events out, there are already plenty of platforms for that. If I had the ability and a bit more care that might be a project I’d put effort into. A simple clean DIY and tutorial video platform with no ads, just passion driven sharing of ideas. I wouldn’t block free speech with people posting a DIY video on something while rambling about their political views, but if it was just about politics I’d rather they go to Bitchute or something. A donation option would be cool and other payment options for content creators, but no ads and no paywall. That would be awesome!

Doesn’t this Proverbs 26:11 verse sort of fit with the people running back to YouTube after being banned?

Like a dog that returns to his vomit is a fool who repeats his folly

Proverbs is great.

Resources:

Books:

mRNA Vaccine Toxicity – by Dr. Michael Palmer M.D.

The Indoctrinated Brain: How to Successfully Fend Off the Global Attack on Your Mental Freedom – by Michael Nehls

Lies My Government Told Me: And The Better Future Coming – by Robert Malone, MD, MS

Apps and websites:

BitChute and Old BitChute — YouTube alternative focused more on freedom of speech.

Odyssey — YouTube alternative focused more on freedom of speech.

PipePipe — YouTube interface for Android and GrapheneOS that blocks your identity and ads.

FreeTube — YouTube interface for Linux, Mac, and Windows that blocks your identity and ads.

Gatsby got got

By my calculations The Great Gatsby is 305,729 characters. That's probably an overestimate, as it is the character count of the file from Project Gutenberg which has some extra text. Even still, we can use that number. This blog has reached 415,432 characters so it is approximately 136% of the Great Gatsby. A noteworthy achievement. I'm gonna take a beat before the next update like this. I'm thinking maybe War and Peace next. From there, many options. But I have a lot of projects in store so many potential posts coming down the pike. Just a few of them:

-Wrapping up the High Fantasy Swordfighter Tournament -More installments of Starcraft Co. -A bunch of D and D content -Various Musings

Stay tuned!

On Learning To Write

Current Reading: Adler and How To Read A Book have officially been shelved. Saint Michaels Lent has started and I'll be reading The Spiritual Combat by Lawrence Scupoli as part of my devotion. I won't come back to Adler right away. I want to move on to something else, but I'll keep it close by for reference.

---

I've noticed my reading decline as of late. Im trying to become a better writer and it's really taking up a lot of my time just focusing on that. And I know that reading helps you become a better writer. But trying to write as much as possible to really get a feel for it, to try and find my voice is hard.

I was doing a lot of research on how people write differently. A lot of people have an idea in their head, plan it out and then write it down in the most elegant way they can. Some people write very analytical, almost like a very precise scientific explanation of something. Some write in beautiful pros, leading you down a beautiful literary narrative to a deeper understanding.

I write different I think.

Usually when I start I have no idea where I'm going to end up. That's what the Current Reading sections is for. It's something concrete I can start with, get my mind and hands working, then a thought will usually come up, and I start writing towards it.

I noticed this a couple years ago. I struggled to keep a steady journaling habit. I would make it two or three days then completely fall off. No real reason, just that I didn't have anything to write about. I think it's because I had an idea of what I was supposed to be doing. I thought I had to have a complete, fully formed narrative in my head before I started writing. I mean, that's what I was taught in school. Figure out what you're going to write about, make an outline, construct the essay. And that's a completely valid way of writing, but just not what I was wanting to do.

I'm Catholic. And every first Friday of the month my parish has overnight adoration. You can sign up to make a Holy Hour during the overnight hours into Saturday morning. I started going at 3 o'clock AM, and I really wanted to keep an adoration journal. But the same thing started happening, I'd get there, pray, open the journal and...crickets. Nothing coming to mind. No mystical messages from Our Lord beamed straight into my head. No big inspiration of anything I just had to get out.

So I started doodling, just because the pen and paper were right there in front of me. And then to my surprise, just by the mechanics of my hand moving, something loosened up, and a thought would just pop into my head. Something I was dealing with at work, something one of my kids had asked me, some problem I had been struggling with, some family dynamic that was needing to be worked out. And my hand started moving, but making letters and words this time not just drawing. Not in some flashy “a-ha” moment. Just natural.

I've now developed a pretty robust journaling habit. I've learned that I need to externalize my thoughts onto the page, to see them, so I can really understand them. I have also started a bullet journal and I still doodle.

