#tabarzin

This is beautiful. On the note about maces and the like, they're traditionally horseback weaponry. I'm unsure of the usefulness or practicality of a dagger tucked away in a weapon primarily used from 'higher ground' or where CQC wouldn't be common. I mean, fall off the horse, drop the mace and draw the saber or katar. Although, redundancy is what keeps humans alive. It does strike me as odd that they wouldn't have shoved an extra weapon in just for the niche.

That notion of dropping the mace then drawing something else with longer (or for really close quarters, shorter) reach is something which may well have happened, though not just because it was an exclusively cavalry weapon. All the other weapons were also used from horseback, and in one instance its original Indo-Persian name is pretty specific about equestrian origins.

The zaghnal, that wicked pick-axe thing...

(yup, there's a dagger...)

...has a European equivalent called a "horseman's pick" and supposedly copied from Ottoman weapons which would have been zaghnal-shaped; this one is Polish or Hungarian...

The hatchet-knife bhuj was - per Wikipedia, Bygone Blades and Oriental Arms - a popular weapon with the Gujarati and Sindhi cavalry, who also wore a distinctive style of full armour...

(yup, there's a dagger)

(This time there's a gun, and probably a dagger too because why not?)

Most conclusively, the proper name for Indo-Persian battleaxes is tabar / tabarzin, which means "saddle-axe".

These included some of the few real-life examples of double-headed battleaxes (with daggers, but of course...)

Though popular in fantasy art, IRL usual practice was to have an axe on one side and something different like a hammer or pick on the other side in case the axe wasn't effective enough against whatever kind of armour the opponent was wearing.

And of course even single-headed axes often had the usual dagger tucked away.

Here's yet another with a sword-hilt (also possibly a dagger) and a built-in matchlock gun...

And here's one where some warrior just couldn't make up his mind.

Here's a mace with a similar (khanda broadsword) hilt:

I took a close look at various mace-pics I've posted (here and here), something I should have done before, then searched further on-line, and I'm starting to think they had no daggers because mostly their hafts were solid rather than hollow...

Thanks go to @irlactualwizard for prompting me to track down an answer to my own question - though I'll be waiting for someone who knows far more about Indian weapons to correct me. :-P

Finally, here's a display case showing three more maces, a couple of the double- (here triple-) -bladed daggers called haladie, and a few examples of what Indian weaponsmiths could do with the basic concept of a sword blade...

...including making use of a European hilt, top row second left. Its blade may have been mounted on an Indian khanda or talwar hilt, which happened often enough to create a whole class of "firangi" (Frankish) swords.

There are many more pics on my blog and elsewhere. Once again, for fantasy edged-weapon inspirations, India is a great place to start...

Priti Akanksha Varma

A redesign for Priti, a formidable warrior and captain. Her outfit combines a nauvari saree with chihal'ta hazar masha.

it’s nothing out of the ordinary –– a distant shout born from the heartened depths of a soft-edged heart, the separation of skin and bones from gravity as a hundred pounds of electric blue and zeal dive towards phlegmatic viridescence. sure, nothing out of the ordinary, when the sharpest teeth in caspar’s arsenal are bared as he shrieks, “happy birthday, linhardt!” but, you see, where brute force thrives, minuscule accuracy dies; caught in the heat of a burning excitement, once a shy ember tumbling about the vessels and veins in broad lungs, caspar’s lips aimed for the younger heir’s right cheek–– to say his angles were skewed would be a misnomer, truly, but the bergliez do not rot in failure! rather, the incident of a chaste crash of soft, plush lips against his own (though it creates an electrical malfunction in the root of his brain) causes caspar to hold his friend tighter, boot soles pressed firm against the ground. his cheeks burn brighter than the light of a thousand suns, the very round of his ears dyed a scarlet more rancid than blood. yes, yes, it’s nothing out of the ordinary. “it’s your birthday! hap–– happy birthday! seventeen!” absolutely, totally normal. nailed it. @tabarzin 

A SLEEPY BOY’S BIRTHDAY BASH!

hours shrink into minutes as the final night of his sixteenth year inches towards conclusion. two figures remain perched upon a rug dyed golden medallion, items scattered ‘round them consisting of the following: a half-empty bottle of premium cider swiped from the dining hall’s storage, a mass of cavity-inducing confections paid by their allowances, and a now forgotten game of basilisk’s fang strewn between the two of them. birthday tradition becomes one of many timeless facets of their bond, initiated by a spontaneous wish once brazenly proclaimed by an eight year-old hevring: “i want to spend all my birthdays with you!”

perhaps in one of the greatest shows of caspar’s fidelity, the bergliez boy commits.

