The Horrible Death of Princess Drazine of Derzeth (armored warrior princess slaughtered)
A gorgeous, confident, well-trained and well-armed princess comes up against a grim reaver-lord's raiding party, and her confidence turns out to be poorly founded.
(I'm bad at titles, sue me.)
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The Horrible Death of Princess Drazine of Derzeth
Princess Drazine of Derzeth sat atop her snow-white stallion, on a great rocky promontory overlooking the battle below. Around her, advisors and clerics, diviners and sycophants milled restlessly about the pale, dark-haired, blue-eyed warrior princess.
“We will prevail,” she proclaimed, but her voice lacked the conviction it had borne a half-hour ago.
This was a minor battle, a skirmish really. Half a dozen Derzeth knights, twice as many professional men-at-arms, and two score conscripts against a raiding party of grim reavers from Berenwaith. It was a scene that was repeated perhaps a dozen times a year as the low nobles of Berenwaith sought prestige, cattle, and slaves among the richer fields of their neighboring kingdom.
Drazine had determined that these border skirmishes would be the first real test of her abilities, and had pressed her case upon her mother, Queen Deserana, until the queen had relented and allowed her to go.
She had joined the march towards the contested borderlands surrounded by her coterie, obeyed but otherwise ignored by the knights and soldiers, which suited her. It was appropriate that royalty and command would entail some separation from the lower orders. And she so enjoyed the conversation of her confidants, chattering noblewomen and graceful ladies in waiting. Her favorite diviner, a tall and intense priestess, eagerly told the princess of victory, glory to come.
Every day Drazine wore her armor. She had worn it almost daily for over two years, ever since it had been completed, and she was accustomed even to eating in it. Everything but the helmet, which was too confining, too close and airless, and restricted her vision too much for day-to-day life.
But she devoted herself to training with her weapons at least once a week, her sword and lance and war hammer, and she rode her handsome stallion, and all in all she felt herself more than prepared for any test of arms.
The blood of the lords of Derzeth flowed in her veins, after all.
Below she saw her conscripts break and turn to run as the battle-line buckled under the Berenwaithers’ attack. The men-at-arms and knights stood longer, but the howling reavers were pressing hard, and upon spotting a stealthy party flanking them, the knight-commandant looked up to Princess Drazine for direction.
Seeing no orders, he cursed and ordered a withdrawal, and the little knot of knights and professional soldiers closed ranks and drew back, seeking a more defensible position.
“Why are they running?” Princess Drazine said, incensed. She snapped her helmet visor down and immediately felt breathless and slightly ill from the close confines.
“I’ll go down there myself,” she declared, drawing her beautiful sword, and wheeled with her warhorse.
Out of the forest at the base of the rocky hill, she saw men with battered armor, cheaply-made weapons, and hungry hollow eyes moving quietly towards her and felt a great thrill of fearful anticipation.
As her party noticed, most of the panicky women screamed and fled. Drazine shouted at them, told them to get behind her, that she would protect them, but this promise did not slow their flight.
Her diviner-priestess, a handsome woman, attracted the attention of one reaver. He hurled a hand-axe at her. It buried itself in the side of the woman’s skull and she pitched headlong to lie twitching and bleeding on the ground.
A pang struck Drazine’s heart, a complicated mix of anger, fear, and confused hurt.
She spurred her horse and he flung them pell-mell down the hill towards the raiders. Gravel and earth dug up by his hooves, the wind of his swift passage, the righteousness of her wrath! It was intoxicating, and a small guilty part of her was grateful to the priestess’s sacrifice for the note of pain and tragedy it brought to this beautiful moment.
“For Derzeth!” she cried, her voice hollow within the unfamiliar helmet. “Victory! Victory!”
A raider rose before her, and she slashed her sword at him as she passed.
The weapon struck him in the side and a terrible metallic shock from contact with his crude armor went up her arm as he fell with a grunt.
“Victory!” she called again, raising the blade. “Thieves! You…”
There was a mighty clang as a spear glanced off her armor, and she swung her slitted gaze to her left. It was so cursedly hard to see with this helmet on, but she fixed her eyes on a Berenwaith soldier…
No. No, he had a heavy silver chain about his neck, and she saw bracelets of thin gold and a crude insignia of gold wire on his primitive skullcap helmet.
This was what passed for a nobleman in Berenwaith. His other gear consisted of a long coat of mail, a wooden shield, and a sword that had seen better days.