And I know this may seem trivial to some people, but it was monumental for me. People think “Why are you making mountains out of mole hills Stoney. Just write something down”. And yeah for some that might work. I needed a little more understanding first. For years I wanted to journal steadily but it always evaded me. I just had to figure out the thing in my head holding me back, the way I was conceptualizing writing, was what I was taught in school. But it had to make sense in my own head for it to finally click.

And that brings me to the next big step. Trying to learn to write for others to read. It's something I've been drawn to my whole life. I never had enough confidence to actually do it, and I kinda can't believe I'm doing it now. I'm practicing in public(TERRIFYING). These short essays aren't going to be heavily edited. They are, at their core, my learning process. If you're looking for a completely polished, 3,000 word, journalistic masterpiece you probably won't find that here. At least not at first. The goal is to practice getting better. And I hope, eventually, that I'll write things that people enjoy reading.

High Fantasy Epic Sword Fighter Tournament Round 1, Fight 8

Xena, Warrior Princess vs Lancelot

Not all fights need to be prolonged. This one I think would end pretty fast. Xena Warrior Princess is well... if you aren't up to date on your early to mid 90s cheesy swords and sandals television epics, she is a reformed ruthless warlord who travels fighting evil to atone for her past, but she never loses her edge. Lancelot is one of the most famous knights in Arthurian legend. I could describe each more... but I don't feel like it. Research them if you are interested. Anyway, the final fight of the first round. Xena is hanging out in an old chapel and finds a cup to drink wine out of, unaware of its importance. Enter, Lancelot, questing for the Holy Grail.

---

Xena sat on the broken altar with one leg crossed over the other, drinking wine from an old cup she had found among the ruins. Hooves sounded outside, then an armored knight appeared in the chapel doorway. Lancelot stopped when he saw the cup in her hand. “Put down the Holy Grail.” Xena looked at the cup, then back at him. “This?” She took another drink. Lancelot drew his sword. Xena stared at him for a moment—and chuckled. “Oh, you're serious.” She set the cup beside her and stood. Lancelot advanced. “I will not ask again.” Xena drew her sword. “Good.”

Lancelot attacked beautifully. His first cut was fast, his second faster, and Xena turned both aside almost casually before slipping around the third. Lancelot pivoted to follow her and realized she was already inside his guard. Xena caught his sword wrist, drove her blade upward beneath his breastplate, and buried it through his chest. Lancelot stared at her in disbelief. “You really should've asked again.” Xena ripped the sword free and let him fall. She wiped the blade on his surcoat, retrieved the Grail, and frowned into it. Empty. “Great.” She tossed the holiest relic in Christendom onto Lancelot's chest and walked out.

Winner: Xena

And that ends the first round. Going forward to the next round:

Aragorn Jaime Lannister Maximus Beatrix Kiddo Lan Geralt Achilles Xena

I'm thinking we will do:

Aragorn vs Lan- Battle of Legends Maximus vs Jamie- Emperor Slayer vs King Slayer Beatrix Kiddo vs Xena- Boss Lady Battle Geralt vs Lan- Epic Fantasy Showdown

High Fantasy Epic Sword Fighter Tournament Round 1, Fight 7

Achilles vs Beowulf

This is the most epic fight yet. Achilles is the undisputed GOAT of Greek mythology. An unstoppable force on the battlefield. If only his mother had dipped that other ankle...

Anyway, if your only familiarity with Achilles is the movie Troy, you don't have the full picture of his ability. Brad Pitt did an excellent job, but his portrayal was too... human. The Homeric version of Achilles is something else entirely.

And then Beowulf. If you haven't read the epic poem, please do. His most notable feature is his absolutely absurd level of strength. He can toss monsters about like a dad wrestling with their young child. Interestingly, both of these characters are fixated on achieving glory so I think this is a pretty solid matchup.

Let's say that the Nordic Gods and Greek Gods have gotten into a debate as to who has the better hero. Or rather, whose top hero could win in a fight. The Nordic Gods resurrect peak Beowulf and the Greek Gods resurrect peak Achilles. They fight in the ruins of a temple.

---

The temple had been ruined so long ago that neither warrior recognized the gods whose faces had once adorned its walls. Broken columns lay across a floor of cracked marble, weeds pushed between fallen stones, and half a roof opened the sanctuary to a sky divided unnaturally in two. Thunderclouds rolled across one horizon while brilliant Mediterranean sunlight burned across the other. Somewhere beyond mortal sight, Odin and Zeus watched. The wager had begun simply enough, as wagers among gods often did: which people had produced the greater warrior? The Greeks offered Achilles. The northern gods answered with Beowulf. Death proved no obstacle to either pantheon.

