#maille armour

[m3dieval]

Selfmade.Knight's 1300-1320 knight recreation.

#14th century #reenactment #knight #medieval #maille armour #helm crest #riveted maille #knightcore #spear

[armthearmour]

I've finished a couple of maille commissions recently.

This one's a long-legged brayette, all riveted, made from 7mm links. It is designed to extend just below the knee, and so includes a lozenge-shaped gore near the end of each leg.

And here, another standard. Mixed solid/riveted with a 9mm dagged mantle and 6mm collar. The liner is five layers of linen.

Overall, I'm pretty pleased with my progress, and both of these clients seem pretty happy with their commissions!

#armor #armour #mail #chainmail #maille #medieval #middle ages #renaissance #art #history

[we-are-knight]

Parzival is a high medieval story, featuring king Arthur and the holy grail. It was written in Germany close to the year 1200. At that time knights were fighting in mail armour which they refer to as harness in the epos - not hauberk. Here is what was found:

1. Knights have rust and dust on them after wearing mail armor. It also stains their undergarments.

2. Knights always have assistance for putting on armour. Yet when abandoned and all alone Parzival is able to put on his harness by him self.

3. The harness has laces and they get frequently checked for wear and tear.

4. The harness has a mail hood that can be opened without taking the armour off.

5. People appreciate shiny mail armour.

And the following is the passage in which the protagonist sees mail armour for the first time. He is a little boy and in his nativity he sees some knights and thinks they are gods:

(English adaptation)

Loud they laughed as the boy spake further, 'Good knight, what may these be?

These rings that so close around thee, above and below I see.'

Then he handled, with curious finger, the armour the knight did bear,

His coat of mail close-linkèd as behovèd a knight to wear;

And he spake as he looked on the harness, 'My mother's maidens string

On their chains, and around their fingers, full many a shining ring,

But they cling not so close to each other as these rings that here I see,

I cannot force them asunder, what good are they then to thee?'

(original:)

aber sprach der knappe sân,

dâ von ein lachen wart getân.

«ay ritter guot, waz mahtu sîn?

du hâst sus manec vingerlîn

an dînen lîp gebunden,

dort oben unt hie unden.»

aldâ begreif des knappen hant

swaz er îsers ame fürsten vant:

dez harnasch begunder schouwen.

«mîner muoter juncfrouwen

ir vingerlîn an snüeren tragnt,

diu niht sus an einander ragnt.»

der knappe sprach durch sînen muot

zem fürsten «war zuo ist diz guot,

daz dich sô wol kan schicken?

ine mages niht ab gezwicken.»

#knight #chivalry #chainmail #maille #cavalier #knights #arthurian literature #arthurian legend #Parzival #wolfram von eschenbach #armour #history #fashion in steel

[ladyevilmetals]

Queen of Hearts Coif by Lady Evil Metals

#chainmail #chainmaille #handmade #valentine #valentines day #coif #armor #medieval #fantasy #renaissance #cosplay #pink aesthetic #maille #knight #lady knight #women in armor #armour #lady evil metals #queen of hearts #pink #ladyevilmetals

[pencilbrony]

Assorted armour

#not pony #concept #fantasy #design #armour #suit #plate #platemail #maille

[tovaicas]

It was the ending of the Dragonsong War, however, that brought the most significant improvement in Ishgardian armorsmithing with the reemergence of another long-forgotten forging technique: that of smelting ore in dragon flame to imbue its metal with arcane draconic magicks. It seems likely that Haldrath’s armor, crafted in a time of friendship between man and dragon, was created using this technique.

sometimes I really really wish job armours had questlines attached to them to get them (like how you earned the drachen maille over multiple quests in ARR!DRG, vs the current design of them just giving it to you automatically as a quest reward / having some blacksmith NPC make it with no preamble) bc I really want to see this

#saint.txt #spoilers #ishgardposting #I mean they *kinda* sorta got into it with ehl tou but it was pretty lukewarm. #idk man I just wanna see more of ishgard moving on from the war!! the possibilities of them working together with the dravanians!! #this is cool and interesting!!!!!!!! #like it would've been so cool if one of the DRG armours was made w/ the *help* of a dragon rather than just in its image #esp. considering how drachen maille is made and how existentially horrifying it is #you know. bring the circle back around. #unless end.walker *does* do this idk I haven't finished the expac yet

[nightbringer24]

Looking up Medieval African armour is a hoot, especially when you ignore the fantasy stuff because... it’s a hoot. And not in a bad way.

