The Armourer Novels & Stories

GUNNAR I rose to my feet, thin black dart pressed between my thumb and index finger. A card spade symbol had been stamped along the length of the dart in white ink. It didn't take a genius to figure out who these darts belonged to. I looked down at the guard's body at my feet, releasing a growl of frustration. Fucking morons. Each one of them that was hit tonight was a bunch of morons that I apparently paid to wear a suit, stand around, and look pretty.

she said. The one next to her is a middle-aged male, he has this distinct anchor beard that really accentuates his facial figure. Just with his stance you can clearly picture that he is a veteran fighter. He had a long spear suspended in his back and a knightly armor gear to protect him in external attacks, "He looks promising, that I can say," he said.

he asked him when he stopped beside the table, in front of him. “Yes, sir,” he stood up and answered, surprisingly not in a brusque way. He seemed to have dressed nicely for their meeting—white, short sleeve polo and black slacks. And his hair, which looked messy in their video call, was neatly brushed up. “I am Ambert,” he introduced himself, a tad surprised with the sir. Arrogant and rude people rarely used sir in addressing anyone. Addressing someone sir somehow downgraded them. They only used it to people who they were sure could harm them and turn their nasty world upside down. And Allan was sure that he had the capability to harm him? He pulled out the chair in front of him and sat.

Wilbur thought for a moment and replied, "What I want most right now is to find the Child of Light's Light Armor. I want to wear his armor and fulfill his wish." "I heard that after the fall of Light Valley, news of the Light Armor has surfaced. Augheimer from the Church of Holy Illuminati has collected the Light Armor, Light Brace, Light Pads, and Light Boots, and he plans to give this set of armor to his friend. You're the fated one for the Child of Light. I think Augheimer might give this armor to you, right?" Fremont commented.

It looked new and it was tailored to my taste. “This is the finest armor I had made for you. Made with the finest steel and breathable. I know you don’t like restriction. I made Gilly imbue some magically properties in the armor. It will make you faster and more precise. It can deflect attacks easily and it will protest you from any form of harm.” He said.

Each piece was inscribed with runes of old, symbols of power and protection, their light flickering like stars in the night sky. Jon stood at the heart of the armory, overseeing the forges. His hands, once calloused from the grip of sword and shield, now held the reins of the armory, guiding the creation of these weapons with a steady and sure hand. His eyes, always watchful, now burned with a quiet intensity, knowing that the stakes had never been higher. The second siege would be their last chance. They had no more time for hesitation.

This one was cold, dark, and silent. The air grew colder. The smell was iron and oil. He stopped at a set of iron-banded doors, guarded by two warriors in full, black armor. They didn't just pound their fists. They slammed them against their breastplates. Ares pushed the doors open. The armory. It was vast. But unlike the kitchen, it was silent. It was cold. It was organized. The walls were a forest of steel. Racks upon racks of swords, of axes, of spears. Barrels of arrowheads. Stacks of shields, all bearing the black, snarling wolf of his pack.

"Better?" "Worse. Now it's smeared." Roman laughs, sets down the screwdriver, and crawls over to me on his hands and knees. He's ridiculous. He's wearing an old t-shirt that says "World's Okayest Dad" that Emma bought him as a joke, and his hair is sticking up in about fifteen different directions. But when he looks up at me, his eyes are so full of light that I feel it settle in my chest like a warmth I can't describe.

He wore armor made of dragon-glass and carried a spear that dripped liquid fire. He skidded his mount to a halt on the edge of the gorge and looked at me. "The Architect has finally molted," the man said. He raised his spear toward Kael and Ronan. "Now, kill the dogs. It's time for the harvest."

He turned toward the iron locker shattered in the corner—the armory storage for the dungeon guards. With a brutal kick, he took the door completely off its hinges, reaching inside to pull out fresh gear. He tossed a heavy, dark combat tunic and structured leather riding trousers toward me. They weren't an Omega's rags. They were thick, reinforced garments lined with flexible steel mesh, designed for high-ranking warriors of the Bloodmoon elite.