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Dark Rocks

The Fleeting Sword

This slender, nimble arming sword takes a departure from our Warding Sword series with its fencing blade inspired by Oakeshott's Type XVIII. Described in the Records of the Medieval Sword as "the very quintessence of the true, age-old cut-and-thrust fighting sword", the XVIII is lightweight with only a very slight taper up to the pointed foible.

Our version features a broad central fuller to maintain the nimble weight, wide downswept quillons for protection, and a canted pommel for comfort and control when used by a right-handed wielder.

Please see our pricing structure for an idea of what a similar sword would cost.

∴ Specs ∴

  • Weight: 1070g

  • Total length: 90.5cm

  • Blade length: 75cm

  • Blade width: 4cm

  • Blade stock: 6mm

  • Grip length: 9cm

  • Grip and pommel length: 15cm

  • Quillon span: 20cm

  • Point of Balance: 8.75cm

  • Right-handed

  • Fencing flex

  • 2mm edges

  • Swollen tip


∴ Notes ∴


The hand-forged and heat-treated guard and pommel are polished to a satin finish. The double disc pommel is canted for right-handed use, and the hexagonal-sectioned quillons follow a downturned curve. 

The oak grip is wrapped first in linen thread, and then in oxblood leather. The blade features a single deep central fuller.

∴ Gallery ∴


∴ A Fleeting Visit ∴


"Must you go?" you ask as she laces her riding boots.

Black ribbon pulls tight against calloused fingers as she shapes the graceful loops. Sunlight sits dappled on dark hair, cast in many hues by leaves about the latticed window. You feel the strange urge to reach out and brush the gleams from her tresses like so much detritus, casting sunlight to the floor so it might be night again.

"I said not to speak of it more," she replies, a half smile at her lips. "I have my commands - and you your custom. The palace will not wait. But for the time we have shared, I thank you."

A kiss - barely more than a courtesy - and then she is gone, in a wave of rose-scented leather.

Alone in the chamber you bite your lip and curse your foolish heart. You might have said farewell weeks ago - when first she received her summons - and already be near-done with mourning her. But her teasing trail intoxicated you: each forgotten fancy, each silk glove unsubtly dropped. How you leapt at the chance to return them, like a prince in a fairy tale, desperate to see her again.

With a moan you let your head sink into ink-stained hands. Between your fingers the sunlight sparkles indolently, still dancing on the steel of her sword. Your head snaps up with a start. Her sword. Sat bright on the windowsill where she'd lain it the night before.

Lurching to your feet you clasp the wine-red grip, feeling the pommel press snug against your palm. You recall her tales of its deeds, her yearning for battles to come. How could she simply forget such a thing?

And then like a hound you're away, thundering down the wooden stairs with the sword in your hand. 


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