Achilles awakened first, armored as he had been before Troy, shield on his arm and the great Pelian spear in his hand. Beowulf rose across the temple with sword and shield, restored to the tremendous strength of his youth. Neither man seemed particularly impressed when unseen voices explained why they had been returned to life. Beowulf looked toward the divided heavens and laughed. “Gods have strange amusements.” Achilles rolled the spear once in his hand. “They could have chosen worse.” Beowulf studied the younger man across the ruins. He saw speed in the way Achilles shifted his feet and confidence bordering upon arrogance in everything else. Achilles saw an older kind of danger. The Geat was huge even among warriors, thick through the chest and shoulders, and his sword looked almost small in his hand. Neither asked the other's name. The gods had already provided those.

Beowulf advanced. Achilles did not. The Greek's spear struck without warning, shooting toward Beowulf's chest with astonishing speed. Beowulf turned it on his shield and charged through the impact, expecting Achilles to retreat. Instead Achilles slid sideways and struck again, the spearhead slicing across Beowulf's upper arm before he could turn. Beowulf answered with a sweep of his sword that would have taken another man's head from his shoulders. Achilles was already gone. He moved around the broken columns with the impossible quickness for which men had named him, stabbing at Beowulf from angles that forced the larger warrior continually to turn. A second wound appeared along Beowulf's thigh. A third opened his shoulder. None were deep. Achilles was learning. Then Beowulf caught the spear. Achilles thrust toward his throat, and the Geat simply knocked the point aside with his shield and seized the shaft behind the head. Achilles pulled. Beowulf pulled harder. For an instant surprise crossed Achilles' face as he found himself dragged bodily forward. He released the spear a heartbeat before Beowulf's sword came down, and the blade shattered the marble where his leg had been. Achilles rolled, drew his sword and came upright several paces away. Beowulf tossed the Pelian spear aside. “Fast,” he said. Achilles looked from the discarded spear to the enormous man who had torn it out of his hands. “Strong.”

They met in the center of the temple. Now there was no reach to protect Achilles, and Beowulf attacked with the ferocity of the man who had torn Grendel's arm from its socket. Achilles caught the first blow on his shield and was driven backward. He slipped the second and answered with his sword, but Beowulf took the cut across his mail simply to get close enough to smash the rim of his shield into Achilles' chest. Achilles stumbled against a fallen column. Beowulf came after him, sword descending, and Achilles twisted away as the blade struck stone. He slashed Beowulf across the ribs, pivoted behind him and cut again across the back of his leg. Beowulf turned with astonishing speed and caught Achilles by the edge of his armor. For the first time in his life, Achilles discovered what it felt like to be manhandled. Beowulf lifted him and hurled him through the remains of a stone altar. Achilles struck hard enough to scatter broken masonry and disappeared beneath dust. Somewhere above, thunder rolled with unmistakable satisfaction.

Beowulf retrieved his sword and approached the rubble carefully. Achilles exploded from it. His shield struck Beowulf's sword aside, his blade opened the Geat's forearm, and before Beowulf could answer Achilles drove forward and buried the sword beneath his ribs. Beowulf grunted and seized Achilles' sword arm. Achilles tried to withdraw the blade. It did not move. Beowulf smiled through bloody teeth. Achilles abandoned the sword. He drove his shield into Beowulf's wounded side, twisted free of the enormous hand reaching for him and sprinted toward the fallen spear. Beowulf ripped Achilles' sword from his own body and threw it aside. Blood poured down his side now, but he followed. Achilles reached the Pelian spear first and turned just as Beowulf came upon him. The spearpoint drove toward Beowulf's chest. Beowulf knocked it aside. Achilles reversed it, struck him across the face with the butt, then spun away from the answering sword. Beowulf pursued, but something had changed. The wounds were accumulating. His left leg no longer followed the right quite as quickly. His sword arm had begun to slow. Achilles saw all of it.

