This fantasy-inspired broadsword is bespoke in every way, with the hand-forged basket, grip and pommel made to fit the wielder's hand. This comfortable historical sizing allows for greater control, tactile feedback, and freedom of movement between grip styles. The combination of a 4.5cm wide blade and hollow pommel gives a strong blade presence, yet fleet and fluid movement around a central point of balance. The sword spirals swiftly through rotational cuts and parries, returning quickly to dominate the central line. Please see our pricing structure for an idea of what a similar sword would cost.
∴ Specs ∴
Weight: 1160g
Total length: 92cm
Blade length: 30.5"
Blade width at base: 4.5cm
Grip length: 8cm
Grip and pommel: 13cm
Quillon span: 13cm
Point of Balance: 8cm
Blunt edges
Rounded tip
Sparring-safe flex
∴ Notes ∴
The basket is formed from hot-forged, heat-treated bars, which have been hand-carved with grooves, then oil blackened and partially polished. The hollow pommel features a hand-carved ripple pattern, lifted by partial polishing. The rounded nut rests on a thick copper washer. The hardwood grip is finished with a braided copper and steel wrap, and turks head knots at top and bottom. The broad blade features three fullers, an engraving of the sword's name, and the Old English maker's inscription "CHRIS ME WORHT".
∴ Gallery ∴
∴ A Heathland Charm ∴
Go now - you know the path. Down the puddle-pocked track, along the boundary of blackthorn and briar, past the last candle-lit window of home.
Lose your boots where the road runs out. Crush bare toes into heather-rich pile, warm despite whipping winds. Step lightly over burns and boulders, feeling your way before placing your weight - let the dark be no hindrance to you.
Listen for the thunder of sea on veined stone, and breathe to the sigh of moon-dragged shale. Drink in the damp air’s salt-rich tang, and pay it back with a tear. All must be equal here.
Lift the iron gate, now rusted on its hinge, and let it fall open for you. They say the black metal banishes Sidhe, but that’s just a fishwife’s tale. Pick through the bramble-bound kirkyard, ruinous refuge at the world's end, between dark earth and salt sea.
Pay no heed to the headstone thorns that snatch at your skirts and shawl - are they not as sacred as the crosses they climb? Pass through the door with no lintel, and pick through the aisle with no pews. Pull back the altar's ivy - be patient, do harm to none.
You will feel it first: cold whorls of steel curling beneath the leaves. Then - as marbled cloud gives way to moonlight - you may take it in. The lacework of black and silver, the pommel’s rippled globe, the beckoning braids of copper, the breadth of the thrice-fullered blade.