“I don’t believe you,” you say again, turning the leather-wrapped handle over in your hands. The man sitting opposite you grins, his heavy-lined eyes glinting in the guttering candlelight.
“What did you expect?” he asks, “A jewel-encrusted pommel? A glistening of arcane runes? A chorus of Hallelujahs, perhaps?”
You glance away from the old tinker, chastened. The truth is you did hope for something more. The sword before you is simple and sturdy, remarkable only in its elegant lines and the steel rings protruding over the crossguard.
“This sword was not made to catch the eyes of lords and ladies,” the old man explains as his worn fingers flash across the steel, “It was made to protect,” – he taps the rings – “and to defend. This was the sword of a great hero before the songs and stories made him such. This was the sword that kept him alive to hear them.”
Shaking his head, the scarred trader lifts the sword from the table and swaddles it in yellowed cloth with a care bordering on reverence. No, not reverence. Familiarity.
The pocked oak door closes behind you with a muffled thud, soft, as if the building itself is chastened into reverent hush. A familiar scent fills the empty space: yellowed pages, paraffin candles, long-extinguished incense, dust. You wonder if every church in the world bears this same palimpsest of perfume.
This one is small and unassuming, whitewashed walls and dark wooden beams. But for the tomb, unremarkable. But the tomb, almost obscured between unadorned pillars, sets your heart pounding. You’ve seen so many these past years. A hundred unsmiling effigies hastening you on, across the continent and back again, closer to home than you could ever have dared dream. Yet somehow you know – this is the one.
Your steps sound out, sharp and surreal as you approach the recumbent knight. Framed by a mail coif, his face could be kindly, you think. Your eyes dart to his hands, clasped – in prayer or in vigilance? – over a stone sword.
A broad finger ring emerges from the serpentine crossguard, reaching down to kiss the fullered blade. The full moon disc of the pommel is flat and wide. It is simple, yet unmistakable.
Reaching to your side, you draw the stone sword’s twin. You fancy you can hear it gleam between dust motes in the still, sacred air. As you lay the weapon down beside its sculpted image, you murmur the name carved in seraphs below the worn stone figure.
Our articulated steel gorgets start from £120 plus shipping. Made from steel plate and lined with felt and thick leather, these pieces allow for premium protection and individual flair.
Made to be as light and low profile as armour will allow, these stylish pieces can be worn comfortably over or under a jacket collar, giving optimal protection while allowing for a full range of movement.
As each steel gorget is made to order, you’ll be able to choose leather colour, metal finish, and a simple engraving of your choice.
“The design process was easy and they were very accommodating. Their customer service and response time was faultless. When the gorget arrived it was exactly to spec and fitted like it was made for me. “
~ Rebecca Lucky
∴ Gallery ∴
Contact us to discuss your custom protective gear requirements.
The full moon reaches between bare branches to illuminate the pine-strewn path beneath your feet. Your footfall is only almost muffled by the carpet of fallen needles.
Somewhere behind you a branch breaks. The sound is cacophonous in the still night air. Adrenaline surges through you, and one hand flies to the sword at your hip.
The other flutters impulsively to your throat, pressing two trembling fingers to the smooth, brass-studded collar that protects it.
You inhale. You exhale. You run.
∴ About ∴
Our articulated Lycan gorget is made from layers of rugged 3mm thick Kydex plastic over 4mm thick leather, protecting your throat from thrusts, cuts and the bites of magical creatures.
Designed to be worn comfortably over or under a fencing jacket, the Lycan is super lightweight and low-profile while covering the all-important throat area. Its articulated construction allows for a full range of unimpeded head movement, while the rolled blade catcher keeps you safe from any slips.
Light enough to slip on for practice yet sturdy enough to protect you during sparring, the stylish Lycan exemplifies grace under pressure.
Time does not grind so much as thud to a standstill, leaving you staring at your adversary, hands tight around the mahogany haft.
In that second-between-seconds, you almost want to laugh at the preposterousness of the situation. That it should all end here, on this field, not with a sword but a peasant’s tool repurposed. You know the stakes.
A miss at this measure will send the twin balls spinning round behind you, pulling you off balance at best, breaking your ribs at worst. Even a direct hit will result in a hideous pause before you can bring the haft up to protect yourself from a return blow. A perfectly executed strike will take time, or a miracle. And time is something you don’t have.
With a roar a whisper away from mania, you wheel your shoulder round and set the chains in motion.