- Joined
- May 9, 2002
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It's easy to see why a Roman solider would fear the Iberian Falcata. In a world of thrusting and slashing swords, the Falcata was a game changer with its wide weight-forward chopping edge. Not much could withstand a blow from a heavy sword as long as a man's arm being swung at full power.
I could imagine being Roman soldier on the front line. Your entire survival hinges on two things: the strength of your shield and the displine on the man standing next to you protecting your other soldier. Stories had been told around the camp fires. Stories of banded steel being buried in the ground for up to three years to let the earth rust away the weak, to leave nothing but the strongest metal to be pattern forged into the cleaving tooth of a blood-thirsty demon. Stories of decimation and carnage where textbook disciplined Roman gladius strikes found their mark stabbing over and under the shield wall at the charging Spaniards, but not before the crash of deep biting steel buried its edge into the Roman helmet and shield administering the perfect jab.
In a world where being the perfect fighting force isn't enough, it's easy for a man, even one as disciplined as Roman solider, to begin to doubt. Doubt the strength of his thin shield, doubt the strength of his armor. Bronze buckles until pounds of steel dishing out 100 foot pounds of force concentrating on the finely honed edge. The men to your left and right must remain perfect. One shred of fear or hesitation and the shield wall will crumble. But how that be combated? How can a force using perfection and a driving wall hold up against such a weapon?
It's true that the Celts and Spaniards use a clumsier form of attack. Glancing axes and polearms can be parried and broken against the shield. The chaotic barbarian beast can meet their gods in a flash of stabs as they ebb out over Roman shields and are trampled under tack-treaded sandals. However, the falcata is another phantom all together. How long can a shield wall hold back an enemy who throws themselves against their target with the ferocity of tidal wave of blades pummeling the dug-in Romans? Even the design of the Falcata screams to the fact that it is an all out weapon of war. A heavy downward blade that clears the tops of shields and caves in the thickest bronze helm. The hooked grip that prevents it from being wrenched away in battle, that the life in the eyes of the barbarian dangling at the end of your gladius may be fading into oblivion but he still has one slash left in him, one more hateful blow he will try to rain down upon your exposed neck.
The wind picks up. The cool breeze blowing over the Roman's exposed skin breaks him out in goose flesh despite the stifling hot shared breath of his brothers in arms standing at his flanks. From the forest comes a low howl. It's unmistakably not lupine in nature, but comparing it to a pack of hungry wolves on the hunt would not be far from the truth in a sense. Centuries old celtic chants bounce off the silent sentinel trees. Blade-flats beating against shields. A lone voice rings out in what can only be a call to his gods promising violent glory, and the forest erupts in a dull cacophony of battle cries and booted feet thundering through the mossy mud blanketed the listless gray morning fog enveloping the trees.
They are coming. The Romans do not break formation to steal a glance at one another, but not one among the front line does not sport a quickening pulse and a bead of icy sweat tracing down his crown. They are coming. In trousers and fur skinned boots. Undisciplined and expecting, even welcoming, high casualties they will throw themselves against the Romans until every last one of the Barbarians are dead or the shield wall breaks down. If that happens, perfection will give in to chaos. A perfect strike of a Roman short sword will lose to a wild swing of the Iberian's superior sword. The old Roman turtle will be carved from its shell and picked cleaned to bones by the flashes of falcata edges.
I'm running late to a meeting, but I just couldn't contain my excitement any more
After years and years of pining away for one, I finally took the plunge and snapped up the falcata Yangdu offered last thursday. Let me tell you my friends, masterful doesn't even begin to describe it. It is, by far, the finest piece of steel in my collection. I don't even have a Bura that touches it, and that is saying something indeed. Kumar is at the top of his game, and as far as I am concerned this may be his masterpiece. I have never seen a finer weapon.
I haven't been able to take any pics yet, but you have to hold it to understand. The raw power that thrums through it rattles your teeth. It's not a blade made to hold up to combat, it is a blade eager for it. Inspirational, truly.