The very presence of the shield made her sneer. It betokened the dismal state of the smith’s art in Berenwaith. Drazine needed no shield, her armor so cunningly worked that a shield could scarcely have increased her defenses.
She wheeled on him and spurred her stallion, but one of his men had tossed him another spear and he had set it against her charge. She had to spin away to keep from impaling her horse on the weapon.
“Coward!” she shouted. Her horse suddenly screamed, reared, and spilled its royal rider unceremoniously on the rocky ground. Braying, leaping, he turned and snapped at a crude arrow that had sprouted in his hip.
Driven by pain and sudden fear, the snow-white stallion rushed here and there, and finally around the hill and away.
Getting her breath back with an effort, Princess Drazine pushed up to her feet, gripping her sword in both hands. She looked left and right, but with her helmet she didn’t lay her eyes on the raider lord until he was mere yards from her.
She raised her weapon in defense, but he dipped aside, and his sword point drove hard against her armored right knee. She felt an angry satisfaction as it clattered away, but the impact left a deep ache there.
“Got you!” she said, lunging with her sword, but his blade was there turning hers aside, and he rushed her with his shield, forcing her to fall back. Before they broke apart, he stabbed at the inside of her left arm. She felt a terrible ripping sensation and a warmth, but he skipped back as she slashed at him.
Drazine was breathing hard, her vision wavering slightly. This was hot work! She looked at her left arm.
Her eyes widened, her vision swimming in and out of focus as she stared at the ragged hole in the flexible mail protecting the inside of her left elbow. Blood, her blood, was dripping from between the plates of steel.
The pain in her arm seemed suddenly much worse, with the dizzying knowledge that her precious armor was not invincible, that she had been wounded. With an effort, she tore her eyes away and saw her opponent standing there waiting.
“Damn you!” she spat. She lifted her sword one-handed.
He laughed at her.
Laughed. At the princess of Derzeth. At a trained noble knightess. At her magnificent protective gear.
Enraged, she rushed at him, aiming to take his head off at one blow, but he raised his shield to deflect her blow and stabbed at her throat. Her gorget turned his blade, but the blow resounded in her head. She tried to raise her left arm in defense, but it was stiff and slow, blood dripping down into her armored glove.
He dropped his shield, grasping her sword arm with his left hand, and leaped at her. His mass drove her to the ground with a clanging clatter, her sword flying from her grip as he twisted her arm.
Her wildly moving eyes saw his own ancient sword fly away, and then she felt a dagger point at the mail armor protecting her left armpit.
Screaming, she twisted and managed to throw him off, ending on her hands and knees, her left arm burning with agony. Then he was on her again, on her back, and he drove his dagger into the back of her right knee, slicing flesh and tendons.
Princess Drazine’s consciousness was undergoing a complicated transition.
She had felt herself to be untouchable, noble, an invulnerable goddess of war, and now every nerve of her body was screaming in pain, her mind throbbing with fear, and above all was the knowledge that she was failing and losing and…
It was too much. It was too awful. She couldn’t think these things anymore. Her conscious thoughts vanished as she submerged into the struggle for survival.
She grabbed at her own dagger, but her fingers fumbled against her belt, and then he pressed her to the ground and she bawled with fresh agony as he set his dagger point to the vulnerable inside of her right armpit joint and jammed it in hard.
The thin blade, designed for this kind of work, pierced the mail and drove up into Drazine’s shoulder through her armpit. Grunting with effort, he worked the blade back and forth, tearing muscle.
“AAAAAUGH! PLEASE STOP!” Drazine screamed. “PLEASE, PLEASE! RANSOM!”
He had to know how much she was worth! He had to know to let her live, please let her live!
“Shut up, you filthy cunt,” he snarled, ripping his blade free and smashing the pommel into the back of her helmet. She writhed there on the ground beneath him, in more pain than she could have imagined possible.
“Derzeth swine. Think you’re so much fucking better than us.”
Sick anger filled Drazine’s heart. She was better than him! He was a thief, a killer, and with a thrill of horror she was suddenly convinced he was a rapist as well. She could hear the screams of her friends from not so far away.
I couldn’t protect them, she thought. Why did they run?!
Whatever else this man may have been, though, above all else at that moment he was on top of her, and his knife was skittering over her armor, seeking her soft flesh. She sobbed, kicking with her one good leg, trying to get free, but he gripped the back of her neck, pulled, and bashed her helmeted head against the rocks.