Cavalry of the Ghana Empire (circa 300AD to circa 1200AD)

Royal Spearman of Kingdom of Makuria (5th century to 1518)

Oba (King) of the Kingdom of Benin and guards (1180 - 1897)

Mansa Musa, 9th Ruler of the Malian Empire (ruled c.1312 AD to c.1337 AD). I just like this picture.

Maille armour and iron cuirasses were a common thing too, though the latter were of a different design to European styles.

Empire of Bornu (c.1380′s - 1893)

#personal

[qsycomplainsalot]

What is Maille Armor?

Long story short, this.

Maille, or mail as it is anglicized, is a type of armor made of small interlinked metal (iron, steel, brass...) rings. It is also sometimes referred to as chainmail, which is a neologism dating back at least to the 19th century, mistakenly using mail to mean armor as a whole.

A reenactor wearing the equipment of a 11th/12th century knight, featuring complete maille armor under a tabard and a nasal helmet.

Maille armor was likely invented in several different locations in History, with the Celts usually being credited with creating it as far as Europe is concerned. It is one of longest lived types of armour and was used as early as the Iron Age all the way to the modern day, where it has been used as anti-shark armor by divers, and by specialty police units as a defense against knives. It has historically been worn alone or as a complement to various types of plate armor. It was reliable against melee blows and projectiles, but with a distinct advantage when dealing with slashes from an edged weapons. Due to its flexibility however it did not do well against blunt weapons.

With each ring being linked to about half a dozen other, maille acted in all intent and purpose like a very heavy sword-proof fabric, making it very useful to protect the joints of a rigid suit of armor. Used alone, the weight of a maille shirt would be carried on the shoulder and at the waist using a belt. In any case it would usually be worn over at least a fabric garment and more usually some kind of padded armor like a gambeson.

Related Vocabulary

Butted Mail: Maille where each individual link is not actually closed, with both ends of the wire forming it simply touching each other. This was mostly used in Japan with finer maille made of smaller rings.

Riveted Mail: Maille as found commonly in History, where each link is closed around its neighbors using a single rivet.

Welded Mail: Maille where each link is welded or soldered shut, which is an historically rare method, used primarily by the Romans for their Lorica Hamata.

Hauberk: Western name used for a maille shirt, usually covering the thighs as well.

Camail: Head protection made entirely of maille.

Aventail: Neck and shoulder protection made of maille and attached to a helmet.

#history #what is #armor

[kleinergeist]

I keep forgetting that my Whatsapp profile picture is a photo of me in 14th century armour I got to try on at a museum one time. I'm on a bunch of buy/sell groups and occasionally cause confusion when I meet up irl with someone who wasn't expecting a 5'6 sickly Victorian child in smudged eyeliner and a lacy dress.

And they're like, "Art thou my knight, cap-a-pie in maille and great helm as I did see in thy illumination? Thou art but a waifish barne, too meek to swing a s'wrd!"

And I'm like

"Aye, I be the gallant knight of Whatsappe. Here is thy second hand microwave"

#knight #armour #armor #funny stuff

[just-horrible-things]

Loiral and Marcus - Routine - 8.ii

[First | Prev | Contents]

"Work" as it turns out is not the ordeal Loiral is expecting. He sits at the table with Marcus, and answers questions about politics. They refer frequently to the map as Loiral dredges his memory for troop numbers and movements, past skirmishes, trade deals and supposed alliances, and Marcus takes copious notes in an unfamiliar script.

He thinks about lying, but it seems unwise. It's difficult to sabotage an endeavour with misinformation when you don't have the first idea what that endeavour might be. And he's acutely conscious of the consequences of being caught out. He can't start to guess what the surfacer might already know, and that's before the possibility of magic for catching lies.

Marcus' attention seems to centre on Houses Det'tar and Noquvalin and their territories and affairs. What Loiral can infer from that he's not yet sure, but if he keeps his ears open maybe he will start to understand what is going on. Not having any personal history with Det'tar or Noquvalin, he struggles to answer many of the questions in much detail. To his profound relief, Marcus doesn't press him for information he doesn't have.

"I'm not a library," he grumbles sourly, unable to come up with anything about hypothetical dealings between Houses Det'tar and Barrahel. "Don't worry," Marcus smiles, "A library visit is in our itinerary. How about House Al'Sekath?" "We've probably bought something from them, or sold to them." "Come now, you can be more specific than that." "I'm thinking," Loiral protests plaintively. "I don't think I've seen anything with their stamp on it recently..." "And can you draw that stamp for me?" "I can try..." Reluctantly he sketches, on a new page, the stylised execution scene of the Det'tar sigil. It comes out lopsided and not looking much like the original. "Just look at their front gates," he jabs a finger at the map, "it's blazoned twelve feet tall."