Sorry to post and run, but I need to get to my next meeting. I'll post some pics up ASAP this weekend.
So stoked!
As always, a HUGE thank you to Yangdu and all of HI. Also, a full bow to Kumar for crafting such an heirloom of steel. Simply stunning.
I could imagine being Roman soldier on the front line. Your entire survival hinges on two things: the strength of your shield and the displine on the man standing next to you protecting your other soldier. Stories had been told around the camp fires. Stories of banded steel being buried in the ground for up to three years to let the earth rust away the weak, to leave nothing but the strongest metal to be pattern forged into the cleaving tooth of a blood-thirsty demon. Stories of decimation and carnage where textbook disciplined Roman gladius strikes found their mark stabbing over and under the shield wall at the charging Spaniards, but not before the crash of deep biting steel buried its edge into the Roman helmet and shield administering the perfect jab.
In a world where being the perfect fighting force isn't enough, it's easy for a man, even one as disciplined as Roman solider, to begin to doubt. Doubt the strength of his thin shield, doubt the strength of his armor. Bronze buckles until pounds of steel dishing out 100 foot pounds of force concentrating on the finely honed edge. The men to your left and right must remain perfect. One shred of fear or hesitation and the shield wall will crumble. But how that be combated? How can a force using perfection and a driving wall hold up against such a weapon?
It's true that the Celts and Spaniards use a clumsier form of attack. Glancing axes and polearms can be parried and broken against the shield. The chaotic barbarian beast can meet their gods in a flash of stabs as they ebb out over Roman shields and are trampled under tack-treaded sandals. However, the falcata is another phantom all together. How long can a shield wall hold back an enemy who throws themselves against their target with the ferocity of tidal wave of blades pummeling the dug-in Romans? Even the design of the Falcata screams to the fact that it is an all out weapon of war. A heavy downward blade that clears the tops of shields and caves in the thickest bronze helm. The hooked grip that prevents it from being wrenched away in battle, that the life in the eyes of the barbarian dangling at the end of your gladius may be fading into oblivion but he still has one slash left in him, one more hateful blow he will try to rain down upon your exposed neck.
The wind picks up. The cool breeze blowing over the Roman's exposed skin breaks him out in goose flesh despite the stifling hot shared breath of his brothers in arms standing at his flanks. From the forest comes a low howl. It's unmistakably not lupine in nature, but comparing it to a pack of hungry wolves on the hunt would not be far from the truth in a sense. Centuries old celtic chants bounce off the silent sentinel trees. Blade-flats beating against shields. A lone voice rings out in what can only be a call to his gods promising violent glory, and the forest erupts in a dull cacophony of battle cries and booted feet thundering through the mossy mud blanketed the listless gray morning fog enveloping the trees.
They are coming. The Romans do not break formation to steal a glance at one another, but not one among the front line does not sport a quickening pulse and a bead of icy sweat tracing down his crown. They are coming. In trousers and fur skinned boots. Undisciplined and expecting, even welcoming, high casualties they will throw themselves against the Romans until every last one of the Barbarians are dead or the shield wall breaks down. If that happens, perfection will give in to chaos. A perfect strike of a Roman short sword will lose to a wild swing of the Iberian's superior sword. The old Roman turtle will be carved from its shell and picked cleaned to bones by the flashes of falcata edges.
I'm running late to a meeting, but I just couldn't contain my excitement any more

I haven't been able to take any pics yet, but you have to hold it to understand. The raw power that thrums through it rattles your teeth. It's not a blade made to hold up to combat, it is a blade eager for it. Inspirational, truly.
Sorry to post and run, but I need to get to my next meeting. I'll post some pics up ASAP this weekend.
So stoked!

As always, a HUGE thank you to Yangdu and all of HI. Also, a full bow to Kumar for crafting such an heirloom of steel. Simply stunning.