Gloria. Ye need 'o le' 'er goo. She dinnae beloong 'ere, she isna—
From behind the two approaching guards, with their glassy mail and their stubby weapons:
"Who are you to proclaim that my child — my daughter — isn't mine? Who are you," the Jerno asks. "Who are you?"
Ailova's motion to retrieve the throwing-knives doesn't detract from the sluggish approach of the black-bred Trae Kelsans. Whether or not the Crown had the same power in this Golden reality has never been clear; here, though the crests upon their tunics might bear the same visible authority, their presence is an abomination, their history and purpose twisted to match the truth of this dream. Neutral and boring, the stone-colored eyes in the shadows of the helmets never falter, never blink, even as the knife flashes through the air. The blade whips from the bandit's hand, crosses the meters that separate her from her opponent in scarcely a second.
The body stops its forward motion. Jerks. Flinches. The slim handle protrudes from above an angled collarbone. A blot of blood stains the tunic. The helmet rattles on the pivot of the head, and a choked, "Hrgh," bursts from the lips. A few coils of waxy, dark hair fall loose like vines from beneath the helm.
Though a sunken blade sticks out from a crease in the hauberk and mail, the hammer raises. Instinct tempered by training carries the motion through: the hammer hacks out at Ailova in a sloppy swing, aiming for the largest available target — head, chest, shoulder, whichever is nearest...
"You won't take her from me. You won't have her!" Gloria cries.
Meanwhile—
Korressa's altered weapon poses its peculiar challenge. The guard appointed to attack her hesitates, staggers in a counterfeit of very human disbelief when it witnesses the transformation that changes wood to sword. But neither splinter nor steel overrides the figure's urge to obey and protect. Four fingers — the ring-finger's but a tan stump — squeeze with new resolve around the handle of the gladius. The warrior drives forward, its hesitant gaze seeming to question the disadvantages at work: its blade is short and stout, while Korressa's is long, foreign, and otherworldly; if it can get in close enough, the length won't matter. The Northerner's weapon would prove unwieldy. Ineffective.
"I protect what's mine," continues Gloria. "No friend of mine would ever dispute that purpose. What are you two, then?"
The figure lunges forward. The gladius snaps out, slicing, swiping, stabbing through the air in a flurry of diligent but amateur blows meant to hack Korressa into as many pieces as necessary.
Lunge. Riposte. Recover. Lunge. Riposte. Recover.
Stiff. Unpracticed. Bold. Amateur...
A beginner's skillset tutored outside a stableyard.