Oblivion Iron Armor Novels & Stories

Neither Mom nor Dad spared me a backward glance. From that day onward, I learned to stand on my own two feet. I had to take care of myself. I was only six years old when I faced the loneliness, the danger, and the helplessness of life on my own. I forced myself to be strong and resilient. I forced myself to be independent. I made sure to build a tough armor around myself to protect myself from harm. My armor was close to perfect during my childhood and teenage years. However, on the night of my 18th birthday, the first crack started to form in my carefully-crafted armor.

Curse on them all, he would now have to slay Olobiri quickly, which would be less than the madman deserves. His challenger already stood waiting. Olobiri, the skeleton smith, the bone gatherer, the bane of Benin was albino, tall and handsome. Nearly as tall as Arualan, wider at the shoulders with arms the size of tree trunks. Garbed in his terrible bleached bone armor, a large buffalo skull for helm sat firmly on his dreadlocked head. In each of his hands, he held a long-jagged knife made of bones; a collection of human skulls decorated his waist, clattering together in the evening breeze, finger bones taken from his victims, held together on a string was tied around his neck. Olobiri was ap

The weapons needing sharpened blades laid atop a table closest to the inner room where the man did all his forging. The realm armor was not something Sethlzaar ever found pleasing to look upon. Those that rested for repairs were even less pleasing. He would choose the priestly cassock over them any day. Even his war cloak which proved void of any form of armor, to aid easy movement, was more acceptable to him than what the soldiers wore. Still, he understood the need for armor.

I can be a handful, but only because I can take care of myself and don’t need babysitters. I do feel bad for them though, hence why I like to give them breaks – which they refuse to take. Not only are these two stuck standing guard in front of whatever room I’m in, but they have to do it covered head to toe in armour. Looks amazing, but I wouldn’t want to wear it. The armour is made from graphene, it’s flexible and elastic while being strong and lightweight. The beauty of this particular armour is that it’s been imbued with makkari magic. The armour is sentient, to a degree. It can sense the species of the attacking enemy and alter itself accordingly. So, if say a sirna was attacking them, t

Willa clutched the throne, shaking, then forced herself up. "Selene! Come out! What, too scared? Show yourself if you've got the guts!" She had no idea. I wasn't just rocking two Powers anymore. After munching on a few spoiled brats' cores, I unlocked a bonus—Invisibility. Had to check if my Powers even worked with her plot armor jamming everything, so I ghosted up and stepped in. Didn't expect her to whip out an AK and go full psycho. All that fear? Gone.

"The Directorate left a billion people in the 'Scarcity-Zones', people who don't have the Alpha-infection, people whose lungs are still rotting from the old smog. They need the 'Stabilization-Seeds' now, or they won't live to see the first harvest." ​"The Iron-Guard is ready," Kael said, stepping onto the bridge. He was no longer wearing his grey armor. He wore a suit of "Obsidian-Plate", scales grown directly from the vines, bonded to his skin by a neural-link that hummed with a low, comforting bronze light. "We’ve prepped the first 'Seed-Caravans.' Six heavy-duty Crawlers, reinforced with Null-Shields. We’re heading for the Northern Wastes first." ​"Who’s leading the vanguard?" Elena asked

They looked pathetic—starving, hollow-eyed men wearing ragged, faded crimson cloaks draped over rusted, scavenged pieces of Starved Iron armor. But the terror in their eyes vanished the moment they saw us. It was replaced by the fanatic, unyielding zeal of a dead empire. "For the Iron Crown!" the lead soldier screamed, his voice cracking from years of breathing toxic dust. He didn't draw a sword. He reached into a padded leather pouch on his chest and pulled out a small, thick glass vial. Inside the glass, a few ounces of pitch-black, bioluminescent water swirled violently, desperate to expand.

The vaulted, shadowed ceiling high above us seemed to violently shatter. The Emperor's elite, personal executioners, the Crimson Guard, rained like armored rain. They wore heavy articulated armor made of obsidian laced with glowing crimson runes and wore featureless iron masks on their faces. They did not have blood-magic whips, but they had huge, jagged broad swords that were built to cut a Lycan in half. "Form the perimeter!" Kaelen roared, and his midnight black tailored suit tore at its seams, as his divine starlight violently erupted.

"That is where Aidan moved the primary lab. It is the only building with a dedicated power grid and independent oxygen scrubbers." Sora adjusted the grip on his knife. He could see them. At least twenty tactical officers in full Corvin gear. They weren't just guards. They were wearing specialized silver-mesh armor designed to reflect Shifter attacks. He felt the frequency in his blood surge, humming against the back of his neck where Vardan had burned the tracker. The scar was tight, pulling at his skin, a constant reminder of the parasite that had lived inside him. "The armor they wear has a weakness," Vardan said, his voice a low rumble beside Sora’s ear. "The joints at the neck and the ba

The featureless iron helm of the ancient guardian did not reflect the blinding, golden glare of the overloading Pale Collar; it absorbed the light entirely, its pitted, rust-scaled surface drinking the violent illumination like a sponge. The towering figure stood over seven feet tall, its massive frame wrapped in rotting, oil-slicked crimson cloth that had survived centuries frozen in the deep rifts of the Great Divide. As the automaton shifted its weight, the gears within its joints ground together with a low, agonizing groan of long-dormant brass and ice-encrusted iron, the sound vibrating through the solid bedrock beneath our boots.