William
**Hemian Kallandrim | slums of Sol**

Jora's accusation found Hemian at a loss for words. He was running. Running from his duty. But what could he do? These were not good hearted peasants, who deep down only wanted to be reminded of things they already knew. These people were different, their hearts were rotten.

"They already worship the true gods," Said Hemian. "They need no conversion."

It was an excuse of course. The trappings of this strange cult might've been those of the Divine Pantheon, but the way they went about their worship was fundamentally wrong.
Hemian wasn't sure that wiser men could've found a way out of this conundrum. It wasn't a matter of allowing or forbidding a minor god, because their deity was nothing new. They merely worshipped one of the Six as something she was not. 

"Where are you going, old man?" One of the Enfocers caught sight of Hemian attemting to leave the line.
"I am leaving. The flies have stolen my appetite."
"The flies are blessed old fool, they grow fat on the blood of sinners. Nature has yet to sing a sweeter song."
Despite the looming figure of Jora over the Wisdom's shoulder, the rangy man was not intimidated. There was madness in his eyes. But his morbid praise of nature was too much for Hemian to bear. He would not allow this desecration to continue.
"I am a Wisdom of the divine Pantheon!" He shouted. "Not some unswahed cultist ignorant of the will of the gods! Your temple reeks of blasphemy and sin! Saris forgive you."

The enforcer was left flabbergasted, as was everyone in the squalid communal kitchen. The people in line, sensing what was about to happen, the broke ranks and made for the streets with haste. Only Hemian, Jora, and the cultists remained under the grim statue's gaze.

"Saris forgive me? Forgive me? Forgive ME?!" The fanatic's bloodshot eyes opened wide, drool fell from his mouth like a dog with rabies. "Blasphemer! Saris does not forgive! SARIS CONDEMNS!"

And with that rabid sceam, he lunged towards Hemian, intent on using his rusty fishing harpoon to saw off the Wisdom's head. Like rats, more zealots surged from the nooks and crannies of the place. Lanky, dirty, malnourished, poorly armed, hunched to half the height of Hemian's mercenary companion. But mighty as she was, Jora was alone, and there were a dozen of them.
Michelle
**Jora Sylgritte - Slums of Sol**

Just as she had predicted; the fanatics were bound to turn hostile sooner or later, though she didn't expect Hemian to be the one to set them off. 
 
Jora stood back throughout the heated exchange, scoffing at the two grown men essentially arguing about which version of the same fairy tale sounded more plausible. The witherlander wasn't without faith herself, but she needn't debate the existence of her gods, for their will is absolute and self-evident. One need only listen to the howling of the northern gales, or feel the touch of snow upon their skin to realise the truth—the fate that awaits all men, regardless of their creed: 

The eternal cold. 

All but one, if legends were to be believed, and Jora intended on staking her claim for that position; not through prayer, but through glorious violence. 

Before the ragged zealot could reach the older man, he suddenly found himself trapped in a guillotine-like chokehold. He flailed uselessly as his neck was being compressed, trapped in a vice of muscle and tempered steel. Jora wasn't looking to simply render her victim unconscious, however. She bent her knees, leaning her comparatively heavy frame back and applying more and more pressure on the smaller man's spine. There was another second or two of breathless struggling, shortly followed by that inevitable and long-awaited...

Pop.

The enforcer's limp body was finally allowed to drop, laid prone before the blinded visage of his precious goddess, paralysed and yet denied the mercy of a swift death.

Jora snorted, spat and drew her axe with that trademark bloodthirsty grin of hers, tossing it from one hand to the other as she excitedly waited for her next victim to charge her. It was quite clear that protecting the old man was but an excuse to bloody her blade. And bloody it she did. The next pair of zealots to approach her met consecutively gruesome ends: 

The first she sidestepped and shoved aside as though he were a child throwing a violent tantrum, only to lodge her axe right between the eyes of the second. Bone fragments scraped against iron as she kicked the now lifeless sack of meat back. With her weapon freed, she turned around and finished her initial attacker off. The first swing nearly cleaved through the man's forearm, which he had raised in hopes of defending himself—an ultimately fruitless endeavour, for his painful bellowing was soon silenced with a subsequent and quite brutal chop to the base of his skull. 

Then another hit the ground, and then another. Jora's attacks had so much force behind them that proper edge alignment wasn't even a factor. She could've been hitting them with the blunt size of the axe it would've still been enough to strike them down, especially given that they weren't wearing much in terms of armour. Eventually, however, even she had to realise that there were simply far too many for her to handle on her lonesome; especially as the crowd had dispersed, leaving her to fight a horde of crazed lunatics in what was essentially an open field.

After savagely roaring in the face of her fifth casualty and effectively pummelling him to the death by using the axehead like an improvised knuckle duster, she tossed his body towards the encroaching tide of vermin, knocking over a few and buying herself some time to retreat.

She backed away until she bumped into Hemian.

"You quick on your feet, preacher? I don't suppose you know any secret tunnels we can lose or at least funnel the mad bastards into."
William
**Hemian Kallandrim | slums of Sol**

"I'm afraid we might just have to make a run for it," Replied the hermit. "Same way we came!"

He ducked as one of Jora swings brought the blunt part of her axe against his face. It struck a sneaking fanatic in the jawbone, shattering it as the bastard was sent flying. His ragdoll body struck the kitchen bell, then fell into a boiling cauldron's fiery demise.
Hemian could hear enraged shouts and painful screams, but also a stream of dread litanies.

"Suffer not the infidel! Force it to penance, then to death! So has she spoken, so it shall be!"
In the middle of the chaos one of the fanatics had found the time to kneel and pray, arms extended to the sky in rapture, bathed in the blood of his fellows.
"Saris condemns you, heretics! Saris condemns us all!"

Hemian might've no longer been in his prime. But he'd recieved weapons training in his earlier years, and a life in the wilderness had prevented his body from growing too soft, so he decided to lend Jora a hand. He stole a makeshift hammer from a dead zealot and used it to bludgeon his way forward, shattering knees and ribs where he could.
It was a tame and rusty violence compared to the cleaving fury unleashed by the mercenary, but it was effective enough. Although whether by lack of strength or resolve, he couldn't bring himself to deliver killing blows. Many were left reeling behind him, ribs craked or joints dislodged, but still living. It had costed Hemian several wounds of his own.

The fanatics kept pouring in. They were all over the slum, infesting it like rats, and the noise of the battle called out to them. They arrived confused at first, but their bloodlust soon helped them make sense of the situation. One of them, a muscular whaler by the looks of it, climbed atop a crumbling gantry and aimed his harpoon at Jora.

"Watch out!" Shouted Hemian, unsure of if she could hear the warning.