Barren Cross

While the wyverns were dealt with out of hand, Trent was honestly quite amazed that the village seemed to be untouched, despite everything that had been thrown around.

Turning to look at him, Kiyohime huffed, "Well, unknown Master? Did you witness the potency of my dance?"

"It was beautiful, Kiyohime," Trent grunted, shaking his head. He knew he couldn't lie to the draconic woman, but did what he could to keep her from going wild. "Don't have time to actually dwell on it."

The Berserker stepped back, her eyes going wide, but she wasn't able to speak.

Also overlooked was Scheherazade's bone weary sigh, as her Master handled Kiyohime in both the best and worst manner possible.

Instead, Eli piped up, "So, was that an audition or something? Because if it was, none of you really fit my rhythm as back-up dancers, although…" She gestured to Mash and Jeanne with a nod. "Those two might be able to work their own solo gigs."

"No, no, Eli, that was your audition to help us resolve th-" Before Trent could finish, Marie was at his side, digging her elbow into his ribs. "Save France."

"So, uh, how do you plan to do that? There's kind of an army on our opponents' side, y'know?" the pink-haired Lancer asked, twirling her spear about.

"We've got an army, and we're going to gather more people who are specialized against the Dragon Witch's forces," Trent replied. "You two were just the first on our list to recruit. We've got a pair of dragonslayers to pick up in some other towns."

"Ah, that silver guy who got super cursed," the pinkette said, nodding understandingly. "Who's the other one?"

"A saint who'll help remove the curse," the blond explained tiredly.

Eli blinked, and then pointed at Jeanne. "Isn't she a saint though? Why can't she do it?"

"I must agree, Monsieur Blackmore, if this warrior is cursed, I should be able to lift it," Jeanne declared, nodding at the draconic Lancer.

"Because, as Eli pointed out, Siegfried has been super-cursed. We're going to need two saints to remove it, and only two of the three in this Singularity are on our side," Trent clarified, letting them draw their own conclusions as to who fell into the category of saint.

"You sure that RC-brand Cu wouldn't be able to do it?" Medb asked, crossing her arms.

The Master's face twisted in thought before he shrugged. "I'd give him fifty-fifty odds on being able to help."

"Then why didn't we have him accompany us, Master?" Mash inquired, hefting her snowflake shield.

"Because even if he could have helped, there's no guarantee," Trent explained, waving to someone peeking out of their wooden window blinds. "Especially when we have two existing saints who we know can help, and his services were better used in supporting the army we whipped up to deal with the Dragon Witch's."

As Marie, Medb, and Mozart turned to look at him with narrowed eyes, the blond blinked. "What?"

"I believe they weren't prepared for you to be so shrewd, Monsieur Blackmore," Jeanne remarked, her eyes closed.

Medb snorted. "More like we weren't expecting you to be smart."

"I'm not stupid!" Trent protested, his eyes going wide at the assertion.

Eli walked over and patted him on the shoulder. "There there, little raccoon. I understand how it feels to have one's genius insulted. Well, I suppose genius is a stretch for you."

"Christ alive," Trent grumbled, one hand coming up to push his glasses away from his eyes as he massaged his temples.

Taking a deep breath, he shook his head. "Alright, whatever. Let's just… let's just go. We can't afford to waste too much time."

With those words, the group set off, slowly moving into a vague shape as they formed into clumps of people.

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The group headed for Thiers, where the cursed warrior was said to be resting. Their pace was, admittedly, not the fastest as they simply didn't have the means to transport everyone efficiently.

Still, they trooped along, maintaining a good pace despite Medb's usual whining.

"Wait, Blackmore, a Servant is approaching from the east!" Romani's voice cut through the air, causing the group to shift into battle ready stances.

They held their positions, eyes and ears trained for an attack. They expected a holler as their foe charged in, or a glint in the distant sky, they expected a lot of things.

What they got was not what they expected.

"Domine Iesu, dimitte nobis debita nostra, salva nos ab igne inferiori, perduc in caelum omnes animas, praesertim eas, quae misericordiae tuae maxime indigent."

Following that ragged, murmured prayer, a figure stumbled into view.

She was clad in rags and lacked any sort of footwear, her hair mussed and messy, burs and sticks caught in the purple locks. Despite her messy appearance, the staff in her hands was gleaming and pristine, with a swath of clean white cloth wrapped around its head. Even as her head bobbed up to look at the group, she seemed not to see them.

She opened her mouth and took a shuddering breath.

"Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus, fructus ventris tui, Iesu. Sancta Maria, mater dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen."

Even as the team braced and readied themselves again, Romani read off what the Chaldean instruments were reading. "It looks like she's a Rider, but her Saint Graph is all over the place. It seems like someone tacked Madness Enhancement onto her, but she's taken in so little mana that she's falling apart! Wh-which Heroic Spirit is she even supposed to be?"

"Saint Martha, driven berserk by the Dragon Witch," Trent declared grimly, his mouth pulled into a grimace. He had expected the meeting to be ugly, but this wasn't what he had expected. It was far and away from what he expected, as she wasn't a brash woman with a calm facade, or a raging Berserker.