Beowulf saw that Achilles saw it. He stopped chasing. “Come, Greek.” Achilles stopped as well. Beowulf threw his shield aside. Achilles understood the invitation. It was exactly the kind of invitation that had killed Hector. He came. The spear flashed toward Beowulf's chest. Beowulf twisted aside and continued forward. Achilles stabbed again, opening his shoulder. Beowulf kept coming. A third thrust entered his abdomen. Beowulf roared and drove himself farther down the shaft, trapping the weapon inside his own body as he closed both hands around it. Achilles tried to release the spear, but this time Beowulf had expected that. One bloody hand left the shaft and closed around Achilles' wrist. Beowulf pulled him close. The sword rose. Achilles' shield intercepted it inches from his head. Beowulf struck again. The shield split. Achilles staggered, and Beowulf came after him with the last of his strength. The third blow tore the ruined shield from Achilles' arm. Beowulf raised the sword for the fourth.

Achilles stepped forward. The movement was almost impossibly fast. He abandoned the spear still buried in Beowulf, drew the knife at his belt and drove it upward beneath the Geat's jaw. Beowulf stopped, his sword remaining raised. Achilles held the knife there for a moment, breathing against Beowulf's chest. Then the sword fell from Beowulf's hand. Achilles stepped backward. Beowulf remained standing longer than he should have. Blood covered him from shoulder to thigh, the Pelian spear still protruding from his body. He looked down at Achilles and gave a low, rasping laugh. “Fast.” Achilles nodded. “Strong.” Beowulf fell.

For several moments Achilles stood beside him, battered and bleeding, his shield destroyed and his sword somewhere among the ruins. Then he planted a foot against Beowulf and pulled the spear free. He looked upward toward the impossible sky. “Is that enough?” Thunder answered from one horizon. From the other came laughter.

Winner: Achilles

High Fantasy Epic Sword Fighter Tournament Round 1, Fight 6

Geralt of Rivia vs Conan the Barbarian

Geralt of Rivia is a genetically enhanced, magically imbued monster hunter, aka a Witcher. Conan the Barbarian was enslaved as a child, lost his family, and fought as a gladiator becoming more a force of nature than man. A preternaturally skilled hunter vs a warrior with true brute force of will. We will have them meet in Conan's homeland, Cimmeria, a cold wasteland. Let's see how it goes:

---

Cimmeria was cold, gray, and miserable, which Geralt supposed was one point in its favor. Two days earlier he had been outside Novigrad when green light swallowed him and deposited him among mountains that belonged to no map he knew. The curse had been remarkably straightforward: Slay Conan of Cimmeria, and you may return. Geralt had spent two days attempting to prove it a liar before his medallion finally led him into a narrow valley beneath the mountains. The man waiting there was difficult to mistake. Conan stood beside a butchered elk with a broad sword within arm's reach, enormously muscled without the clumsy bulk Geralt associated with men who cultivated strength for show. The Cimmerian looked up as Geralt approached, and something in his expression changed immediately. He had recognized danger. Geralt stopped twenty paces away. “Conan?” The barbarian rose and reached for his sword. “Who asks?” Geralt drew his steel blade and sighed. “Sorry.”

Conan came at him without another word, and Geralt's first thought was that no man that large had any business moving so quickly. The broad sword swept toward his neck with enough force to make blocking foolish, so Geralt slipped outside the stroke and opened Conan's ribs as the Cimmerian passed. It should have broken the attack. Conan merely turned with it, blood already running down his side, and sent the return stroke toward Geralt's head. Geralt ducked beneath the blade and found Conan's knee driving into his chest. The impact threw him backward. He struck the earth, rolled as the sword came down where his skull had been, and came onto one knee with his left hand extended. “Aard.” The Sign caught Conan squarely and hurled him through the air. He struck a pine hard enough to shake water from its branches and dropped among the roots.

Geralt was moving before Conan landed. He had killed things stronger than this man and things faster than him; the trick was never allowing either kind to recover. His sword stabbed downward, but Conan rolled aside, kicked Geralt's knee and somehow came upright in the same movement. The Cimmerian's forehead smashed into Geralt's face, and then one enormous hand closed around his sword wrist. Geralt felt the strength in that grip and abandoned any thought of wrestling free. Instead he opened his left hand between them and summoned Igni. Flame washed across Conan's chest and face. Conan roared and recoiled, his grip loosening for no more than an instant, but an instant was plenty for a witcher. Geralt tore his arm free, stepped inside the barbarian's sword and drove his steel blade beneath Conan's ribs until the point emerged from his back.

Conan did not fall. Geralt had just enough time to realize that before a hand closed around his throat. The Cimmerian pulled himself farther down the sword to reach him, blood pouring from a wound that should already have ended the fight, and Geralt saw no madness in his eyes. Conan knew he was dying. He simply intended to kill Geralt first. Geralt released his sword rather than be dragged closer, but Conan was already raising the broad blade in his other hand. There was no room to dodge and no time to recover the steel sword. Conan struck with everything left in him, the edge descending toward the place where Geralt's neck met his shoulder.

