Standing this time costs her the most effort she can ever remember making. Her body is a thing of spirit particles and grudges, but the memory of muscles calls to her to ache and tremble. The willpower to resist it is exhausting. Food and rest. If the Roman had promised her only these she would have had to at least consider it. But she must not risk looking desperate. And she must not present as weak. An alliance represented the first real opportunity to turn things around she'd seen since her summoning. Losing her handle on it was absolutely unacceptable. 

And so, she rises. Her back straight and her tattoos gleaming, she lets her long arms rest at her sides and holds her shattered weapon like it was meant to be a sacred relic, a thing of pride and purpose and not a broken thing of blackened metal. Even with her neck lifted high to present the fullest sense of her physicality the heavy iron bands at the bottom of her braid of faded golden hair brush against the ground. She does not smile, and she does not settle into a battle stance (as though she could). But she does offer the slightest of nods as she tilts her head down to look at these newcomers properly.

Tch. Showoff. The things that one gets up to with an ample mana supply. Saber cannot help but be jealous.

"The gods have perished, Child of Rome. And dead gods are not a thing to swear by, though I honor them still. I am surprised that I am alone in understanding this. It is a thing to be celebrated. The world around us is the proof: this green land of few and plenty can only have been forged in the crucible of the divine and the shattering of what came before. If you are an adherent to the old ways it is wrong of you to deny the honor of their sacrifice."

Her eyes gleam with cold, hard understanding as she gestures to the pockmarked and freshly battle scarred land around her. The broken trees lie scattered at her back; she honors them like fallen soldiers. Still no sign of her Master. Or the dragon. Useless cretins, both. No matter: in this moment the land counted for more than both of them put together.

"I will swear by this, instead. I am the enemy of that which threatens this reborn world. I am the enemy of the blight named Actia who formed the preposterous alliance of foxes that has harassed your every step and mine since we answered the call of our masters. The Varangian Guard were slightly after my time, but if Rome seeks the end of these enemies as well then I do not mind wearing the mantle. 

"I do not seek the sunshard or its wishes. If you can offer me the opportunity to restore myself to a true, battle worthy condition then I shall win this war in your name. So long as it brings me Actia I do not mind serving you in the role I offered to my father when he first took me in."