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Description
...previously: www.britishblades.com/forums/.…

...fortunately she didn't anatomize the question further, like enough, she felt my awkward quandary, which her questions arose and let the whole thing sink back to oblivion. Not only leery but a tactful child at the same time.

"So, have you really seen the marquis himself?" -banged her next question with a deafening burst into the depths of my brains, just when I thought that it is over and I have escaped the painful interrogation. Oh no, I won't get away with this one, that easily. This cunning little beast will get what she wants... so many similarities with her grandmother. I could never resist her neither.

"Yes, I did." -replied her seemingly unconcerned.

"AND???" -stabbed me with a growing wrath.

I knew I had to give her something satisfying, before she looses her shadowy patience and brings up the axe topic again, the tiny harpy - oh yes, that's her grandmothers feature as well.
In a hurry I started to search my remembrance for a child safe memory, which I could freely tell her, but selecting one is a hard task in my case.
I wasn't always the headsman of the marquis. In my youth I marched proudly along my brothers in the imperial army. Was so young and so ignorant of the horrors of the world back then, thought that parading in shiny plates, drinking and courting to the fair ladies were the only obligations a ranker had, but I couldn't be more wrong.
Soon a new order was handed out, and my battalion marched to the borderlands.
The journey was tiresome, our gear was heavy and the road long, but we still kept our relative good mood, till dubious news started to arrive to us from the frontiers, describing the hellish conditions and revealing the true bloody face of war.
Many of us didn't believe the stories, but for some, these tales were enough to bring the inner coward to surface and make them desert. The retaliation was swift and harsh, deserters were hanged along the way, if they were caught of course.
So the joyful days were slowly left behind, while the blissful villages and smiling wild pear trees were inchmeal exchanged with burnt out farmhouses and stooping gallows along the road to the battlefields.
The stories were true. Suffering and pain reigns in every war, and this was no different.
I soon learned that a ranker is expendable, only an inventory number in someones log, nothing more, but Fortuna for some reason smiled upon me, and while my brothers in arms fell one after another, I stood still unharmed, advancing ever higher in grade, mostly because everyone else died, soon reaching the rank of personal guards.
At a failed assault on the enemies position, our vanguard got surrounded. We were separated from the rest of the troop. Containment somehow boosted our moral, we fought like hell, drove back every attack on us, but with an ever diminishing number. They bled us out till only the marquis and their guards remained. A cornet's bloodcurdling voice slit the ether in two, indicating the final rush, and after a second it began. They fell upon us like a biblical locust swarm. For every slain man, two more appeared seemingly from nowhere, while our numbers kept shrinking even further, till I found myself suddenly face down in the mud, knocked out by a shield blow, suffocating, inhaling the murky, dirty water, while the enemy trampled on me. With great effort I emerged, just to be witness as a footman gave a heavy blow on my lords sword hand, rendering it unusable. The sword flew far from his damaged hand, landing next to me. Without a moment to think, I grabbed the sword and slew the attacker, pushing its blade into the demonized foe, bathing its thousand snakes in his warm, bubbling blood. I swear I saw them move in joy!
The attack stiffened for a second. The unexpected incidence lured awe into the enemies hearts, but the wonderment past just as quickly as it came and with a rejuvenated strength they rushed us again, only to be suddenly crushed with a shattering, brutal cavalry charge.
Hmm... the invincible Gendarme, but why so late? -a question never to be answered...

We survived the day, and I received the blade, with which I defended my liege, as a sign of his gratitude.

"And what?" -I replied the little devil. Stood up, went to the fireplace, took out a loose stone from the wall, and pulled out the sword from the hole, furled in old rags.
Skittish flames danced on the mirror of its blade as I pulled it out of the scabbard, just like a lifetime ago, when I first saw it, but it was well outshined by her bright steel-blue eyes when I gave it into her hands.
And the story of the sword was told for the first time on that cold winter night.

The total length of the sword is 64.5 cm, the blade is 37.5 cm long, 5.2 cm wide and 7 mm thick, forged of 1.2516, L6 and 5160. The accessories are also made of damascus.
The handle is dyed beech.
It is 1020 grams naked, and 1210 grams with sheath included.
The scabbard is made of 3 mm thick cow hide.
Hope you guys like it!

