You shake your head to banish your concerns. You've got experience, but Jeanne lead armies and hears the voice of God. In comparison you don't have nearly as much weight to your concerns, which is about the only thing that's keeping you from worrying. Her team isn't exactly the toughest you've ever seen, but as long as they're behind her then they should be fine, and if you do your job right she won't have to hold out forever.
Or, you admit, maybe there'll be an evil murderer right in front of the door and Sanson will decapitate them before anyone can blink. Be a nice change of pace.
"Alright," you say, and that's the only affirmation she needs. Her banner materializes in her hand like sunlight shaping itself into the weapon, and the moment her armored fingers clasp around the haft she's charging straight towards the sealed gates. Her swift action flips a switch inside you—gone is the concern, gone is the curiosity, gone is the confusion. You're a professional, and you have a job to do.
"Bah. More delays." Beside you, you hear Caravaggio click his tongue out of displeasure—and then he waves you off with that inky arm. "Go on, go on! Heroism! Were you to hold off on my behalf I would beat you over the head with my canvas!"
It's the strangest support you've ever gotten, but it does feel a little nice to hear, even in your work mode.
Your chains unwind with an almost melodic clink of metal on metal, following the path of your arm as you swing it up towards the top of the city walls. They're not too high up, you probably could have jumped it truth be told, but having your chains unwound and ready to go can't hurt. One moment you're alone on the ground, the next you're soaring up into the air as your chains retract, flinging you upwards with Circe to your left and Archer to your right. Goemon hasn't manifested, but you don't care about that right now. All you care about is using that extra bit of height to get a better vantage, Reinforcing your eyes on pure instinct as you scan the rooftops and winding streets of Orléans.
A crash down below catches your attention first, the view almost moving in slow motion between the adrenaline pumping through your body and the mana scorching through your soul. People lined up, single file, flanked every dozen by something pale-blue, vaguely humanoid. Jeanne's flag smashed into the first one she could reach and launched it back against a near building, spiderweb cracks snaking through the hard brick as it shatters, but the thing is still alive—clawing its way out of the imprint of its body with wiry limbs wrapped in dark blue scales.
The people haven't moved at all, not even when the scaled things shriek as one and start to round on Jeanne and the others—they can't risk charging forward with dozens of people still marching slowly in front of them, and without the space to maneuver they're trapped against the wall. The street is wide enough that there's a few metres between the people and the things, but you don't know how fast they'll move if threatened, and neither does Jeanne. You can feel gravity take hold as you glance back around for anything that might help, praying that the things fighting aren't the same things casting whatever spell is keeping the people in a trance—
There.
Atop a handful of rooftops, flickering orange flames. You can feel your mind grow slack for an instant as you spy them for the first time, but it only lasts a half a heartbeat. You're about to yell an order before realising that if your hunch is right, they're the only things keeping the people there from panicking—and there's easily a hundred marching down that wide road, maybe more. Breaking the spell means turning it into a bloodbath.
<"Hold on, don't do anything! We can't risk it!">
Archer had three arrows nocked and you could feel Circe's mana surging - you barely managed to call off the attack in time. Your landing cracks the roof of the building you ended up on, and from this close you're finally able to see exactly what the flames and the scaled things really are.
What you'd taken for nothing more than balls of fire look more like people than they do formless flame, tiny, fiery robes of dark red shrouding their bodies, their limbs the bluish fire you'd expect from a gas stove. What passes for a head is a ball of yellow flames, white patches forming innocent smiles and wide-open gazes as they dance in place. You can feel the suggestion emanating from them, urging you to watch and follow and follow and watch, but it's calibrated for mundanes, not Servants and magi. Not a defense, just meant to harvest.
Down below you the scaled things are slowly eking closer and closer to Jeanne and the Servants behind her. They're the suggestion of a woman, like deepest blue water spun into the shape, but their limbs are covered in cerulean scales, their eyes are deep violet and slitted, and they each bear a crown of flowing water and viciously sharp horns. They haven't noticed you, and you're not sure if the flames can notice you, but the situation hasn't changed. The moment you drop down, you'll be trapped by the people you're trying to save.
You can't speak with Jeanne, not without the scaled things hearing. Split their attention? Archer and Circe can take them out from above, but not if they start using human shields. Go down and help? You can't protect the entire line. Your heart starts to rise up into your throat - never again. You don't see the answer. All you can see is a bloodbath waiting to happen, and all it took was being a little too slow, a little too late, a little too inept. Archer's bow creaks and you suck in a breath - you need to give an order. Destroy the flames, destroy the scaled things, retreat, push forward. Something has to change. Someone has to change it.