The sword struck Quen instead. Golden light burst between them, and Conan's blade rebounded as though it had struck an invisible wall. Surprise entered the Cimmerian's face for the first time, and Geralt understood that the fight had ended. Conan had already survived telekinetic force, fire, and a sword through his body; he had solved every new problem almost as quickly as Geralt could present it. Given another few seconds, perhaps he would have found some answer to this one too. Geralt did not give him those seconds. His right hand went over his shoulder, the silver sword came free in one smooth motion, and the blade swept through Conan's neck before the barbarian could recover his guard.

Conan's head struck the wet earth. His body remained upright for the smallest fraction of a second, Geralt's steel sword still buried through its abdomen, then collapsed beside it. Geralt stood motionless, silver sword extended, listening to his own breathing and the patter of rain through the trees. The whole encounter could not have lasted much more than twenty seconds. He sheathed the silver sword, planted one boot against Conan's side and pulled the steel blade free, wiping it clean before looking down at the dead Cimmerian. The green light of the curse had already begun forming between the trees. “You deserved better,” Geralt said, and stepped through.

Winner: Geralt of Rivia

High Fantasy Epic Sword Fighter Tournament Round 1, Fight 5

al'Lan Mandragoran vs. Arthur Dayne

For anyone who has read the Wheel of Time, “Lan” Mandragoran needs no introduction. For those who haven't... I wouldn't recommend it unless you are ready to dedicate... a substantial amount of time to it. I think the series is about 12000 pages. That said, Lan is a badass of epic proportions. I'm just gonna lift the description straight from his wiki:

“known commonly as Lan, is also known as Lord of the Seven Towers, Lord of the Lakes, True Blade of Malkier, Defender of the Wall of First Fires, Bearer of the Sword of the Thousand Lakes, May He Sever the Shadow, Dai Shan, and known to the Aiel as Aan'allein. He is the king and only survivor of the royal line of the fallen kingdom of Malkier.” – https://wot.fandom.com/wiki/Lan_Mandragoran

Arthur Dayne, on the other hand, is the greatest sword fighter to ever live in the ASOIAF universe. That is saying something if you are familiar with the series, as there are many, many exceptional fighters. Dayne is on another level. His sword, Dawn, is said to be made from the heart of a fallen star and is one of the most coveted weapons of all the kingdoms. His skill, speed, prowess and rigid code of honor make him unparalleled. He was only killed after being heavily outnumbered and stabbed in the back.

So this fight is going to be a barnburner. We will set it in The Blight to give an ambiance of dread and danger to match the danger these two present:

---

The Blight had no wind. That was what Arthur Dayne disliked most about it. The trees moved anyway. Their pale branches twisted against one another beneath a bruised sky, leaves trembling without any breeze to stir them. Things crawled beneath the rotting carpet of vegetation and vanished whenever he looked directly at them. Dawn rested easily in Arthur's hands, its pale blade catching what little light penetrated the canopy. He had awakened here without knowing how he had arrived, but the rules of the place had been made clear to him. Somewhere beyond the twisted forest stood a stone archway filled with white light. Pass through it, and the trial continued. Only one warrior could pass.

A man stood before the archway. He was tall, broad across the shoulders, and dressed in a color-shifting cloak that seemed to disappear whenever Arthur tried to focus upon it. His face looked carved rather than born, all hard planes and weathered lines, and there was something in his eyes Arthur recognized immediately. Arthur had seen it in old knights who had survived too many wars, though never quite like this. This man had not merely accepted that he would someday die. He appeared to have reached an agreement with death a very long time ago. Lan Mandragoran studied the silver-haired knight approaching through the Blight and then looked at the strange pale sword in his hands. “You know the rule?” Arthur nodded. “Only one may continue.” Lan drew his sword. “Then there is nothing to discuss.” Arthur brought Dawn into guard. “No.”

