Aressa

The Dragon-Blooded Lord, Karathan, of House Mnemon of Jiara, one of the most paranoid men in the Creation, strides down the muddied and blooded hill toward the rebel general. The famed Twin Sword-Dancers precede him. Two identical spinning dervishes of golden fabric, blonde hair, and deadly steel. In concert, yet independent, they cut a path through combatants of both factions. Cutting down friend and foe alike as dispassionately as the farmer harvests the wheat.  A martial dance of fluidity; movement flowing from the feet to the hips to the shoulders as they approach potential threats. Pirouetting through half- and full-turns, their heads and eyes snapping around to lock onto armpits, necks or groins; their arms lifting up and out with the momentum of the turn, imparting terrible speed to the tips of their swords. Arterial spray fountaining from gaps in armor. Lord Karathan gingerly steps over bodies, around pools of gore, bedecked in his finest campaign armor. Neither scratch, nor dent, nor spot of blood befouls his finery; only a narrow border of mud along the bottom hem confirms his passage through the muck. As he proceeds through the field of battle, fewer and fewer bodies lie along his path, and soon he realizes that by some unvoiced agreement, clumps of skirmishers have begun to avoid their path. Most likely to avoid the pair of lovely, yet deadly Sword-Dancers. Before long, their spinning ceases, and they walk upright, twin rapiers held loosely at their sides as they progress downward, swaying with seductive, yet lethal grace. The battle raging well away from the Lord and his double entourage.

   The Rebel general pulls her sword from her latest suitor, and suddenly finds herself alone on the battlefield. She snaps to her left and sees a pair of mirrored bodies standing before her. Nearly six feet tall, long and slender limbs with fair skin, high cheekbones, piercing green eyes, blonde hair down to the small of their backs. Each robed in a golden, sleeveless Hakima; divided skirts flared so grandly as to mimic a gown, and carrying pairs of unusually long rapiers, each with a gold ribbon tied around the hilt. Their faces and robes splattered with blood and viscera. Each devoid of human emotion. Until today, the other-worldly beauties standing guard before the Dragon-Blood had been assumed to be purely decorative. A fetish indulged by the storied lech; the pair never leaving their post. Whether in the audience chamber, the dining hall, or within his bedchamber, the Lord was never separated from this statuesque pair. Twins, abandoned at birth, adopted by the Sword Master, and secretly trained in the art of Sword-Dancing. At least, that is this nameless pair's assumed history. For they did not appear among the Lord's court until they were already of age, and already uncannily disciplined in their movements. They are known for remaining eerily still through hours of court petitioners, intrigue, dinners, violent outbursts by Lord Karathan, and more than a few threats against him. It now dawned on the general, that their abilities had been held in reserve against a true threat.

   Seeing the path of wasted life behind them, General Riobi knew she had little chance of defeating the lovely twin pillars of destruction before her. But she also knew that her success was not contingent upon her survival. She reached into the pouch on her hip, and withdrew the live dove within. She cradled it briefly to her cheek and whispered a brief prayer before releasing it, unfurling the green ribbon tied to its legs. Lord Karathan smirked at the general; "No help could possibly reach you in time," he scoffed. "I seek no help," replied the general, and lowered herself into the Snake Form stance, with a narrow smirk. The pair of Sword-Dancers began to sway, and moved toward the rebel as a shadow fell across the quartet. Lord Karathan glanced up in time to witness the fireball streaking down from the overcast sky. He had time to lock eyes with the smirking general, and just before the snarl could reach his lips, the four of them were obliterated.

  Aressa was on rest when the trap was set for Lord Karathan. She was awakened by a hand across her mouth in the darkened tent next to her Lord's. The Sword Master leaned close and whispered in her ear, "Your sisters are gone, and you must flee."

"What of our Lord?" Aressa whispered when he removed his hand.

"Gone as well, I fear. The battle is lost, and our forces are routed." The Lord's chief protector and trainer of the quadruplets said, "I can get you out of the camp, but from there you are on your own."

Those words: "on your own" stunned Aressa into stasis. She had never done anything on her own. From birth, the four of them had done everything together. Trained, learned, fought, suffered, and protected their Lord. All under the supervision and guidance of the Sword Master. The Sword Master had found them on the threshold of the keep; four identical infants. No word of a pregnant mother, or furtive father anywhere in the countryside. Just four fair girls, left upon the doorstep of the Dragon-Blood Lord's closest retainer. Sword Master Gannon did the only thing he knew; he trained them. As soon as they could stand, he drilled them in the Steel Devil way of the sword. Two decades of training, followed by another ten years of guard duty; eight hours on, eight hours in reserve, and eight hours of rest with no breaks, no outside interaction. They rotated, two girls with Lord Karathan, one waiting in the wings, or side passages, and one resting. All to reinforce the illusion of two flawless sentries while providing three deadly sentinels on call at any moment.

    The news of his death didn't shake her all that much. Their master had gotten ahold of them at such a young age that he hadn't needed to waste time with notions such as loyalty, honor, or love for their Lord. They knew one thing, and one thing only. Fight. Dance. Protect their Lord. They embodied the Dance of the Sword, and little else mattered to them. Sword Master Gannon shook her, and lifted her from her cot. He tossed her a hooded cloak and bid her to follow him out of the tent, then to the horse-drawn cart waiting for them. He helped her into the rear of the cart, and handed her a small purse of coin. He whispered to the driver, then came around to look at her. Neither showed any emotion as they locked eyes, but something seemed to stir in the Sword Master. Before he could crack, he leaned around the carriage and shouted for the driver to be off. Aressa watched the Sword Master recede into the distance with pillars of smoke rising from the camp behind him, until a bend in the highway obscured the camp from her sight.