The scent of dewdrops on damp wood and flowers in bloom flutters in through your thoughts, and immediately your eyes are drawn to the pale white steed marching through the gate, to the regal, scarlet-haired figure sitting atop it. Niamh's face is set in an imperious glare, one hand on the reins of her unicorn, the other held in front of her, fingers curled into a claw as her notebook hovers beneath it, pages turning like they've been caught in a gale. The pulse of mana she gives off without even a word of an incantation to focus is dense enough you can feel it in the pit of your stomach, and you watch in stunned silence as your sister brings change.
Enormous fae soldiers rise up from nothing, circles of magical energy burning themselves into existence between the scaled things and the people they herd. The knights' glassy-green armor shimmers in the sunlight as they set their oaken greatshields against the ground, wood-and-bone swords held at the ready as their glowing eyes challenge the constructs. The scaled things react with hisses of shock, some turning towards the knights while others focus on Jeanne, but Niamh isn't done.
"You will not harm them!" She speaks in a tone that demands attention, haughty and resolute and expectant all at once, but then she turns her head back. "Princess! Why are you hesitating? Can't you see they need help?"
It takes you a moment to realise what she means—and really, it only hits you once you see the walls of thorns erupting from the cobblestones beneath, framing the people and weaving around the knights Niamh just summoned. In moments, two walls of twisting, thorny brambles separate the scaled creatures from their captives, dotted with the shimmering soldiers. The click-clack of Avenger's heeled sabatons draws your eyes to her, her oddly shaped sword held lightly in one hand as she cups her cheek with the other. If she shows any irritation in being ordered around by the woman she'd professed to despise the night before, you can't see it on her face, her only expression one of vague concern.
Before you can move, Jeanne springs into action once again, taking advantage of the sudden reversal before the creatures can regroup, Sanson and Marie a step behind her. Jeanne's flag scythes and darts through the air, shattering scales and slashing straight through the creature she'd earlier tossed aside with ease—the water that made up its body parting around the flag before reforming. She caught it by surprise at first, you'd guess, but now that it's aware it can adapt. You'd call it futile if it wasn't for the clear purpose with which they move, Sanson stepping in to intercept the gouging claws of the next closest creature, keeping the first isolated from its peers, while Marie lunges in, crystalline claws sinking into the reforming water and snapping off inside the beast. All three dart away as the glittering ruby nails start to glow, before exploding inside the thing, formless water splashing the street around them—and not reforming.
They've fought these things before, and enough that they've figured out exactly what to do with them. You can't help but admire the sheer efficiency on display—it was rare that you teamed up with other Enforcers, but even when you did you were rarely able to fight as seamlessly as the three of them. Still, that was one of a dozen, and the others are learning—pulling back, lining themselves up so they can't be taken out one at a time. Half of the group are stuck on the other side of the thornwall, but the instant they decide to charge towards Niamh, Avenger, and Dumas, another trio of knights manifest out of thin air, forming a tight shieldwall as Avenger's thorns spread and cut off the route to retreat. Another flick of Niamh's wrist and the knight's bone-spears are shrouded in subzero vapours, thrusting forward and drawing a hideous screech from one of the creatures as its aqueous limb flash-freezes and shatters while it leaps backwards.
You breathe out, and you're struck by just how quick it all was. Heartbeats, no more than that, and the situation went from an unavoidable bloodbath to neat and tidy combat. All thanks to the Servant you trust least of the entire bunch, and worse, your sister.
In the midst of what happened to you, you'd forgotten just how absurd she could be without even trying.
Bitterness surges in your stomach like you'd swallowed something foul, and you force it down—people in danger, not the time to sulk. You've watched long enough. Avenger and Niamh cut off the creatures, but the line continued past them, marching towards the open space at the center of the city. You can't get a good enough look from your position to see how many, but maybe Archer—
<"They appear to have begun gathering the people shortly before we arrived. There are twenty seven people waiting in the center of the city, and fifteen more walking towards it. Nine of the water youkai guard them.">
Good eyes, better than yours. You make your decision.
<"Archer, support the others fighting those things. Circe, get rid of the flames once there's no chance the people will get hurt and start evacuating them. Goemon, with me to the center.">
You can't trust Goemon to keep your back safe, but you can trust him even less in a melee like the one erupting below. At worst, he'll be another body to keep the focus of whatever guard you face split, at best you might even be able to work together. Strip yourself of the shield and your fighting styles mightn't be that different, even he pointed it out. You move without waiting for confirmation from the two Servants you can trust to work with you, and after a leap across one roof to the next you feel another slight tug on your circuits as Goemon manifests beside you, each step carrying him gracefully through the air, like he's practically gliding. Mercifully, he doesn't speak.