This was…

"It's quite the ugly countenance, isn't it?"

The voice that spoke up wasn't a member of the Chaldean alliance. It was a cold, cultured woman's voice, and it was accompanied by its owner as she stepped into view.

Her dress was a fusion of a ballroom gown, with wine coloured skirts, and a black, strappy bodice that looked more like nightwear. At her neck, attached to a jewelled choker, was a crimson cravat that looped around to a high collar that caught her stark white hair and pushed it forward around her neck. Around her body, there was a metal cage, spiked and with chains hanging down near her feet that ended in spiked collars. From her wide, draping sleeves, porcelain hands peaked out, their nails capped off teal talons, in them, she held a metallic rod, its spherical head capped with a pair of bat wings.

Her lips pulled into a smile as she continued, "The holy woman has struggled, uttering prayer upon prayer, while refusing to engage with the evil thrust upon her by the Dragon Witch. When faced with the normal humans that the Dragon Witch would have her prey upon for the mana she so desperately needs, she scared them away and starved herself. She has shucked her holy vestements and clad herself in nothing more than scraps."

The Assassin, Carmilla, beamed at the ragged, gasping and weary Martha before looking at the Master of Chaldea. "I can see it in your eyes, Master from afar, you've something to say about the holy woman's wretched state."

The various Servants allied with Trent moved into more protective stances around him, Mash pulling her snowflake shield up as she and it were put almost directly between the two. Meeting the vampiress' gaze, Trent hummed.

"I think she's awe-inspiring."

The countess laughed, an amused sound that carried across the area. Her shoulders shook and her mouth pulled into a wicked slash of a smile as she declared, "Perhaps you've some taste for aesthetics, Master from afar! No matter how ugly her state is, it only accentuates the beauty of her struggle, the power of her will!"

Carmilla let out a sigh. "Although, it's unfortunate that this was how the Dragon Witch managed it. Such methods can only be described as childish."

"Wha- Childish?!" Jeanne protested, her fingers wrapping tightly around her standard as she stared down the vampiress. "She's unleashed wyverns and Servants to destroy France and kill its people!"

"As I said: childish," Carmilla decreed, rolling her eyes at the Saint of Orleans' outburst. "It's easy enough to understand, isn't it, unnamed Master?"

Trent didn't know whether the vampire had taken a liking to him for understanding her aesthetics, or if she just thought he was the correct person to put on the spot. Inhaling deeply, he sighed, "It's… well, look at it like this: to a child, evil is destroying or taking other peoples' things, hurting them. It's not like that excuses it, but…"

"But it is still childish," Carmilla declared imperiously, her expression twisting into a scowl. "Were I the one with the Grail in my hands, I would have been able to unleash a myriad of evils. It's true that Rider's current form is beautiful, but I would have much rather have taken a direct hand in breaking her down, wielding the Grail to command her to keep her sanity while forcing her into more and more depraved and sinful acts. Can you imagine it? Her proud form, broken down and marred with the colours of sin and debauchery?

Reaching out, she let the back of her hand gently slide down Martha's cheek, brushing some dirt from it. Carmilla let out a hungry sigh as she murmured, "Ah, if only I could devour you… I'm sure you'd be a delightful morsel. What sounds would you make, I wonder? Would you pray more? Curse and spite me? Or perhaps…"

"Ugh, can you be any more tacky?" Eli sniped, her nose wrinkled as she gave the Assassin the stink eye.

Turning her gaze toward the idol-like Lancer, Carmilla sneered at her. "Do be quiet, little jester. Your time on the stage has passed, shuffle off."

"Why you-" As Eli snarled and started forward, Trent held a hand out to stop her. "What the Hell, little raccoon? Let me go over there and rearrange her face!"

"I'll let you go in a moment, Eli, I know how important these Emiya conflicts are," the Master started, ignoring the questioning looks that were sent his way with the declaration. "Hell, I'll even make sure it's just you and her facing off. I just want to give you a secret weapon."

Carmilla watched in amusement as Trent leaned over and whispered briefly in the pinkette's ear. After he pulled away, her eyes seemed to be shining as her mouth pulled into a smile, and she laughed, "That's- that's a really good secret weapon, little raccoon!"

"Whoa there, Master," Medb interrupted, looking over at Trent. "I think we should also help out Lancer, I think that Assassin and I could have some real fun."

"No, Medb," Trent declared, shaking his head. "This is between Eli and Carmilla. Besides, we need to grant mercy to Saint Martha."

"Indeed," Carmilla agreed, smiling warmly. "Especially given that I've already informed the Dragon Witch of not only the holy woman's obstinance, but also that she hasn't attacked you."

"You cheeky bitch," Trent sighed, earning a laugh from the countess.

Then, Martha started to shudder, one hand coming up to her head as she groaned, her prayers coming out in bursts and gasps. "Iesu… Sancta Maria… ahh… Ah!" Her nails dug into her forehead and cheek, her teeth gritting as flesh parted and bled. Martha's eyes narrowed to pinpricks as her mouth pulled into a snarl, her head wrenched back as she howled.