Ears ringing, disoriented, barely able to breathe, she felt his blade push up beneath the back of her backplate, find a narrow passage, and stab into her lower back. She threw back her head and howled.
“Please, please, please stop!”
“Shut up!”
He pulled his heavy leather glove off with his teeth and groped over the metal plates of her armor. When Drazine bucked especially hard, he lifted his dagger and slammed it down behind her left knee, puncturing mail and driving horribly deep into the joint. The princess’s cry of pain drew a sharp, cruel laugh from the bandit lord.
“Why are you doing this?!” she wailed. “Ransom me! Please ransom me!”
His fingers found a toggle fastener, jerked it open. His blade slit one strap, then another, and Drazine moaned with terror as he jerked a seam open between two plates on her leg and stabbed his knife into the trembling flesh of her thigh.
“No, no, no, you can’t! You can’t! Please!”
There was a curtain of thick mail descending from her helmet. He jerked it up, sought beneath it, and she gave a wretched gurgling whimper as his blade jabbed once, twice, three times into the back of her neck.
Unable to get deep enough, he dropped the dagger and grabbed her helmet with both hands, wrenching and pulling and making her spine creak until he jerked it free and flung it aside.
Princess Drazine’s face was lovely, elegant, noble – a high forehead, strong but feminine chin, lovely black hair and a lovely red mouth, the bluest eyes one could wish for.
Just at this moment, her expression was twisted in fear and dreadful pain, wounds all over her body, blood drenching her gambeson beneath the plate. Tears streamed from the blue eyes, sweat and saliva, dirt darkening her cheeks.
She stared up into the hard angry eyes of the Berenwaith warrior. He hauled her over, shoving her back to sit against a scrubby tree.
“Ransom, ransom, please ransom me,” she begged, raising her wounded arms in useless defense as he pushed in closer. He batted them aside and she lacked the strength to raise them again.
Her eyes widened, gaze caught on the dagger as he raised it.
“Please, please, don’t, please don’t, you don’t have to do that!” she moaned.
She was panicking, hyperventilating, wriggling back as much as she could with her injuries.
He sat back on his haunches and set the dagger down.
“Oh, thank you!” she said, relief flooding her. “Thank you, thank…”
He reached to pick up her own sword from where it lay nearby, and rested the tip on the collar of her breastplate.
“NO!” she screamed, until her throat was ragged and raw and her voice died in her mouth and despair boiled inside her and he tilted the sword up and thrust past the metal collar and inside the neckline of her mail coat and deep into the lovely young body.
Princess Drazine felt every inch of that nobly-crafted sword as it pushed into her, the tip cutting so easily through skin and meat and organs until she was impaled there within her armor, like a steel coffin around her. The hilts of the sword clanked against the collar of her armor as the warlord seated it fully within its lovely new sheath.
She seized, body jerking hard as blood filled her lungs and spilled out her mouth, still desperate for life despite the closeness of death. He held her blue eyes with his own cold gaze until the light left them and her body stilled and relaxed, her last breath bubbling out of her slack lips.
He stood, realized he was erect, and laughed long and loud. Removing his remaining glove and jerking his trousers down, he pulled his cock out underneath his mail coat.
“Filthy Derzeth slut,” he grunted as he pumped his hard length. It didn’t take long until he groaned with release, splattering sticky white cum all over the princess’s lovely, horrified, bloody face.
“Let them find her like that,” he said with a grim smile as he re-accoutered himself. Scrambling up the hill, he looked out at the field. The Derzeth knights had rallied the fleeing conscripts and regained the field, and the Berenwaithers were being pushed back.
“You caught those other cunts?” he called to one of his men close by.
“Killed them all.”
“Good,” the lord said viciously. “Let’s go.”
He found his horn and blew the alarm to quit the field. Down below, the Berenwaith raiders began their withdrawal, and the Derzeth soldiers felt no desire to pursue them.
Several of the Berenwaith men on the hill took a few minutes to follow their lord’s example and leave their hot, white mark on the fallen princess’s face or body. When the Derzeth knights made their way up the hill, they found a scene of horrid slaughter – the torn and hacked bodies of Princess Drazine’s friends and servants, despoiled of jewelry, coin, and in many cases their rich clothing.
And leaning against a small tree, her face frozen in the humiliation and suffering of her drawn-out death agonies, was Princess Drazine, dripping with blood and ropes of Berenwaith semen, her open mouth swimming with their ungracious cum.
Posted Jul 19, 2025, 9:25 PM UTC