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Dark Rocks

The Leirion Longsword

This complex-hilted longsword is stylistically stunning, and offers the rare boon of hand protection to longsword fighters. The hilt features two rings to the outside, and a post and transverse bar arrangement to the inside. The S-curved quillons clear the wielder's forearm in cross-armed actions and assist in binding and winding.

The sword takes on a regal aspect with its royal blue grip and fleur-de-lis details to the post and quillon tips. It is these for which the sword is named, Leirion being the Greek root of the word Lily, or Lis. The faceted spherical pommel is likewise aesthetically carved, though this addition adds texture to the base, providing extra purchase to the fingers.

Though imposing, the sword feels free, clean and nimble in the hand, even to the point of being usable one-handed in certain actions.

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


∴ Specs ∴

  • Total length: 122cm

  • Blade length: 96cm

  • Blade width: 4.5cm at base

  • Blade stock: 6mm

  • Grip length: 20.5cm

  • Grip and pommel: 25.5cm

  • Quillon span: 26cm

  • Grip to guard: 5cm

  • Point of Balance: 7.5cm

  • Weight: 1650g

  • Right-handed

  • Blunt edges

  • Rounded tip

  • Fencing flex


∴ Notes ∴


The hand-forged and heat-treated guard and pommel are polished to a satin sheen, featuring hand-carved fleur-de-lis tips to the quillons and post.

The faceted spherical pommel features hand-carved lines to the base, while the crossguard had lines marking the centre and edges of the blades.

The waisted oak grip is wrapped first in linen thread, then in mottled royal blue kidskin with cord risers to the top, bottom and centre. The blade features a single deep fuller to its centre.


∴ Gallery ∴


∴ A Lily of the Valley ∴

You relax only slightly as your fingers slide over the smooth steel of the guard, finding their way to the fleur-de-lis at the tip of a curving quillon.

It is a familiar emblem. How could it be other? From where you stand you can count about twenty: on the painted wooden shields above the door, embroidered into the heavy linen curtains that half-shade the window, and on your mother’s gown as she paces the floorboards, scrutinising you.

Since you were but a child, you knew it meant something, this symbol. Something of family and belonging, but also something of honour and obligation. That three-petalled flower stood for you, in some way, and because of that you would someday be called to stand for it in turn.

Your fingers continue to play over the familiar shape as you stare dead ahead, mirroring the stoic heroism in the long portraits that flank the back wall. You imagine yourself into their battle scenes, lifting the beautiful blue-and-silver sword in both hands as you let out a terrible cry…

“Stop fiddling, for heaven’s sake!” you mother hisses.

Abashed, you snap your left hand to your hip, pursing your lips and jutting out your jaw the way she told you to. The telltale tingle of pins-and-needles spreads through your right foot, and you venture a wary glance at the painter, still furiously working away at your portrait.

Honestly, you think. The things you do for your family.


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