For perhaps ten seconds neither man moved. There was no boasting, no demand for names, no attempt at intimidation. Each watched the other's feet, hands and shoulders. Arthur noticed the heron etched into Lan's blade. Lan noticed how effortlessly Arthur held Dawn. Neither knew what those things meant in the other's world. Both understood anyway. Then Arthur moved. Dawn came toward Lan's neck so quickly that another man might have died before realizing the duel had begun. Lan's sword met it. Arthur reversed instantly, cutting toward the ribs, but Lan was already turning. Steel rang again. Lan answered with a thrust toward Arthur's face. Arthur slipped aside and brought Dawn around in a cut that should have caught Lan during his recovery. Instead Lan's blade appeared exactly where it needed to be. They separated after barely three seconds. Arthur stared at him. Lan's expression had not changed.

Arthur attacked again. This time there was no testing. Dawn moved through a sequence that had killed better men than most kingdoms possessed: high, low, thrust, reverse, then a sudden change of line toward the neck. Lan gave ground beneath it, his sword moving with extraordinary economy. He did not block Arthur's strength directly when he could redirect it. He did not retreat farther than necessary. Dawn passed within inches of his body again and again without touching him. Arthur accelerated. Lan accelerated with him. Then Lan counterattacked. Arthur immediately understood why the other man had been retreating. Lan had not been overwhelmed. He had been watching.

The first cut forced Arthur backward. The second threatened his hand. The third appeared to be a thrust toward the chest before changing into something Arthur had never seen, Lan's wrists turning as the blade suddenly came toward his neck from an impossible angle. Arthur caught it on Dawn and stepped away. Lan followed. His sword flowed continuously from one position into another, each attack becoming the beginning of the next. Arthur did not know the names Boar Rushes Down the Mountain or Lightning of Three Prongs or The Moon Rises Over Water. He only knew that the stranger's swordsmanship had been refined into something extraordinarily systematic and extraordinarily lethal. Arthur smiled. Lan noticed. “You enjoy this.” “I have not had a fight like this in a very long time.” Lan's eyes remained cold. “Enjoyment gets men killed.” Arthur attacked.

For the next minute the Blight rang with steel. Arthur was magnificent. Dawn seemed weightless in his hands, the great pale sword moving with a speed that should have belonged to something half its size. He changed grips, angles and distances without warning, using the blade's unusual reach to force Lan into positions from which most swordsmen could not have recovered. Lan recovered from all of them. Arthur cut toward his head; Lan slipped aside. Lan thrust toward Arthur's heart; Dawn turned it away. Arthur stepped inside and struck Lan with his shoulder. Lan answered with an elbow to the jaw. They separated, came together again, and neither gave the other a moment to breathe.

Arthur began to realize something unsettling. He was accustomed to being better. Even against exceptional swordsmen, there usually came a moment when he understood the limits of the man facing him. Perhaps the opponent was slightly slow recovering from a backhand cut. Perhaps he overcommitted when attacking the legs. Perhaps his balance shifted before a thrust. Everyone had something. Arthur had spent the opening exchanges searching for Lan's. He could not find it. Lan, meanwhile, had found several of Arthur's. None were weaknesses in any ordinary sense. Arthur Dayne was too good for that. They were preferences. Tiny habits accumulated across a lifetime of swordsmanship. Arthur favored one direction when disengaging from a bind. He shifted his weight fractionally before one particular thrust. When forced to choose between protecting his sword arm and yielding ground, he tended to yield ground. Lan catalogued each one without expression.

Arthur cut Lan across the shoulder. It was the first clean hit. Blood darkened Lan's coat. Arthur immediately pressed the advantage. Dawn came down toward Lan's head. Lan caught it and retreated. Arthur struck again. Lan gave another step. Dawn flashed toward his ribs. Lan twisted aside, but the point opened another shallow line along his side. Arthur drove forward. Lan's heel struck a twisted root. Arthur saw it. Dawn came for his throat. Lan fell. Not stumbled. Fell. Arthur's blade passed through empty air. Lan hit the ground and rolled beneath Arthur's guard. His sword swept toward Arthur's leg. Arthur barely jumped clear. Lan came to his feet almost instantly. Arthur backed away, and for the first time his smile disappeared.

Lan had deliberately stepped onto the root. Arthur understood. The wound to the shoulder. The retreat. The second wound. The apparent mistake. Lan had built the entire sequence to discover whether Arthur would commit when he believed victory was near. “You let me cut you.” Lan glanced at the blood on his shoulder. “Yes.” Arthur almost laughed. “That is madness.” “No.” Lan raised his sword. “It is a price.”