without fail, for as long as their physical circumstances allow, caspar is there besides him. times have shifted since linhardt’s younger self had made his wish, reality having settled upon the hevring heir’s shoulders. as fragments of childhood innocence die and lay forgotten, linhardt’s opinion of his birthday sours. as he reluctantly begins to fill the shoes of a seasoned adult, it dawns upon the poor heir: past the age of twelve, birthdays were a deceptive countdown towards the end of his individualistic liberties. still, as jaded as linhardt has become towards occasion and as outdated as the enthused request of his eight year old’s self had become, caspar commits. stubborn wisps of cerulean hair fill his vision, followed by a booming laughter, and linhardt finds time to time again: it’s the presence of his best friend alone that serves as a ray of light when thoughts fall grim.

so, he smiles.

it’s a coy little grin, hidden behind strands of viridian that come to obscure his features as he looks down at his pocket watch. a minute until the seventh of the red wolf moon bestows upon them, though caspar had begun to shout his greetings about ten or so minutes prior. heart thunders in the hevring boy’s ribcage, though he passes it off as a wave of secondhand enthrallment from his best friend’s animated elation. for every premature greeting that caspar initiates, linhardt’s made it his customary response to force out a sigh and remind him that the birthday greetings are supposed to come after the final night concludes. still, his upright facade never lasts for long. despite his best attempts to suppress it, his smile grows for every early greeting that his beloved friend gives. his cheeks ache by the time they’re at the final seconds until midnight, and the hevring boy comes to raise his head to cue caspar in. warm is his vision, hand with the pocket watch lowering as he begins to speak.

but, as always, caspar has different plans.

his best friend’s timing has always been faster and the bergliez boy greets him in a thunderous call. typical. what throws linhardt off-skelter is not the standard volume of his beloved friend, but how caspar lunges forward. always spontaneous, the bergliez second son is. however, for all the surprises that the smaller of the two had given him throughout the duration of their decade-strong bond, nothing could prepare linhardt for the sensation of lips against his own. caspar’s lips, precisely.

time becomes fragile glass as deep azure lock onto the opposite cerulean, eyes blown wide as even the universe seems to come to a haphazardous halt. successfully stupefied, linhardt finds that all he can do is stare as he’s held closer. carmine fills porcelain cheeks as his (caspar’s--? their’s?) heartbeat grows louder, louder, and louder.

if this were an accident, caspar would have backed off and apologized immediately. but he doesn’t.

he stays there. they stay there.

nemesis may work fast, but linhardt’s love for conspiracies works faster. did caspar mean to do that? it had to be a solid three seconds until their lips departed and caspar’s hand didn’t move away. there’s no dread reflected in his best friend’s features, only reckless confidence. linhardt stares, he stares and assumes until he hears caspar speak and--

A beautifully etched Tabarzin,

Length: 21 in/53.3 cm

Weight: 1.7 lbs/751 g

Priti Reference

Character Reference for Priti, an elected member of the Amba Sanctuary Council. A powerful warrior and military strategist, she is ready to lead the next generation of warriors to a brighter future! She wears armor based on pangolin scale and char-aina/mirror armor that she wears over her sari! The armor detailing took forever my goodness but I'm happy with how it turned out!

                       10th of the verdant rain moon, imperial year 1170

today is the day. today is the day where asmund comes to collect the mail! oh, he’s been desperately awaiting for this moment since his wednesday lessons concluded, to where ink would soon splotch upon his little hands and mother would scold him for being too wasteful. the days dragged with the consistency of molasses; as miraculous as slumber was did its magic become ineffective against infinite minutes and painstaking days. by the time monday’s dawn breaks upon the hevring estate, linhardt’s already finished three-quarters of the week’s assignments in his restless state, only accompanied by the dreary drone of hevring’s ceaseless showers and the restless shaking of an impatient leg.

that’s to say, all that waiting pays off the moment the grandfather clock strikes five o’clock! it takes a miracle greater than what the goddess can accord for the small heir to rise and an even stronger will for him to wiggle out of his makeshift cocoon. a hand pats his bedside drawer, searching until the tips of his fingers brush against the creased edge of an envelope. the touch instantaneously summons forth the rise of a thrilled grin and linhardt feels his heart run, the anticipation of a furtive plan wards away any remnants of slumber. a seal of verdun green glistens in a near sunless room (it’s the wax seal that he’s stamped himself!), beneath the insignia of house hevring lays the woes of a boy separated by land and political disputes from a friend he dearly misses. but not for long, because father’s back at enbarr and he’s figured out the bergliez’s address, which means nothing will stop him from speaking to his best friend now!