"Hm. So, nothing recent, you say... what about less recently?" "I think we bought some maille from Det'tar when I was younger... just a few coats, nothing to wage war over." He remembers getting to touch it -- dark links that ran over his hands like water -- but it was meant for someone more important than Loiral. His aunt made the deal, he thinks. "If not Det'tar, from whom would you normally purchase arms and armour?" "House Orlivayas," he lies easily. "And does Det'tar export a lot of metalwork?" "I don't think so. They have an excellent smith and she does piecework for the occasional client, but as far as I know they don't have extensive forges..."

And so it goes on.

Nothing about this exercise ought to be particularly strenuous, but Loiral finds he is flagging by the time he's finally dismissed. His thoughts are sluggish and a headache is building behind his eyes. "Weapons practice in an hour," Marcus tells the drow. "You may do as you will until then." "Yes, master." Best behaviour. "Thank you, master." This is tolerable. If things stay this way, he can survive this. He will mind his manners and not provoke the human and maybe he can survive this.

Do as you will. He doesn’t know what to do. There is nothing in this bright, foreign house that he wants to do. The closest thing to want is he does not want to still be in the same room as his master. So he slinks back toward the pitiful bed that is his to rest in. He’ll rest for an hour, and then they’ll let him spar, and maybe he will feel a little more like himself for it.

Except he doesn’t get all the way to his bed. He meets one of the juveniles in the hall, the one – he thinks – who hit him in the face by mistake. The same whip is coiled on her hip, the same arrogant strut marks her gait. She grins when she sees Loiral, showing off a crooked mouthful of broad, oversized teeth.

He doesn't know the word she uses as a command, but the gesture is clear enough. One hand extended in front of her, a single finger pointed at the floor and then jabbed sharply downward. It can only be "Down."

Loiral's soul aches with humiliation. His hands itch to lash out. 

When he doesn’t move fast enough, the girl sticks her hand out again and confidently grasps the front of Loiral's collar. She doesn’t have Marcus' terrible strength, but Loiral lets her force him to his knees anyway.

Even absent, the priest stands behind Loiral, controlling his every move.

He lets his head drop as the human lets go of his collar. Her hands run through his hair, invasive. Shame burns across his skin. One hand cups the back of his skull and pushes him down further. He folds like a doll.

She’s talking, jabbering in her own tongue, cooing like a woman with a favourite lover. The sheer perversity of it turns Loiral’s stomach. He could kill her, if her clumsiness with the whip is any indication of her general competence. She’s barely even bigger than him. He could kill her, and mutilate her corpse, and feed it to the lizards.

But instead he grovels at her feet, and her hands roam over his back, and he does nothing to stop her.

Even when the knife comes out, he does nothing. The edge kisses his skin. Cold – and then warm as blood wells. It’s sharp enough that it barely stings. Or she’s picked a line of scar tissue where he’s lost more sensation than he thought. Or his ordeal under the scourge has destroyed his perspective and his ability to tell what is damaging him.

She lifts his head, fingers tangled in his hair, and the tug on his scalp doesn’t really hurt either.

She speaks, the words loud and slow and drawn-out as if that could somehow breach the language barrier. Loiral watches mutely. Lack of reaction is most likely the best way to convey that he doesn’t understand.

Using his hair as a handle still, she sits him back on his heels. When her grip releases, he stays where he is put. More pointless, incomprehensible words, guttural even in her youth’s voice. She holds one hand out towards Loiral, palm up, as if pantomiming a request for something to be handed over.

Loiral has nothing, just the clothes on his back. He stares blankly at her hand. She sighs, and that at least seems to be universal. Not that it helps him to know that she is growing frustrated.

She grabs his wrist, moves his arm through the same motion, and he understands enough to present his hand, palm up. Another word. When she lets go, he holds still. Same pantomime, other arm. He offers her his other hand also. The same word again. Praise, perhaps. Or maybe she’s trying to teach him the word for hand, or for this gesture. He has no way to know.

It should, he thinks, be an effort to keep his palms out and vulnerable like this. He knows that nothing good is about to happen. But a strange calm has settled into the crevices of his soul, and he feels nothing but dull disgust for the girl.

Whatever damage she does, Marcus will fix it. He’s fixed everything he’s done so far, so it’s clear he wants his property fit and whole.

The knife is no surprise. The tip traces the lines of his palm, grazing the skin just enough that a barely-felt sting trails a few seconds in its wake. He watches, disinterested, as she presses a little firmer. It’s sharp. The tip sinks into the heel of his hand without resistance, without even exerting the pressure that might make him flinch downwards away from it.