Something changed in the duel after that. Arthur had fought fearless men before. Fearlessness could be exploited. Men who did not fear death often attacked recklessly because they mistook courage for invulnerability. Lan was different. He did not disregard death. He calculated it. He would accept a wound if the wound purchased something more valuable. He would sacrifice his hand for Arthur's arm, his shoulder for Arthur's throat, his life for Arthur's life if that was what victory required. There was no bravado in it whatsoever. Arthur suddenly understood that he was fighting perhaps the most dangerous kind of man who could hold a sword.

They attacked simultaneously. Dawn struck Lan's blade and drove it aside. Lan stepped forward instead of retreating. Arthur changed his cut toward the neck. Lan ducked. His sword came upward. Arthur twisted and the blade scraped across his breastplate. Arthur struck with Dawn's pommel and caught Lan above the eye. Blood appeared immediately. Lan answered with a cut that opened Arthur's thigh. They separated again. Both men were breathing harder now. Arthur's leg bled. Lan's face and shoulder bled. Neither seemed interested. The Blight moved around them. Something large shifted between distant trees. Neither looked.

Arthur raised Dawn into a high guard. Lan recognized the intention without recognizing the stance. The next exchange would decide it. Arthur came forward. The first strike was extraordinary. Dawn descended with tremendous force and changed direction halfway through, becoming a diagonal cut toward Lan's shoulder. Lan barely redirected it. Arthur reversed instantly and attacked the opposite side. Lan blocked. Arthur stepped forward and thrust. Lan moved just enough. Dawn entered his side. Arthur felt the blade penetrate. He knew immediately that he had won. Then he saw Lan's face. Lan had not tried to avoid the thrust. He had moved so that it missed the heart.

Arthur tried to pull Dawn free. Lan's left hand closed around his wrist. Arthur understood. Too late. Lan's sword entered beneath Arthur's breastplate. The point drove upward through the gap beneath his ribs. Arthur gasped. For one frozen moment they stood almost against one another, each man's sword buried in the other. Arthur looked down. Then back at Lan. “You knew.” Lan's grip remained around his wrist. “I suspected.” Arthur's knees weakened. Lan withdrew his sword. Arthur dropped to one knee, still holding Dawn. He tried to raise it. His arm would not obey him. Lan pulled himself carefully off the pale blade, staggered once and remained standing.

Arthur looked toward the glowing archway. Then he looked at Lan. “What are you?” Lan stood over him, blood pouring from his side. “A man who had something worth dying for.” Arthur smiled faintly. “That makes two of us.” He fell. Lan remained standing for several seconds before lowering his sword. He knelt beside Arthur and closed the knight's eyes. Then he picked up Dawn and examined the pale blade that had nearly killed him. He placed it carefully across Arthur's body. “The best I have ever faced,” Lan said. There was nobody alive to hear him. Lan rose and walked toward the archway, one hand pressed against the wound in his side. The white light swallowed him. Behind him, the Blight began reclaiming the clearing.

Winner: al'Lan Mandragoran.

Chapter 1: The Thoughts That Get Louder After Everyone Else Is Asleep

There are nights when nothing dramatic is happening in the room, yet your mind feels like it is standing in the middle of a storm. The lights are off. The house is quiet. Everyone else seems to be sleeping. But you are thinking about the world, your family, money, the future, and all the things you cannot control. You tell yourself to stop thinking, but your thoughts keep reaching for one more possibility. That is when a quiet 2 Thessalonians 2 message for people who feel shaken inside can meet you differently, not as a lesson to study, but as a place to put down what you have been carrying.

Sometimes the hardest fear is the kind you do not know how to explain. You are not in immediate danger. Nothing terrible happened today. You may even feel embarrassed that you are this unsettled. Still, your chest feels tight and your mind will not rest. You have read enough headlines, watched enough arguments, and heard enough warnings that the future has started to feel personal. You are not only thinking about what is happening in the world. You are wondering what it could eventually mean for your home, your job, the people you love, and the life you are trying to hold together. That is why Christian encouragement for the hidden fear that follows you into the night matters. Sometimes you need more than information. You need somewhere safe to be honest.

Paul’s words in 2 Thessalonians 2 speak directly into this kind of inner shaking. He tells believers not to be quickly shaken in mind or alarmed. I keep coming back to that phrase because it does not shame the person who feels unsettled. It recognizes that a mind can be moved. It can be pushed around by fear, confusion, rumors, and pressure. But it also tells us that being shaken does not have to become our permanent condition.