"TARASQUE!"

The dragon erupted from the ground, its white beard and maroon shell resplendent despite the earth-shattering entrance. Four pitch-coloured horns pushed from the dragon's head, two circling forward like a crown while the other two pushed outward from either side of its head. A sun-coloured frill sat around its neck, between its protective spiked shell and its head. Its six massive paws cratered and cracked the ground as it stomped forward, hatchet-blade claws digging into the dirt. Its long, tree trunk tail whipped about behind it, the tip ensconced in a wicked looking shell.

Despite its fearsome countenance, the dragon turned to glance at his summoner, and murmured in a mournful tone. "Sis, this is…"

He didn't get an answer as Martha lashed out, her foot connecting with his rear end and sending him skidding forward. The Rider's chest heaved as her head bowed again, mutters of prayer leaving her mouth again even as Tarasque turned his gaze onto the group. Raising a massive claw, he grunted, "Sorry bout this…"

It came down, but Mash had already rushed forward, deflecting the attack and protecting the others.

Taking a deep breath, Trent started to call out, "Mash, you're on defence, just focus on guarding the others. Scheherazade, use your summons to harry and distract the Tarasque! Mozart, you'll be best suited doing the same! Marie, your job will be to reposition anyone if it becomes necessary!" Turning to look at the last and most belligerent members of the group, Trent relayed, "Kiyohime, we'll need you to focus on blinding the Tarasque, or hemming in its movements if possible. Medb, attack the Tarasque's legs to try and force it off balance!"

Even as the majority of the Servants stepped forward, moving to engage the Tarasque, Medb stood in line with Trent and Jeanne. The Celt tilted her head to the side, and asked, "Why are we doing this rather than just killing the woman? She's basically wide open."

"It's better to hold back and judge the situation for now," Trent answered, watching as the Tarasque reared up on his hind legs, the four in the air flailing at any who approached. The dragon's movements were ponderous due to his shift in stance, and he didn't use his tail to attack, nor did he withdraw into his shell to smash through them. "Something's up, and attacking Martha could cause them to become more aggressive."

The Rider's eyes narrowed, but she relented and trotted forward, her crop appearing in hand. Jeanne watched this and inquired, "You think that there is something more to the situation, Blackmore?"

"There has to be," replied the blond, looking over the melee as Medb darted in, kicking a flailing paw and causing the dragon to swivel and stagger. "The Tarasque is a genuine, sapient dragon. We should be fighting for our fucking lives just from him alone. Adding Martha on top of that? That would be even more difficult, given that she learned the Limbs of Jacob from Big J himself."

"Please don't refer to Him like that," the Saint groaned as her grip tightened around her standard. "But, I do understand what you mean. This situation is odd, do you expect an ambush?"

"There's a chance," Trent agreed, crossing his arms as he watched Mash slap one of the Tarasque's paws away from a charging Kiyohime. "On top of Carmilla, the Dragon Witch should also have Monsieur de Paris as an Assassin, and Atalanta as an Archer. That's why I'm keeping you nearby for the moment."

"Not due to the battle between Miss Bathory and… Miss Bathory?" Jeanne asked, turning her gaze to the other battle, where Eli was singing out notes of such power that they destroyed the waves of blood that Carmilla clawed at her.

The pair continued to clash, the Lancer darted forward, her black iron lance aiming for her older self's chest. But, it was batted away by Carmilla's sceptre, her mouth pulled into a furious snarl as she clawed the air between them, slashes of blood appearing between them.

"No, I think that battle is well in hand," Trent said, his toes tapping in his boots. "Elizabeth has already won for a few reasons. The first is that Carmilla didn't ambush us, and even with the nature of her Noble Phantasm, she hasn't tried to use it against Eli."

"You believe there's a reason for that?" the Saint asked, an eyebrow raised.

The Canadian hummed in thought. "Two reasons, but I could be wrong. The first is simply that she believes she has to defeat Eli head on, to prove the strength of her convictions, her belief in the truth of their existence." With his index flipped out, Trent popped out a second as he added, "The second is that she's worried about Eli co-opting her Noble Phantasms due to their nature."

"Their-" Jeanne cut off as her expression hardened. "Because even though she's Carmilla, her Noble Phantasms are born from the fact that she is the fantasized version of a villainous Elizabeth Bathory."

"Correct. The Phantom Maiden is the crystallisation of the fabricated torture tool ascribed to Elizabeth Bathory. Thus, even though Carmilla is its wielder, its root remains the same," Trent said, his head dipping in acknowledgment. "Whether or not that fear would be realized…"

"It's enough to give Carmilla pause," the Saint finished, watching as Carmilla batted Elizabeth's spear aside and clawed her face, her talonlike nails digging into the pink-haired Servant's flesh.

Before the duo could comment further, a smattering of gold glitter caught their attention from the corner of their eyes. Trent could practically feel the concern and bemusement from his connection with Mash, Scheherazade, and Medb as he turned.

A sound filled the air, the high, almost unhinged tittering echoing from Saint Martha.