The Rosendorn Longsword
- Mar 26
- 2 min read
This characterful longsword is a durable, sparring-centric weapon, built for power and control. Its long, broad blade with an extended ricasso prioritises a forward presence, giving the sword a decisive feel in motion. It favors committed cuts and authority in the bind, excelling in strong entries and sustained pressure.
The sword's imposing lines are softened by rose-inspired chisel carvings to the pommel and rosebuds to the quillon terminal. The ricasso of the blade is decorated with the crests of the two clubs that the wielder trains with.
Intended for Meyer-inspired practice, the sword is named in German, with the name Rosendorn meaning "the thorn of a rose", which felt fitting for a fierce blade with a rose for a pommel!
Please see our pricing structure for an idea of what a similar sword would cost.
∴ Specs ∴
Total length: 135cm
Blade length: 101cm from cross
Blade width at widest: 5.5cm
Grip length: 29cm
Grip and pommel: 33.5cm
Quillon span: 29cm
Weight: 1950g
Point of Balance: 11.5cm from cross
Ambidextrous
Blunt edges & rounded tip
Fencing safe flex
∴ Notes ∴
The hand-forged and heat-treated guard and pommel are polished to a satin finish. The crossguard is formed of round-section straight quillons, with chisel-carved rosebuds to the terminals.
The pommel is likewise carved into the shape of a rose, prioritising comfort in the hand while picking out the organic shapes of leaves and petals. The oak grip is wrapped in dark green resin-soaked cord.
The broad-based, tapering blade features an extended ricasso to aim in grappling grips. This is adorned with two crests, one on each side, representing two schools that the wielder trains with.
∴ Gallery ∴
∴ A Rose by Any Other ∴
The garden is filled with unsettling quiet. Not the clandestine quiet of lovers behind bushes, or the soundless peace of a summer's day, but the quiet of a village abandoned. Of char and rotten wood, stubborn thorns where once an arbour had been.
You stand at its centre, the sword in your hands. This was where you showed it to her, the morning before that first muster. Fresh from the forge, its spotless satin polish picking out petals and buds, a mirror to those blooming heavy and heady with scent around you.
"For you," you told her as she traced her pale fingers over the carvings with a shy smile, "So I'll always remember. So I'll always come back."
The blade is no longer bright. It carries the dull sheen of survival: the nicks and repairs, the stubborn tarnish of years, a black history that cannot be polished away. It has known blood, and ruin, and bitter disappointment.
As did she, you think.
As you turn to walk away, something catches your eye. A flash of green pressing through blackened soil. A rose, perhaps, or at least the beginning of one.
You fall to your knees beside the little shoot, the sword hitting the ground with a thud. And you stay like that a moment, startled by the fledgling rose's vibrant green against the ashen grey.
"I kept my promise," you whisper at last. "I came back, didn't I? And I will always remember."