It is 750 euro

more pics here: web.facebook.com/csizmar.szila…

Description
...previously: www.britishblades.com/forums/.…

...fortunately she didn't anatomize the question further, like enough, she felt my awkward quandary, which her questions arose and let the whole thing sink back to oblivion. Not only leery but a tactful child at the same time.

"So, have you really seen the marquis himself?" -banged her next question with a deafening burst into the depths of my brains, just when I thought that it is over and I have escaped the painful interrogation. Oh no, I won't get away with this one, that easily. This cunning little beast will get what she wants... so many similarities with her grandmother. I could never resist her neither.

"Yes, I did." -replied her seemingly unconcerned.

"AND???" -stabbed me with a growing wrath.

I knew I had to give her something satisfying, before she looses her shadowy patience and brings up the axe topic again, the tiny harpy - oh yes, that's her grandmothers feature as well.
In a hurry I started to search my remembrance for a child safe memory, which I could freely tell her, but selecting one is a hard task in my case.
I wasn't always the headsman of the marquis. In my youth I marched proudly along my brothers in the imperial army. Was so young and so ignorant of the horrors of the world back then, thought that parading in shiny plates, drinking and courting to the fair ladies were the only obligations a ranker had, but I couldn't be more wrong.
Soon a new order was handed out, and my battalion marched to the borderlands.
The journey was tiresome, our gear was heavy and the road long, but we still kept our relative good mood, till dubious news started to arrive to us from the frontiers, describing the hellish conditions and revealing the true bloody face of war.
Many of us didn't believe the stories, but for some, these tales were enough to bring the inner coward to surface and make them desert. The retaliation was swift and harsh, deserters were hanged along the way, if they were caught of course.
So the joyful days were slowly left behind, while the blissful villages and smiling wild pear trees were inchmeal exchanged with burnt out farmhouses and stooping gallows along the road to the battlefields.
The stories were true. Suffering and pain reigns in every war, and this was no different.
I soon learned that a ranker is expendable, only an inventory number in someones log, nothing more, but Fortuna for some reason smiled upon me, and while my brothers in arms fell one after another, I stood still unharmed, advancing ever higher in grade, mostly because everyone else died, soon reaching the rank of personal guards.
At a failed assault on the enemies position, our vanguard got surrounded. We were separated from the rest of the troop. Containment somehow boosted our moral, we fought like hell, drove back every attack on us, but with an ever diminishing number. They bled us out till only the marquis and their guards remained. A cornet's bloodcurdling voice slit the ether in two, indicating the final rush, and after a second it began. They fell upon us like a biblical locust swarm. For every slain man, two more appeared seemingly from nowhere, while our numbers kept shrinking even further, till I found myself suddenly face down in the mud, knocked out by a shield blow, suffocating, inhaling the murky, dirty water, while the enemy trampled on me. With great effort I emerged, just to be witness as a footman gave a heavy blow on my lords sword hand, rendering it unusable. The sword flew far from his damaged hand, landing next to me. Without a moment to think, I grabbed the sword and slew the attacker, pushing its blade into the demonized foe, bathing its thousand snakes in his warm, bubbling blood. I swear I saw them move in joy!
The attack stiffened for a second. The unexpected incidence lured awe into the enemies hearts, but the wonderment past just as quickly as it came and with a rejuvenated strength they rushed us again, only to be suddenly crushed with a shattering, brutal cavalry charge.
Hmm... the invincible Gendarme, but why so late? -a question never to be answered...

We survived the day, and I received the blade, with which I defended my liege, as a sign of his gratitude.

"And what?" -I replied the little devil. Stood up, went to the fireplace, took out a loose stone from the wall, and pulled out the sword from the hole, furled in old rags.
Skittish flames danced on the mirror of its blade as I pulled it out of the scabbard, just like a lifetime ago, when I first saw it, but it was well outshined by her bright steel-blue eyes when I gave it into her hands.
And the story of the sword was told for the first time on that cold winter night.

The total length of the sword is 64.5 cm, the blade is 37.5 cm long, 5.2 cm wide and 7 mm thick, forged of 1.2516, L6 and 5160. The accessories are also made of damascus.
The handle is dyed beech.
It is 1020 grams naked, and 1210 grams with sheath included.
The scabbard is made of 3 mm thick cow hide.
Hope you guys like it!

It is 750 euro

more pics here: web.facebook.com/csizmar.szila…