It hurts a little. But it doesn’t matter. Less pain than biting his tongue, less than a deep bruise, less pain than the morning after a hard training session.

The knife comes away with just the barest hint of his blood still clinging to it. She’s scared to cut any deeper, Loiral surmises, more scared of the consequences than he is, somehow.

Instead she scores another shallow cut. The skin parts like paper, blood welling slowly to fill the indentation. What a nuisance. How is he to touch anything without leaving prints of blood now? Two, three, four lines, none of them deep enough to nick the sinews. One palm and then the other, and he doesn’t even lower his hands. 

Blood trickles across his skin, runs round the sides of his hands, gathers underneath and drips from his knuckles onto his knees. Is it less red than usual? Diminished, perhaps, by how much he lost, and not quite fully restored by the magic he received?

Maybe he’s imagining it. Maybe it’s just his soul that is dimmer and drained of its vitality.

The human girl is exclaiming something. Impressed or annoyed by his lack of reaction, perhaps?

There – that feeling in his chest is fear, putting in an appearance at last. Not sharp terror, nor the suffocating anxiety of the priest’s presence, but a low, dull pang as he wonders how far she’ll go to get the results she wants. Should he be faking a response? Cowering, crying, begging her for mercy?

He can do it, he thinks, if he has to. He will do it, if it starts to be too much. The throb of his sliced palms is bearable, but he doesn’t want to know if he can bear losing a finger.

But all she does is lay the blade flat against one of Loiral’s palms, and close his fingers around it. He holds on, tentatively. The sharp edges are more painful buried in the flesh and shifting with every twitch of his muscles than they were just gliding across the skin and departing. But it’s bearable.

She lets go of the hilt. The absurdity of handing Loiral a weapon very nearly makes him laugh, but he schools his features to stillness. No need to warn her, if – if he – 

His heart is pounding, thundering in his ears. He could kill her, right here, right now. He could open her throat and it would feel so good to take back that power. To take her life from her and watch the shock fade from her idiot, animal eyes.

It isn’t worth the price.

She’s pantomiming flipping his hand over, fist still closed. Loiral obeys, demonstrating that he’s really holding onto the blade. The metal bites a little deeper. It’s nothing more than a bravado trick. He’s seen more than one young soldier do it to themselves just for the social kudos.

The same idiots who really do lose fingers trying to catch blades barehanded once they’ve convinced themselves that it’s not so bad. 

Loiral’s never felt the need to hurt himself participating in that kind of one-upmanship, but he supposes he could now without flinching. If he survives this, will it be the dead calm that persists, or the suffocating fear, the twitching at stray footfalls? Is there anything he can do to choose one over the other?

He’s almost sliding towards reverie as he watches the blood drip from between his fingers, but he jolts back to the present the instant the girl moves. She snatches her knife back, but she’s not quick, and Loiral is able to loosen his grip enough that he doesn’t think anything important is severed as it slides from his grasp.

She wipes it on his clothes, and even the deliberate slight doesn’t really sting either, because they aren’t his clothes and because he’s been filthy enough that he doesn’t care.

She wants to see the damage, of course, before she’s willing to move on. It does burn, loosening his fingers to let her see, and reluctance starts to well up from that ache in Loiral’s chest.

Those last cuts are deep. At rest the edges don’t sit closed, and white is visible in the wound as well as red. A little grimace from the human tells him she didn’t quite mean to do so much damage.

He wonders if she’ll be in trouble with Marcus. He hopes so. He remembers her fear.

She closes his fingers again like she doesn’t want to see, and Loiral keeps the hand fisted as away to apply pressure and slow the bleeding. Not that it matters. He won’t lose enough to die before Marcus finds him again and fixes it.

Her knee knocks his shoulder as she brushes past. The drow waits until she’s gone, then picks himself up.

Back to his mat he slinks, because he doesn’t know what else to do with himself. Especially now that he’d paint anything he touched with his blood. He lies down, curls up, and closes his eyes to feign sleep. They usually leave him alone when his eyes are shut.

His hands throb. The pain is ramping up now as his body realises the damage. He keeps them balled tight, as if he could crush the pain into submission along with the blood flow. 

And then he’s crying.

One second he’s just annoyed at the indignity, the next the pain and helplessness and indignity hit him like a wall. He can’t believe he just sat there and let her do that. He can’t believe he didn’t even try to protest or pull away. And now he’s crying again, how pathetic, how spineless is he.