Maybe you know what this looks like when the day is finally over. You have answered everyone’s questions. You have handled what needed to be handled. You have been the dependable one at work, at home, or in your family. Then you lie down and realize you have been holding yourself together all day. The silence gives your fears room to speak. You wonder whether the economy will get worse, whether your children will be okay, whether someone you love is drifting away, whether your health will hold, or whether you are prepared for whatever comes next.

In those moments, I do not think the answer is to force yourself into a better mood. I do not think faith requires you to pretend you are not scared. Sometimes the most faithful thing you can do is tell God exactly where your mind has gone. Not the polished version you would say in front of other people, but the real version: you are afraid of what you cannot see, tired of feeling responsible for everything, and worn down from imagining the worst. There is relief in becoming honest enough to stop performing calmness.

2 Thessalonians 2 does not promise that believers will understand every confusing event around them. It does something more useful. It reminds them that they do not have to be ruled by confusion. Deception can exist without becoming your identity. Trouble can be real without becoming your master. You can admit that the world is unstable without deciding that God must be unstable too.

That distinction matters late at night because fear likes to erase proportion. A difficult possibility starts feeling inevitable. One frightening headline begins representing the entire future. A problem you cannot solve before morning suddenly feels like something you must solve before you are allowed to sleep. But you are still human, and you are allowed to reach the end of what you can carry today.

There is no spiritual failure in saying, “I cannot hold this tonight.” In fact, surrender often begins there. You stop trying to manage ten imaginary tomorrows and return to the one room you are actually sitting in. You notice the clock and your breathing. You notice that the people you love are still here. You remember that God is not waiting for you to predict the future correctly before He agrees to remain faithful.

This is where standing firm becomes deeply personal. It may mean turning the phone facedown even though part of you wants one more update. It may mean refusing to search for reassurance until two in the morning. It may mean opening your Bible without demanding that every question be answered. It may mean whispering one simple prayer because you do not have the energy for anything more. God is not measuring the beauty of your prayer; He is meeting you in the truth of it.

Paul later reminds these believers that they are loved by the Lord, and I think that belongs beside the warning not to be shaken. When your mind is tired, you can start believing that God must be disappointed in you for struggling. But tiredness does not cancel love. Fear does not erase belonging. An unsettled night does not move you outside the reach of grace.

You may not wake tomorrow with every concern resolved. The world may still be noisy, and your personal questions may still be waiting. But tonight does not have to become a courtroom where you put your faith on trial because you are afraid. You can simply be a tired person talking honestly to God, and sometimes that is where steadiness starts.

Chapter 2: The Morning After the Fear

Morning has a way of making some fears look different. You wake up, see a thin line of light around the curtains, and realize the world did not end while you were sleeping. The problem you were worried about may still be there. The headlines may still be difficult. The unanswered message may still be unanswered. But you are here, and the fear that felt enormous at 1:30 in the morning has lost some of its power in daylight.

That does not mean the fear was fake. It means fear changes shape when we stop feeding it.

Imagine walking into the kitchen and seeing the same unpaid bill you were thinking about the night before. The amount has not changed. Your bank account has not changed. But now you can make coffee, sit down, look at the numbers, and decide what the next step actually is. Maybe you need to move money, call someone, change a plan, or ask for help. Faith does not make the bill disappear. It helps you face the real problem instead of suffering every possible consequence before anything has happened.

That is one of the things I hear in Paul’s instruction to stand firm. Standing firm is not emotional numbness. It is refusing to let fear push you into a life of imagined emergencies. It is returning to what is true, what is in front of you, and what God is asking of you today.

There is also something deeply freeing in remembering that you are loved before you are steady. You do not have to calm yourself perfectly before you are welcome with God. You do not have to prove that your faith is strong enough by pretending you never get overwhelmed. You can come to Him tired, uncertain, and still asking the same question you asked last night.

Then you can take one faithful step.

Make the call. Eat breakfast. Go to work. Sit with the person who needs you. Pray for the part of the world that has been weighing on your heart. Turn off the noise when it stops helping. Tell the truth. Do what is yours to do and leave what is not yours with God.

The world may remain unstable. Your life may still contain uncertainty. But you do not have to become unstable with it.

Sometimes peace is not the feeling that nothing bad can happen. Sometimes it is the quieter confidence that whatever happens, you will not be alone in it.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

Explore the complete Douglas Vandergraph Master Index: https://douglasvandergraph.com/douglas-vandergraph-master-index/

Watch Douglas Vandergraph’s faith-based videos on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@douglasvandergraph