Baleful Wings (Dragon's Dogma Fanfiction)

Chapter 44: Periphery

"Well, great news I would suppose," loathed Arya, kicking a random rock on the ground outside the alehouse. "A wizard. At least that explains the knights hunting knights." She already went through enough mental trauma battling foes with sword and shield, now it seemed another battle with a magick user loomed over her head. In their last encounter with a mage, she had to be saved by a random Magick-wielding traveler, and there's no way to bank on that possibility. "Speaking of news," inserted Thorne, taking a seat on the edge of the fountain at the center of the market. "Ser Castor 'ad choice words for a certain 'pieced-together platoon' that was attacked days ago." Immediately understanding the reference to the Enlistment Corps, Arya's attention turned to her fully. "..And 'ow they failed to finish them off."

"I-I don't know anything!" Cried Castor, bound by rope to a chair behind the cathedral. Arya learned first-hand how difficult it is to shed the armor from an unconscious man that easily weighed more than 120 kilograms.
Thorne cracked her knuckles, flexing her upper lip. "You're a terrible liar, Ser," she said, oiling a rag and slabbing it across his hairy chest. The substance she soaked the cloth in was cool, and viscous. "I need you to think real 'ard, mate." The savagery in Thorne's emerald optics would prove to be the realest thing Castor ever laid eyes on.
"I've not a clue-- aaagh!!"
Thorne's arm shook with resistance as she yanked the cloth from Castor's torso, ripping the thick brown hairs from his jiggling chest. The last inch of the rag was the worst, as she had to double up her grip to finish tearing it from his body. Castor's feet tiptoed, trembling in pain. Sweat almost immediately began trickling from his back as small beads of blood accumulated on his chest.
"P-please..!" The bound knight's eyes beaded with a pitiful gleam.
Arya punched him in the mouth, partly because he wasn't giving information but mostly because she couldn't handle dealing someone so much despair. "Talk, damn it!" She said, using every bit of strength she had not to stammer, regretting very heavily having even thought of this idea.
"Why'd you do it, you stinking pig?" Asked Thorne, the complete opposite, wiping the edge of a shining steel throwing knife. "If I don't 'ear what I want to 'ear," her eyes glazed the knife lustfully before meeting her prisoner once more. "I can't promise your safety."
Arya's heart trembled, secretly wondering if this was the right thing to do. Her mind swarmed with alternate strategies to get information. Oh, how she hoped this would be easier. Ceres waited in front of the cathedral, unable to stomach the torture.
"Please, I-I just want to--"
"Shut your filthy hole!" Thorne's palm dug into Castor's face, tilting his head back and gently wedging the knife into his mouth, the blade turned vertically, daring him to resist. "Until you're ready to talk, you'd best decide which tooth you'll need the least when you're at the Maker's side." The knife didn't make a sound as she withdrew it from between his lips, thanks to her skillful handling.
"...Feel more pain!" Castor cried, wriggling against his bounds. The knight's eyes pleaded with Thorne. "I'll tell you anything, just hurt me more!"
Arya and Thorne turned incredulously toward each other.

"So, you like this?" Asked Ceres, with raised eyebrows as she twisted the knight's nipples, watching them turn purple between her index fingers and thumbs. For some reason, context had quite an effect on how she felt regarding torture.
"Yes, queen, yes!!"
"And this!?" Thorne smacked him across the cheek, knocking the sweat off his face, leaving a red hand-shaped print and making the chair nearly tip over.
Castor's eyes rolled back as his head recoiled, and his fingers twitched. "I just followed orders," he said lasciviously, taking a deep breath as a shiver went up his spine. ".. From Ser Daerio, and the pretty-faced blonde fellow."

Back to square one, only with Arya feeling like her virginity was taken and the trio of femme fatales gathered in the alehouse pondering their internal lists of pretty-faced blonde fellows. At least the Arisen and her brusque traveler friend did, while Ceres took a nap face-first on the tabletop.
Almost at the same time, Thorne raised an imdex finger and Arya pounded her palm.
"Ser Julian!" They said, in synchronization. Ceres quickly jumped up from her dozing off, "Harder!" she said, with drool drawing a thin line between her lips and the wooden surface of the table. "I mean, Arisen. Yes, Arisen."