well, except for if the letters go to ervin. but he doesn’t really care about ervin and ervin knows he doesn’t really care about him, so why would he want to send a letter to him? and why would ervin want to read it? he’s made sure to put caspar’s name in gigantic script on the back and even the front, to make it clear that the letter is for caspar von bergliez.

the treasured note is slipped into the pocket of his jammies. the occasional droplet of water hitting against the windowsill implies an incoming rain which means he has to keep the letter dry before delivery. his favorite blanket, wool dyed a deep pine green, is thrown over his shoulders and wrapped as a makeshift capelet before the small heir creeps out the threshold of his room and heads to the grand staircase. he has to be careful or else mother or one of the servitors will wake up and shoo him back to bed. if he goes back to bed then he’ll go back to sleep then, if he goes back to sleep, he won’t be awake by the time asmund comes to collect the mail and that means he has to wait another week before he can talk to caspar. he’s already waited enough!

it’s freezing outside. it takes about thirty seconds before linhardt starts shivering, fingers weakly grasping around his blanket tighter. mist falls heavily upon the territory as the sun shyly begins to peak over the mountains; it’ll be a while until asmund arrives. caspar’s letter has to be the first letter asmund collects though since it’s obviously the most important, so that eliminates any desire for the little hevring heir to escape back into the warmth of his family’s manor. burning nostrils aside, the young boy stays outside and gives an experimental huff, watching as his breath condenses. he wishes asmund could arrive faster.

         .  .  .  .

5th of the verdant rain moon, 1170

     to my best friend caspar,

did you read that? it says caspar, not ervin. if ervin’s reading this, do give the letter to caspar. it’s not for you.

if caspar is reading this, hi. it’s linhardt, your best friend. i wanted to talk to you again. do you know how to write a letter? i don’t think you do but that’s okay because i do and i’m going to help you! you say the letter is for me, linhardt von hevring, on top. that’s the greeting. then, you make some space and write what  you want to me. that’s the body. then you make some more space and sign your name. ‘your best friend, caspar’ because you’re my best friend. then you put it in an envelope and send it back to me.

does it rain a lot in bergliez? i want to go to bergliez but father said i can’t because your family are ‘barbarians.’  that means you guys are stupid. i don’t think it’s nice for him to say that, even if it's true about ervin. i heard it's very green in bergliez. i want to see what it looks like because it’s very grey in hevring, but i don’t think father will let me because your family is stupid.

i wanted to go walk to bergliez, but it’s a very long walk and i’ll get tired even if i want to see you again. if i get tired, i’ll go to sleep. if i go to sleep outside the estate mother says i’ll get kidnapped, which means i’ll get stolen. if i get stolen, she’ll cry and get her tears all over me. i guess since i’ll be kidnapped it won’t be me but she’ll get her tears all over someone and that’s rude. i don’t want my mother to cry and be rude so i can’t see you until father says i can. can you make your family less stupid so i can visit? you can start with ervin. tell him to read a book.

                                 from your best friend,                                             linhardt

@tabarzin / heavy armor.  

in the pleasantries of new beginnings, something odious lurks.  

it smugly greets the hevring boy upon the entrance into his humble dorm, an inconspicuous threat. grotesque fangs are borne in antiquated gold, a spiral of twelve dipped in hellfire. a singular eye stands vigilant at center, calculating. watching. waiting, if only for a moment’s worth of vulnerability.

linhardt tried to ignore it. he gave his utmost effort to feign ignorance, tried to swallow down the festering sense of malaise as he filled his new abode with baggages of personal effects and boxes of literature. a small price of freedom, he had called the exchange. a taste of independence, a year of isolation from his family’s direct influence, all for the price of bearing the threat of a ubiquitous fiend, one who greets him at every waking moment and gives its regards at the night’s last hour.

alas, the hevring boy’s resolve is weak. it breaks in the afternoon of the second day, for the menace shatters the poor mage’s defense, gnaws upon the back of his subconscious until he decides, he cannot take it anymore! linhardt’s patience wanes as his mind somersaults; he makes a break out of his personal quarters. he stomps down to the stairs then upwards until he’s made his presence in the secondary floor and makes a beeline to where his fellow adrestians reside. he passes the imperial princess’ door and then her retainer’s, they’ll be no use to him in this matter, and obsidian boots finally halt as they near the abode of a certain bergliez boy. pale knuckles thunder against worn wood, louder, louder, and LOUDER until the door comes to a swinging open. then, through bated breath, linhardt gives his desperate call: “caspar, it’s urgent.”

he needs to say no more as caspar offers him his companionship and the two begin their descent. linhardt guides his beloved friend with haste back to where his personal quarters is stationed, the door abandoned and opened wide. the hevring heir steps in, then urges his friend to do the same.

