You wait one more second in hope for the hoof beats of a white knight galloping down the road. When none come, you decide to intervene. You poke at the cobblestones at your feet until you locate one that feels lose. Bending down, you quickly pry up the heavy, round stone. You weigh it once in your hand, judge the distance, and hurl...
The stone soars through the air, its aim true, dealing a glancing blow to the would-be rapist's turnip dick with a nauseating thud. The man puts his head back and howls in pure pain, staggering back into one of the carts as he nurses the bloody organ between his legs, which is now sporting more kinks in it than a human penis aught to have. It deflates like a punctured skin of wine.
His pain-maddened eyes lock onto you. For a moment he wobbles uncertainly from the drink, pain and anger, obviously sizing up whether to lunge at you or run away, but as he sees you stooping to pick up a second cobblestone, he turns and bolts in a desperate hobble, cradling his mangled manhood with pained moans. He pushes away through the crowd, though you see his head come into view occasionally, the gleam of the silver earring in his left ear.
Lia is still in the half-paralysed state she had been during the assault, staring vacantly, her marvelous breasts still on display. You shake her roughly to her senses, and they jiggle rather beautifully. "Come on, we need to get after him. He's the bait now, remember?"
"Ruh-right, of course," she mumbles.
For his weight, the man moved faster than you expected, the fear of you spurring him on, and it didn't help that Lia's immodestsly swaying tits were slowing her down, as she tries futilely to tuck them back into the torn shirt. Fortunately his size made him easy to make out through the crowds. He had the look of a sailor, with the thick silver ring through his left ear and his right arm covered in gaudy, lurid tattoos. Naturally he was heading to the docks. He knows the way better than either of you, ducking down narrow side streets you didn't know existed, so that you nearly lost him twice.
"There he is!" you cry as you see him dive into a chapel. The guy must be seeking clerical aid for his wounds.
A priestess in her middle years halts you at the door. She raises a lantern to your faces in the darkening evening, regarding your sweaty, breathless faces.
"Welcome to the Chpel of Saint Alora." Her eyes flit down to take in Lia's immodest state. "Is this man troubling you?" the priestess says, shooting you a judging look.
You snap, "Damnit, priestess, get out of the-!" but a glimmer of angry, divine light in the woman's eyes makes you hold your tongue, knowing well how little patience Saint Alora of history had for the indiscretions of men.
"This is a house of the Goddess, young man, you will let the lady speak first. Now, has this man hurt you?" she says somewhat sympathically.
Lia takes a moment to compose herself, finally succeeding in maneuvers two fragments of fabric over each nipple. "No, maam, we merely need entry."
"It is after hours. Worship hours are during daylight only, unless your need is of an urgent nature."
Lia bites her lip. Then suddenly she blurts. "I'm pregnant!" The priestess's arm arches as Lia wraps her arm about your waist and drags you closer. "I'm pregnant and need to be married. Immediately. I will not have my lover living in sin one moment longer!"
The priestess nods her hod. "Very well. I shall go prepare the ceremony. You may wait inside."
Stepping into the chapel, it is a high-vaulted, circular central chamber, with a statue of Saint Alora in the center, her furious bushy eyebrows glowing at the room. Though none are being allowed entry, a few remaining worshipers still pray before it, yet to be ushered out. It is a typically serene atmosphere, except for a quiet low moan.
"It's coming from there," Lia whispers, pointing to a door leading off from the chamber. True enough, a thin trail of blood leads to the door.
Inside there are rows of bunks with crisp white sheets and bowls of clean water next to them. A sconce of herbs emits a numbing white smoke into the air. This is the ward, where the injured can come to have their wounds cleaned and stitched by priestesses and healed by prayer. Save for the weak light from the sconce, it is darkness and quiet, waiting for the influx of wounded from drunk barfights that will break out during the night. But there is at least one person in here. You can hear the soft moans from behind one of the bunks...
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