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Dark Rocks

The Jack of Hearts Dagger

This enticing alehouse dagger was created to match the other swords we've created for its owner, making a particularly striking pair with the Scoundrel rapier. Like the Scoundrel and the Rascal before it, it features an ovoid pommel with copper detailing, and a writhen steel and copper grip.

The barwork of the sail is inspired by the illustrations of Matthäus Schwarz's "Book of Clothes", which frequently showed a heart motif in the changing fashions of the 1500s. The overall effect plays into the theme of our client's armoury: a weapon for a swaggering bravo or a winking rogue, fashionably wrought but packing a serious punch.

The ambidextrous sail basket provides ample space inside for a variety of grips, allowing the dagger to be used as a protective parrying dagger or a formidable primary weapon in its own right.

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


  • Total length: 59cm

  • Blade length: 43cm

  • Blade width: 3.5cm at base

  • Blade stock: 6mm

  • Grip length: 12cm

  • Grip and pommel: 15.5cm

  • Quillon span: 19cm

  • Grip to guard: 6cm

  • Point of Balance: at the cross

  • Weight: 740g

  • Ambidextrous

  • Blunt edges

  • Rounded tip


∴ Notes ∴


The hand-forged and heat-treated guard and pommel are oil blackened to a matte finish, featuring an ovoid pommel, conical quillon tips, and flattened bars forming a heart-shaped sail. The closed port features a piercework pattern of circles and stars, with a spiral carving to the base.

The oak grip is carved into a writhen shape, then wrapped with braided copper and steel wire, finished with a Turk's head knot to top and bottom. The construction is finished with a carved steel nut over a petalled copper ferule.


∴ Gallery ∴

∴ A Jack or Better ∴


For all the bustle of the alehouse, a silence oppresses the low table by the back door. There two men sit across from each other unspeaking, barely moving, cold stares trained on one another as they finger dog-eared cards.

Their tankards are long past empty, but the tavern keeper’s daughter knows better than to bring them more. She knows their kind - shrewd men, hard men, consumed by their dice and their cards. The trick is to slake their thirst early, when the game is still fun and the coin flows freely, and to steer well clear in the later rounds.

Instead she hovers behind the makeshift bar, idly rubbing a rag over copper mugs as she keeps an unassuming eye on them.

The larger man with his back to the wall; she’s seen him here before. A mercenary if there ever was one, all boiled leather and riveted rings, jaw sinking into broad shoulders with little sign of a neck. A man of few words, but liable to rage if the odds aren’t in his favour.

The smaller man, now he’s a new one. Younger than the other, with auburn hair tucked into a neat queue at the nape of his neck. He is dressed in fine clothes - not the ostentatious sort that would get him mugged here, but sombre and well-cut with slight flashes of lace at the cuffs and collar. A dandy, the tavern keeper’s daughter thinks with a smile.

Her close attention has drawn that of others, so it is with a collective intake of breath that the drinkers watch the mercenary lay his cards down. Crimson diamonds grace the gnarled wood. A strong hand.

Eyes now turn to the dandy, with all pretence of indolence gone. This next hand could be the difference between a round of drinks and an all-out brawl. Already some are sliding their hands to their belts, patting reassuringly at the knives hanging there.

With a shrug and a wry grin, the younger man slaps his cards onto the table. Four aces. And a jack of hearts.

“Cheat!” the mercenary cries, rising to his feet and pushing the table hard into his opponent. “Villain! Knave!”

The drinkers slide down from their stools, assuming a rough formation between the bar and the would-be brawlers. Tankards are emptied, all the better to be weaponised. The tavern keeper’s daughter sighs as she reaches for the rolling pin.

But quick as a wink, the auburn-haired rogue is on his feet, reaching for the dagger at his back. The tavern keeper’s daughter catches just a glimpse of a red-gloved hand encased in black heart-shaped bars before the blade is thrust point-down into the table, scattering coins and yellowed cards.

The larger man looks down, eyes wide and mouth agape. The blade is sunk deep between his middle and index fingers. A hair to the left or right, and his days with a bow would be over. Shaking slightly, he turns his gaze back to his opponent.

“Another round,” the Jack of Hearts says. “I’m feeling generous.”


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