The Armourer Novels & Stories

Kirou's reply was given with a cheeky grin. Bladesmith couldn't help raising an eyebrow at the fact that this young lad just pointed out the details of what had happened so easily as if he was there from the start. He then nodded to himself before getting up. He then walked over to Kirou and extended his right hand out in greeting. "Alright lad. Allow me to reintroduce myself. My name is Bladesmith. I'm the Lycan in charge of this village's armory and I'm also the weapon master instructor."

Boro pulled his blade from the throat of the woman he had killed. Using her thick woolen cloak to wipe away the blood already beginning to freeze on the gleaming metal. He felt a burning sensation in the left side of his abdomen and saw a wide puncture mark in his steel armour.

That way, he was able to explain why both he and the boy carried swords that otherwise would have only been owned by a knight or a nobility. “My father taught us to be polite, my lady, for the lords and knights who bought swords from him.” “Hm.” Aurora muttered. “It matters not. I refuse to delve into the Forest with a stranger.” Archer bowed his head. Old Maude tutted, a sound that is increasingly becoming familiar. “Now, now. Like I said, Theobald, I will do my best to heal your brother, with or without the flower.” “Thank you, kind lady.”

Daimon explained before calling out for the assassins he brought with him to carry Shadow in a stretcher. Shadow, confused, tried to retaliate. "Save me? Hah!" he shouted with the remaining strength he had left. Daimon's smile dropped before he held Shadow's arm which had a massive cut on it. "Fuck!!" he screamed in agony, echoing within the forest.

The only other things in the trunk were the full chainmail armour, an elaborate waist belt, a leather pouch, a set of tubular bells and cloak with the coat of arms of the Zumerongs which was a magnificent and ferocious griffin, standing tall and proud, embroidered with threads of gold, silver and copper; the image was so life like and imposing that just a glance at the magnificent image commanded respect. Jerome’s hands passed through the items, his hands lingering on the coat of arms on the robe; something flashed past his eyes, but it was too quick for him to grasp. He moved his head to one side in a jolt-like motion, in an involuntary effort to catch the image however he was unsuccessful.

The strength of these three sorcerers was quite strong when compared to ordinary humans. That day Al wore sleeveless armor so that his arm muscles look perfectly curved. His burly body was imprinted on his stretchy armor. He took off his hood and glared at the guest who barged in. His stiff hair stood sharp, towered in Mohawk style, and was dark green. With his masculine jaw, Al looked fierce and strong. He deliberately exposed his muscles to scare his opponent. His red eyes glared ferociously. His tall body emitted an oppressive aura. Al was ready to hit anyone who dared to break into the Brighton area.

She looked better, her hair brighter, her face fuller. “Who created them?” Jules asked as he licked his wrists closed. “It seems like a pretty awful thing to create. Who wore them?” “They are armour of the last resort,” Ember explained. “Dragons were the guards of the ancient gods when they walked the world amongst us. If the god that you guarded was in danger, and you were the last line of defence, it was your sacred duty to put on the gloves and ensure the safety of your deity.” “At cost of your own life,” Samuel confirmed.

The shopkeeper moved forward, placed his hand on one of the armors: "What do you think?" "It's hard to choose." "I know. Take your time." "I will." "What type of armor you will need?" "Strong and durable." "I have what you need. See that armor in the corner, try it on." I walked to the corner, picked up the armor: "This is the one." "Are you sure?" "Yes." "What type of a sword would you need?" "A one-handed sword, strong and fast." "I just have the one."

He bit back a scream and swung again, but I was already gone. We traded blows in the rising water for longer than I would like. He was strong, I'll give him that, but the mud was his enemy. His heavy armor was pulling him down into the sludge. Who told them that battle armour had to be this heavy to be protective? Tsk, tsk. I waited for him to overextend, and when he swung his mace for another deadly blow, I stepped to the side. I drove my blade straight through his gorget, the steel sinking deep into his throat.

She just moved. The inside of Arkenmoor was a tomb. Cold. Silent. Stale with a mechanical rot. And then they heard it—voices. Distant. Clipped. American. Cassel flattened against the wall, motioning for silence. He pulled out a mirror, tilted it around the corner, and frowned. “They’re not Lucien’s men,” he whispered. “Then who—?” “They’re mercenaries. Private. Clean gear. New models.” His face darkened. “They’re harvesting this place. Scavenging tech. Which means Lucien’s done with it.”