He rolls over to face the wall, as if it could hide his tears. He curls up tight around his hands. And, teeth gritted, telling himself over and over to just pull himself together, he sobs into his knees.

#my writing #loiral and marcus #marcus arcuarius #loiral al'sekath #this story is still theoretically inactive #but you have asked and I have delivered #one pathetic drow boi

[m3dieval]

[Video Source]

#knight #naturecore #reenactment #forest #13th century #nice horse #chainmail #maille armour

[rosella-writes]

You said "Solas/Anyone" and I am taking full advantage of it! How about Solas/Spirit for "A shard of mirrored glass that reflects a different sky." Could be any spirit - Wisdom, Valour, Curiosity, Purpose, Compassion, etc. Your choice!

THANK YOUUUUU this was fun 🥰for @dadrunkwriting

Rating: Gen Relationships: past solavellan, Solas x Spirit Warnings: Angst?

~~~

There are eddies of memory at the brim of this broken mirror — a frame that once held a door, now a bronzed barrier that lacks its magic. Solas revisits it.

It had been this mirror that had heard his monotone confession to the Inquisitor. It had been silent witness to her grasping at his armour as her arm fell away to nothing. He kneels in the grass once again, and a shard of glass clinks against the maille that covers his knees.

«You kneel,» mutters a familiar voice, in more perfect Elvhen than its owner had ever managed in the Waking, «but it is not out of humility. It is cowardice.»

Solas does not look up. He keeps his eyes fixed on the glass, which reflects a sky that is ruddy with a faraway sunset. The sky above him is colourless and bland.

The presence draws near — it had been faint before, but it is inexorable and indisputable now. It is a challenge, a boast, a call to action, and its source does not kneel, but stands over him.

«Ah, Pride,» says the spirit. «Stand to greet me. Grovelling does not suit you.»

There is a touch on his chin. He lets it guide his face up, towards the sky, towards the gaze of this being that has been drawn to this place of shame.

It is not corporeal — it shifts between faces that are nearly those of the people he has loved, and its form is the colour of the sky that the mirror shards hold. As he watches, staring at it with eyes that grow hot and spill over, a familiar smile crosses its face.

«Did I bring you here, my friend?» Solas says.

It chuckles. «No. I have been here, in the mirror, waiting. Do you remember when you broke it?»

He does, in a flash of deep, soul-rending shame. His lack of control was inexcusable. He will not be so foolish again.

«Why do you wear her face?» he finally asks.

He staggers to his feet, but the spirit does not move away — it has solidified during the course of his thoughts, taking a form that is strong, armoured in dragon bone, and armed with a great blade upon its back. Its face is reproachful, as hers was once. He wishes to bury his fingers into her coily hair and press his mouth to the one that scowls so petulantly, just as she used to.

The spirit grunts with dissatisfaction. It juts out its chin in challenge, and the familiar gesture sends a shard of pain into his heart. «We take the shapes expected of us. My nature is one of bravery and duty. Whose face should I wear but hers?»

Solas does not answer — he cannot. He puts out a hand, and the spirit, after a beat of deliberation, allows him to touch its face. He can feel the ridges of its vallaslin, the deep gouges of the scar beneath its eye, and the curve of its cheek as it smiles.

«Your soul cried out, so I answered,» it murmurs. «She gave you courage when you were lost. Fortitude in your weakness. Determination in the face of your doubt. I am but a remembrance of her in this place, where she stood against you one last time. Does this form help you?»

Solas clasps the spirit's face between his hands, then leans his forehead against its own. He closes his eyes.

«Yes, Valor,» he tells it. «And we have work to do.»

#solas #solavellan #solas x spirit #dadwc #my writing #dragon age #THANK YOUUUUUUUU #idk how spirits work man i'm just wingin it

[we-are-knight]

Knight, by Witt

#knight #chivalry #plate armour #longsword #cavalier #knights #arming sword #sword #maille #bascinet #helmet #surcoat #heraldry #scabbard

[ladyevilmetals]

Chainmaille Shirt by Lady Evil Metals

#chainmaille #chainmail #chainmail shirt #chainmaille shirt #chainmail top #chainmaille top #armor #armour #handmade #art #maille #medieval #medieval jewelry #ren faire #renaissance #renaissance festival #fantasy #fantasy aesthetic #lady knight #knight #knightcore #fantasy armor #metal #gothic #fashion #cosplay #larp #cosplay armor #ladyevilmetals #lady evil metals

[cherenkovs]

[tovaicas]

…..do I make rouvastre in MHW

#the crossover does have drachen maille… #and if I use male model I don’t have to contend w/ monhun’s awful fem armour…. #saint.txt