The Vitesse Sabre
This simple sabre was created in close collaboration with its wielder, who wanted us to combine elements from several sabres in his collection to create the perfect fencing tool for his tournament fencing and study of Hutton, Waite, and Barbosetti.
The resulting sabre has a good neutral feel, and moves through both cutting and thrusting actions with speed. It moves swiftly and effortlessly through transitions and line changes, and can easily stop and change approach mid-move.
The sword is named for its swiftness, with vitesse meaning "speed" in French.
Please see our pricing structure for an idea of what a similar sword would cost.
∴ Specs ∴
Total length: 102cm
Blade length: 86cm from guard
Blade width at widest: 2.5cm
Guard span: 14cm
Grip length: 13.5cm
Grip to guard: 6cm
Weight: 727g
Point of Balance: 13cm from guard
Right-handed
Blunt edges, rounded tip
Fencing-safe flex
∴ Notes ∴
The hand-forged and heat-treated guard is polished to a satin finish. It is formed of a single leaf-shaped shell, extending from the inside and sweeping up to meet the top of the grip, where it is affixed with a faceted nut.
The oak grip is wrapped in resin-soaked cord.
∴ Gallery ∴
∴ A Swifter End ∴
You rub your hands together, thin kidskin gloves doing nothing to protect them from the morning's chill. Low mist hangs about the clearing, as if screening the world from the illicit actions intended here.
Across from you, Vance has already drawn his sword, his ungloved knuckles white against the cord-wrapped hilt, his jaw locked tight beneath the puckering of an old scar.
You spit onto the hard ground, your eyes fixed not on Vance's blade, but on the dark circle on the faded velvet of his jacket, where a medal was once worn.
"Come then," you call, unsheathing your blade, "defend what honour you have left."
The goad meets its mark. Vance lunges, his heavy sabre whistling through the fog. But yours is lighter, faster. The blades meet with a sharp, ringing crack. And so the dance continues: him, incensed, all muscle and rage, and you, smaller, faster, blade whirling.
Frustrated, Vance overextends, his boots skittering blindly across the dew-drenched fallen leaves. His blade slices harmlessly through empty air, the momentum pulling his shoulder forward.
You whip your sabre upward, binding steel against steel, and twisting Vance's hilt from his weakened grasp.
You both stand, breathless, staring at the fallen sabre, its blade marred not with blood but mud. You raise your eyes to meet Vance's. They are wide and rolling with fear.
The silence stretches on between you, scored by ragged breaths, and slowly subsumed by birdsong.
