The Cassiere Rapier

∴ A Temporal Touchstone∴

Shadows cling to painted walls like spectres of the past as you tiptoe through the dark, quiet halls, the air thick with the musk of ages past. Suits of armour stand like silent sentinels, their polished surfaces reflecting slivers of moonlight but their blank faces giving nothing away.

The great stone lions at the top of the steps eye you with an imposing stillness, their stony gaze unwavering. You impulsively nod your head to them as you slip past into the armoury, seeing them as unlikely co-conspirators.

And then you are alone, and suddenly very small, lost in a forest of pikes and pole arms, dwarfed by the great wheels of blades adorning the walls. Every glimmer of muted light in the long glass cases makes your stomach somersault.

Your eyes dance across the array of weapons, some gilded and engraved, others bearing the marks of battles long past. Your gaze settles on a solitary rapier, remarkable in its elegant simplicity. A matte black cup and long, straight quillons. A slender blade gleaming with quiet confidence.

“That’s it,” you whisper to yourself, fingers brushing lightly over the rapier’s hilt. You think you feel a resonance beneath your fingers, as it the very steel resonates with history untold.

Something disturbs the rippling waves of your imaginings — the very real sound of leather soles slapping against marble floors. Your heart quickens as you realise your presence has been noted.

Instinctively you retreat into the shadows, weighing your options. The rapier, now clutched in your hand, feels as weighty as it does ethereal. As the footsteps close the distance, you steel yourself for the inevitable clash of intentions.

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The Hallowing Sword

∴ A Local Legend∴

The Erl King’s sword is in the apple tree. Everyone knows that.

It was All Hallow’s Eve, they say, and the Erl King came from the forest to demand his tithe. It had been a poor harvest, and the folk had naught to pay him, so the Erl King swore he’d take his tithe in blood. But then some peasant Jack stepped up, and challenged the Erl King to a fight.

They met in the orchard after dark, for sunlight made the Erl King weak. And when the Erl King drew his mighty sword, Jack brandished only the branch of an apple tree. The Erl King laughed with a voice like rustling leaves, but when they fought he was surprised to find the peasant an able adversary: every strike was parried, every thrust dodged, the apple bough splintered and yet held strong.

A symbol of life in the face of death.

For twelve hours they fought: the young lad and the darkling king, until the sun began to creep over the horizon. Realising that Jack had tricked him, the Erl King took one last desperate swing, even as Jack plunged the twisted stick deep into the creature’s chest.

Steel met skin. Wood met bone. The Erl King vanished in a flurry of dead leaves, and Jack’s body slumped over the blood-soaked ground where already the apple bough was taking root, fed by bloodshed and irrevocably entwining around the sword.

That’s the story, anyway. You don’t believe such things, of course. You’re not a child any more. So when the older boys dare you to climb the orchard wall on All Hallow’s Eve, you grit your teeth and grasp the mossy stone. When they bet you can’t touch the tree, you glare over your shoulder at them and walk the lantern-lit pathway toward it, careful not to crush the corn dolls and offerings laid out underfoot.

And when you see, lit by the moon, a streak of steel at the heart of the twisted trunk…

You run.

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The Simple Swords

While we pride ourselves on making custom swords to order, we understand that sometimes an adventurer needs a simple, reliable sword on short notice. We are unable to offer off-the-peg models, however Chris does occasionally create basic one-of-a-kind swords for immediate sale.

Whether it’s an experimental model that’s good enough to sell or a spare blade that turned out too well not to hilt up, these unique creations provide the same Balefire quality without the frills, fitting in around our busy schedule of custom commissions.

The swords below have already sold. New simple swords can be found in our Emporium when available, and are announced on our Facebook and Instagram pages. They are always sold as seen – if you require customisation, please see the swords below for inspiration and contact us to discuss ordering a bespoke weapon.

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The Echo Broadsword

∴ A Striking Resonance∴

This is what you are made for. The sword moves as an extension of yourself, light and effortless, curved blade dancing through the air to meet its mark. All thought but the thrill of the fight leaves as your opponent lifts his hilt to parry…

… and then comes flooding back again.

It’s that sound. The high, wavering timbre of steel against steel, like an echo through time. In a fevered rush memory curls its fist around your core and pulls you back to another place. Another sword.

To a bleak and bracken-strewn moor, trampled by charging boots. The bone-shaking growl of cannon fire and the thunder of cavalry. And above it all, the high angelic ring of steel against steel. Two blades meeting across an enemy line.

You should have known then that you had already passed the point of no return. That you were too much a part of it. That those wild, desperate eyes behind the crossed blades would haunt your for the rest of your days regardless of whether you stayed or fled. But you were young, and flee you did.

That was another time, you tell yourself, pulling back from the rippling maelstrom of your memory. Another place, and another sword. The one in your hand is moving almost automatically, slipping from the bind and sweeping round into an unavoidable undercut.

You step forward and bring the blackened hilt up into your opponent’s jaw. For an absurd moment time slows, and you take in the thistles carved into the underside of the basket. No, you have not forgotten.

Time rights itself as the enemy soldier sinks to the ground with a groan. This is what you were made for, and this time you’ll see it through.

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The Wapentake Longsword

∴ A Steely assent∴

The air in the chamber is as thick with tension as it is with peaty smoke. The room is too cramped for your liking, with kinsmen of both barons keen to hear the outcome of the meeting first hand. Glancing around, you cannot help but notice that everyone in this chamber is armed, their weapons glinting ominously in the dim light. You swallow uncomfortably.

In the centre of the room two barons stand before the lawman, their swords drawn and ready, each attempting to appear more aloof and imposing than the other. It would be a comical sight were it not for how much was at stake.

The lawman says nothing, holding his silence like a weapon. His eyes are closed and his head bowed, deep in thought or prayer. Before him he holds his actual weapon: a broadly-tapering longsword with a downturned black guard, its tip pointing downward like a stately crucifix – a reminder of the authority granted to its wielder by the ultimate judge.

At last the lawman lifts his head and lays out the terms of the agreement in calm, even tones. A tangible silence envelops the room as kinsmen strain to hear, their collective anticipation gathering like a storm. You focus on the firelight reflecting dully from the black satin facets of the lawman’s pommel, trying to turn your thoughts from what might happen if the barons don’t like what they hear.

The tension is shattered by the decisive swish of steel against leather as one of the barons draws his sword, followed swiftly by the other. Will it be blood or brotherhood, you wonder, your heart pounding. A sigh of relief surges in your chest and washes around the chamber as each baron in turn clashes his blade against the lawman’s longsword. A resolution has been reached.

As sword after sword is drawn around you, tension gives way to a new energy. The steely clatter of blades echoes around the chamber as both clans raise their weapons high into the air, clashing them together in a raucous din of assent.

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