The sounds of battle behind you are mildly concerning, but you push through and focus on what's ahead of you. If needs be, you have your Command Spells, you can be at their side in moments, or your Servants to yours. What matters most now is the people shambling along with vacant expressions, stopping them getting past you and—well. The answer is a lot more simple than you'd thought it'd be. You haven't cast any of your simple evocations since you became a Demi-Servant, but…
You overtake the people in seconds, just before they can reach the opening to the main square, and the instant you do you drop to the ground, circuits burning. "Cover me!" you yell, hearing Goemon curse beside you as you raise your hands, palms glowing seafoam green beneath your gloves before you slam them both onto the cobblestones below you.
"Talamh!"
Something explodes behind you as the earth responds to your command, a two-foot thick wall of solid stone erupting up from the path beneath you, stretching from the building on your left to the one on your right. It's shockingly easy, the expression of your basic control over earth barely taking a thought and a whisper of mana, and you almost have the chance to admire the work. Then your instincts scream at you and in an instant Goemon grabs you by the scruff of your neck and flings you to the side, ignoring the choked protest you give an instant before razor-sharp claws piercing inches deep into the wall behind where your neck had just been.
"Idiot!" Goemon growls as he dodges backwards, tossing a black kunai at one of the creatures that had launched itself at you as soon as you dropped. It knocked the blade away, but it gave you both time to breathe—literally, in your case—and now you and Goemon stared them down, two against nine. At least they'd helpfully put themselves between you and the people of Orléans, instead of using them as a shield.
"Don't do anything that could hurt them." Goemon turns and gives you a foul look, before shaking his head.
"You're an asshole, Eddie."
Your chains unfurl with a rush of mana and singing metal, charging forward as you Reinforce your body. You'd hoped for a more even split but Goemon hangs back behind you for a half-second, and that's enough to draw all but three of the things towards you, and you don't even have time to growl—hesitation means being surrounded, being surrounded means death. The air hisses as you whirl on your feet, surrendering yourself to instincts natural and supernatural rather than try to keep track of everything at once. The snarling, biting, clawing things can easily survive being hit, but their hands need to be solid to hit you, and if they can hit you then you can block them. Sparks fly in the air as your chains deflect and catch every blow, pirouetting on your feet and lashing out with scything strikes intended to buy you room more than deal damage—they can't reform without some level of concentration, enough that they can't hit you and regenerate at once. Something explodes behind you but you can't spare an instant to look, because the creatures are attacking again, beginning the next step of the dance. Twist, weave, lean, lash, strike, sway. Reading the flow of the air around you to know where to deflect the next clawed slash, listening to your supernatural instincts to know when to step back to avoid being pinned down. You're a whirlwind of steel and strength, and you—you can't keep it going forever.
You're limited in space, limited in how much you can do to hurt these things. If you could fight them one, two, even three at a time you could figure something out, your shield could strike them hard enough to smash their form beyond repair, or you could try a wind evocation, or you could do something. But like this, you need maneuverability, not a two-metre tall shield, and you can't risk the consequences of being wrong about the wind being enough to kill the damn things.
<"Goemon—">
<"Two down, one to go, keep your head on for a few seconds.">
You snarl, but the anger is something you can feed on, funneling that white-hot burning in your chest into your limbs like a shot of adrenaline. The next creature that lunges at you you sidestep and snatch its arm, the tough scales already melting into formless water but you've got a grip now and you're not wasting it. With a burst of speed, you spin once to push back the creatures before slamming the one you grabbed into the ground with as much force as you can manage. The ground cracks beneath it, and you've just enough time to worry that you'd miscalculated before the thing splits apart from the sheer force of impact, splashing your boots and trousers with suddenly mundane water. You can barely catch a glimpse of what's going on behind you from your position, eyes darting to capture the scene as you see Goemon vanish just before getting speared by those knifelike claws, reappearing behind the thing and shoving three smoking black spheres inside its chest—
You need to move, throwing yourself backwards two feet—you've about three more leaps back before your back is against some kind of wall, and the creatures seem to be getting faster the more you kill. The explosion beside you (and it is beside you, you've moved back too far) barely surprises you at this point after realising what's going on, but you still need to dodge the next strike, swaying out of the way and reeling in your chains to counter until—
The first strike misses, but the second comes through the creature, one simply lunging and thrusting its claws through its companion's chest. You barely manage to twist out of the way in time, the strike so close it carves furrows in your leather jerkin, but you're off balance, at a disadvantage. Desperately, you lash out with your chains, piercing the one closest to you and sending a surge of magical energy through it, the binding curse flooding through the two creatures as one. All it takes is a single moment of watching them struggle to pull apart before you set your stance and twirl, tossing the creatures aside and towards Goemon, watching him neatly glide out of the way, sleight-of-hand concealing the exact moment he slips more of his bombs inside the bound-together creatures. The explosion takes care of them, and with four left you can rest a little easier.