“this is the problem.” he speaks his words with clear conviction as thin brows dip into a hardened expression and a singular pale hand points upwards, towards the heavens. at the elegant tip of a finger, the menace is revealed. suspended above, a draft of air triggers the faintest groan as light dances off the edge of its countenance. its facade crumbles at the hevring boy’s gambit and in a matter of seconds, the foul fiend’s true identity is unveiled:

a singular chandelier, lit.

@tabarzin​ continued from here:

permeating his senses, caspar raises his stare from the dancing branches of a distant palm. “wha––” the spoon nearly tumbles from its arched throne, stocky fingers stabilizing the silver handle as he turns his head ‘round – the twist and motion of his neck is so rapid that several things crack; what made such heinous sounds exactly, he doesn’t know. “look at what? is there a shark?”

see, when linhardt says something is unbelievable, it certainly has to be.

cerulean eyes narrow as dark lashes intrude on a diminishing field of vision, observing the surface of an early afternoon sea as it twinkles with the sun’s guidance. rolling waves crash unto the shore in rhythmic beats and the horizon sways, a barren eternity of nonexistence – not even the fantastical breach of a whale, larger than the island itself in its glory, littered with the scars of an eternal battle for survival against mutated sea gators and giant squids, greets caspar in his search for linhardt’s unbelievable sights.

“hey, lin, i think it went away––” but there is an absence of shrill gripe in his voice, only unfettered imagination let loose on a tongue that never seems to slow, “d’ya think there’s any sharks in there though? how about crocodiles? maybe electric eels–– oh, i heard electric eels are mean suckers!” then, he turns his head. “wha’dya think––”

then, his gaze darts from the sacred raspberry on linhardt’s spoon – a centimeter from his lips, a lost cause – to the sorbet in his hand.

on his nose, somehow, his own spoon remains. “not my last raspberry!”

this isn’t to say caspar doesn’t share his food; he does, under the circumstances that he’s asked or the inspiration comes to swallow his own gluttony – plucking from his bowl without permission, however, is grounds for physical battle. war, even. but it’s linhardt, and linhardt is himself; it’s in his nature to pull such tricks on the unsuspecting and, thus, caspar does what he does best: stare at his friend with such weight and disbelief that his next spoonful of sorbet almost tastes bitter. and a little bit like nose.

caspar huffs, his voice slightly muffled by the cold delicacy, “you owe me a whole shark for that.”

the raspberry sways in the spoon’s hollow as a result of linhardt’s atypical speed, a titter almost rises from the heir as he thinks: oh, yes, your last raspberry.  now, he has no reason to cruelly vulture off his best friend’s sorbet. in fact, his own cup of plum sorbet perfectly stands between them, a forgotten delicacy that’s begun to melt under balmy rays. it’s not as if caspar wouldn’t have given up the berry had linhardt kindly asked, but alas. there is amusement to be had in the way his best friend whizzes around, cyan eyes wide as they bounce across the ocean’s surface for a sighting of the bizarre. hilarity comes through the beats of the bergliez boy’s reactions, a second of exhilaration turns into the confusion until boyish features contort into bewilderment as the realization of linhardt’s tease dawns. meanwhile, linhardt had purposely slowed his spoon’s trajectory so caspar could witness the final seconds of devastation firsthand as linhardt closed his lips ‘round the utensil, corners of his lips twisted upwards as a tart flavor washes ‘pon his tastebuds.

as expected, victory does taste sweeter.

caspar sulks and linhardt gives a playful roll of his eyes as he moves the spoon away. might linhardt argue, there’s victory to be had between both parties. whilst he indulges in a succulent treat, caspar certainly has become aware, again, of his gullibility. silverware burrows itself in a mound of plum, linhardt uses his now free hand to perch his chin on the palm.

“a whole shark?” he repeats. in opposed to what, half a shark? three-quarters of a shark?  still, linhardt shakes his head and sighs at the statement. “of course, just give me a moment to contact the goddess.” he turns his head to give a distant look towards the ocean’s horizon. “oh, goddess,” he begins, a lilt evident in his sarcasm-laced words, “please bless these waters with the absolutely thrilling appearance of a shark. multiple of them, if you will, for this dear friend of mine.”

there’s silence at first as the hevring heir continues to peer into the blue expanse. then, he turns his attention away to focus on more important matters: their sorbet. he’s about to make another shrewd comment at caspar but, as his parts his lips open, a scream cuts through the expanse.

                “SHARKS!” he hears someone cry, “multiple of them! in the water!”