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Dark Rocks

The Serpenscor Rapier




This elegant historical replica is a variant on our Volutio rapier, based on the same Wallace Collection original. This version remains more faithful to the A635 than the Volutio, with a plain flattened oval pommel and carved spiral grip. We filled the front port and added a piercework pattern to improve the guard's hand protection.



It has a good blade presence, with the lighter tip needed for safe thrusting being compensated for by the hollow pommel. This allows enough authority in the blade to make meaningful use of the bind in play.


Our variant is named for the charming dragon detail to the knuckle guard terminal, taking its root from the Latin "Serpens" meaning snake and "Cor" meaning heart.


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



 

∴ Specs ∴


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  • Total length: 125cm

  • Blade length: 110.5cm

  • Blade width: 2.2cm

  • Blade stock: 6mm

  • Grip length: 7.5cm

  • Grip and pommel: 13.5cm

  • Grip to guard: 5.5cm

  • Quillon span: 27cm

  • Point of Balance: 14.5cm

  • Weight: 1055g

  • Right-handed

  • Blunt edges and rounded tip

  • Fencing flex






 

∴ Notes ∴


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The hand-forged and heat-treated guard and hollow pommel are blackened to a matte finish. The guard features straight, flattened quillons flaring to the terminals, spiral barwork to the foreguard, and a hand-carved dragon and heart motif to the knuckle guard terminal.


The blade features a central fuller to the forte of the blade, with two decorative fullers to either side extending as far as the ricasso. The oak grip is carved into a fluted spiral, then wrapped in a pattern of braided steel wire.


 

∴ Gallery ∴



 

∴ The Mouth of the Beast ∴

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It is with some alarm that you watch the last crack of light on the valley floor give way to evening shadow. Though it is still daylight, the sun sinks early behind the imposing horseshoe mountains, their shadow closing over you like a titanic door.


You screw up your face and carry on picking through shale and scree like your father taught you long ago. The practicality fills your mind for a moment and you are glad, lifting your feet and setting them down again in such a way that the stones don’t start to slide.


Your eyes are fixed on your feet, and on the fragmented ground beneath them. You do not glance up at the narrowing neck of the valley before you, the gateway to the round arena where the dragon waits.


You shouldn’t be here. You know it in your twisting, heaving gut. You told the priest as much, when he came to your cottage with the sword. You are no dragon slayer. You have barely a year’s training, and that was only with your father and brothers. Why you instead of them?


You regret the thought as soon as it enters your mind. You would not wish this fate on anyone. Fate, that’s what they called it. They reminded you of the time when, as a girl, you rushed to the altar and gazed up at the long, lithe rapier placed upon it. How you announced before the congregation that when you grew up, you would wield that sword.


The overexcited chattering of a child, you argued. Not a divine augury. For what child doesn’t want a dragon-slaying sword? But the priest insisted - the sword had chosen you.


And now that the dragon had returned, it was time to use it.


You pause now at the bottom of the scree slope, the backs of your thighs singing from hours of careful stance, and draw the sword. It is nothing like the one you practiced with.


Where that one was heavy, pulling you off balance with the blade, this one is fleet, rotating around its centre, responding to your wishes before they’re fully formed.


Where that one was raw and rustic, befitting your father’s station, this one is princely, masterfully forged. A whirlpool spiral graces the guard, while the grip takes the form of a carved spiral, wrapped in gleaming wire.


Lastly, and with some hesitance, you trace the curve of the knuckle guard all the way to the carving at its tip. The sweep of the guard becomes the graceful throat of a dragon, its maw gaping wide. You gulp. Yet spilling from the dragon’s open mouth is not flame, but a carved steel heart.


“The heart of a dragon,” you whisper, as if wishing its properties upon yourself. Brushing your fingers over the motif, you sheathe the sword and look up at the narrowing path before you.

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