Knowing your curse will stop them going semi-solid helps too, of course. It's almost child's play to misdirect one with a clumsy looking slash as your other chain darts up from below and pierces its leg, Goemon following up and dispatching it as he had the last five—they're definitely moving faster now, but not nearly fast enough, and Goemon knows it. His grimace has changed to a cocky grin that looks far more at home than his grumbling did, and he even manages to laugh once he's flickered behind the final creature. You want to relax, but you're still moving regardless.
The thing's head twists a full one-eighty degrees, a snarling, gnashing mouth suddenly rushing towards Goemon as its neck extends, its body losing the feminine shape as it twists and writhes to avoid the bombs between Goemon's fingers, and if it wasn't for the fact that you're in the middle of a battle, you'd almost enjoy the look of shock on his face. Still, he's your Servant, your ally, and you're not going to let him die just because he's a prick. Moving with speed you didn't have a moment ago, you shape your magical energy into a swirl of dense winds around your fist, aiming low and striking at the densest part of the creature. The winds detonate like a gunshot, and the thing splatters apart into harmless puddles, splashing Goemon with the majority of the water as you stare each other down, both panting hard.
"...Had that one covered." He swipes a hand through his hair in an infuriatingly distracting way, emerald green eyes meeting yours as casually as if you'd just finished a stroll, and you can't help but grit your teeth.
"Asshole." It's all you can think to say, stepping around him and moving towards the people still stuck in a trance. You need to keep them safe, see if you can move them—the thought occurs and you're already reaching out to Circe.
<"Circe, we're done here. Make sure you're ready to snuff out those fires as soon as the others kill—">
"My, my."
You freeze in place, the rich, soft voice carrying across the entire wide open square, far beyond the reach words that quiet should have. Instinctually, you know that she must have been hidden from view among the buildings opposite you, but now that you can see her you can hardly believe anything could have hidden her away.
The first thing you notice is her hair, a veritable sea of light-blue falling down to her waist in delicate waves. Even from this distance, you can see how silky and delicate it is, framing features every bit as beautiful and elegant to match. Her eyes are a deep violet and slitted like a snake's, her lips full and midnight blue, elfin ears just barely poking out of her river of hair. A simple white chemise is all she wears, the silk swelling over her modestly sized chest, ending in elbow-length sleeves and a frilled hem at her waist. She carries herself with grace and a sense of refinement, and that just makes what you see beyond her chemise all the more ill-fitting.
Below her sleeves isn't skin, but the deep-blue scales of the creatures you'd just killed, ending in inch-long claws that look like they'd tear through thick steel without even slowing down. Below the waist it's the same story, pale flesh giving way to deep-blue scales, hard and strong and covering the sinuous muscle that makes up her lower body. She has no legs—just a thick, muscular tail twice again as long as she is tall. Forget humans, she looks like she could crush the life out of a damned elephant without breaking a sweat. Even with the expression of vague interest on her face, the presence she exudes is enough to make your chest tighten, enough that you almost miss the child walking beside her.
Your first thought is "Einzbern", but a closer look proves that wrong. Her hair is white as snow, but it's bedraggled, unkempt, reaching down to just above her neck with two matches stuck in the tangle like a cheap replacement for hairpins. Her eyes are dull and dead, but the instant she looks towards you and red meets red, you shiver—it feels like she's looking right through you. Her skin is pale, blemished with red marks at the tips of her fingers and scattered around her arms and legs, and you'd be willing to bet that the worn, threadbare skirts and shirt that she wears conceal more of those marks. She looks like a doll that's been left outside for a week, only her very much alive movements giving lie to the impression.
"Hmm. Not the saint, nor her executioner, nor her princess, but you handled my undines well enough. You're a curiosity...to some extent, at least. Wouldn't you agree, Matchstick?"
The girl gives a shrug, not bothering to respond outside of that, and you—you need to buy some time for the others to catch up to you, because even if you're still not sure about the child there's no mistaking the snake-woman. You're so sure that it's the only thing you even send back to Archer and Circe, trying to communicate a desperate warning to the others as best you can.
<"Melusine.">
[ ] Ask her why they're gathering these people. They're innocents, or at least not guilty enough to deserve whatever horrible fate Buné has in store for them. Is this what she's really meant to be doing?
[ ] Ask her why she's working for Buné. The answer might be as simple as a Command Spell, but from the way she's carrying herself you get the feeling that it isn't. She doesn't look like she's forced to be here—she looks like she wants to be.
[ ] Ask about the girl. Matchstick—obviously something to do with fire, but outside of a vague tickle at the back of your mind the name doesn't click with you. Certainly not a name that would involve hypnotic flames that lead people to their death.
