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In Noble Arms - The ASEAN War [Moved to New Thread] → 2 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Just putting a marker down here - Caroline Lidmann will soon be joining the fight!
In ~ Valkyria Chronicles - Changing of the Guard [Pt. 2 - Open] ~ → 2 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay




The smooth, rolling hills and fields of Bihain, occasionally broken by ancient wood or rushing stream, were idyllic and beautiful – and perfect for fox hunts. The equestrian legacy of the family that would become the de Bihains was strong in those lands and the stock of their horses equally vital, and so hunting was a regular pastime that they hosted for the well-to-do of the region, leisure over which connections might be forged with one’s guests, of higher or lower status. Alexandre had ridden since he was a boy and, as the first son of his family, had been obligated to participate in many such events – and yet he was not a keen hunter. He adored the dogs, of course (and so hadn’t been entirely terrified when he finally caught sight of Alex’s new hulking mass of muscle that he hadn’t noticed standing right there the whole time), and the horses were beyond glorious, but the act itself felt meaningless to him. What chance did the foxes have? There was no contest in it, no honour or glory at stake, only an opponent that couldn’t hope to fight back and an act of meaningless death. When he… Before, it had been better – still compelled to plan to take an opponent off guard when one blazed forth against a foe, yes, but an opponent who would have stood a meaningful chance otherwise and could still rally after the moment of the charge.

The shadowy forms of those thoughts passed through Alexandre’s mind as the soldiers of the 15th Atlantic Rifles stormed the trench. The imperials died in an instant, bullet and bayonet ripping at their flesh like metal teeth. With it, what small fire he had stoked through the approach amongst the chilling frost that he had gathered around himself for months was snuffed out. Even as he dropped into the imperial trench and saw the – flesh twisted, crushed, blood seeping into the ground and crows drinking from – he swallowed down the nausea, armouring himself with frigid pragmatism.

Shots taken – there will be reinforcements shortly. Alexandre scanned the field – the Darscen woman leading the path down into the dugout and most of the others piling in. If we all go, we will be pinned down, without question… They would need a rearguard to keep the way back secure – one more sizeable than a single… Marksman or woman? Difficult to tell… Regardless, they had the numbers to use; thus, with a strength belying his wiry form, he crouched down and pulled the body closest to whence they’d come back behind the wall of the trench, out of sight. Sparing a moment to trace the Valkyrur spiral over the man’s chest, he turned to the black-haired… Individual. And that is an Edinburgh accent, no? “I have the right – keep… If you keep the left secure,” he intoned in their native tongue, his mind registering only after a moment that this was an equal rather than inferior. Energy was, after all, racing through long-untrodden paths in his mind, carved at Lanseal in what little they had taught of the actions of individual infantry sections.

He could not see a great deal of the left, admittedly, but it seemed the trench ran straight for a stretch, ideal for a sharpshooter to lock down and pick off their targets at will. The right, on the other hand? Enclosed, the approach defined by a single, short passage. It almost brought back memories.

Alexandre stood, his hand going to his hip. In one motion, the blade was drawn, brought above his head to be blessed by the aurora, then to his lips before coming close to his side as he put the other against the same wall he’d placed the body behind. A single lunging cut would reach the other side of the trench, he knew, before anyone in between had a chance to act. The other hand reached down with it…

The weight.

…and drew his revolver.

And Alexandre centred himself and listened. And his heart quickened in his chest, for his opponents now would be more than foxes.

@Hawthorne
In ~ Valkyria Chronicles - Changing of the Guard [Pt. 2 - Open] ~ → 2 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay




‘son of Roland-Florence’. The words bit like the cold winds from far to Gallia’s North, sweeping over the frigid mountain lands there to rid them of rain and leave them with frost alone. His gaze now stuck, not on his former friend but against the axe at his hip – its gravity wrenched at him, pulling him towards that awful fire once again, the fire that he had forsworn. Fire that had seemingly died – so why did it still draw him so?

Better the cold. Far better the cold.

“Reassigned?” Alexandre struggled, forcing a quivering smile onto his face, even as the rime gathered in his gut. “Yes… Yes. Of course.” And even with those words, the thought: At least the Che… At least they are safe.

The ones who…

Iron. Flesh. Carrion birds.

‘son of Roland-Florence’.

Do not tell him, his mind pulsed with fear. You cannot. Too different – he would lose all sense of you. And thus you him. Not now. Not with him back.

“I am… I… Cannot be that, any more. That is how. I am…” He closed his eyes; raised his head; opened his eyes to finally meet those of his former friend. “I am still Alexandre, but Alexandre is this now.”

Once more, Alexandre’s eyes were drawn to that terrible, blazing, impossible weight at his side; once more, he pulled them back. A laugh, to ineffectually cover the slip. “And I am here, and can fight. That is the crux of it, no?” The smile felt easier, now, the pattern reasserting itself; he stood straighter, even as he did not move. “And the Valkyrur send me the man I know to be as noble a warrior as they are as my officer. They look on us kindly today.”

@Smike
In ~ Valkyria Chronicles - Changing of the Guard [Pt. 2 - Open] ~ → 3 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay




That voice.

By the Valkyrur, that voice.

His voice.

Alexandre’s mind plunged into civil war. The sight of… The sight clashed against the walls in his mind, built and fortified by half a year of self-loathing – and made purchase. Memories long kept at bay now tore at their structure with the reinforcement of immediacy. Alex Schäfer had been his deputy and friend, his companion-at-arms. He had valued his sense of honour and calm conscientiousness. Alexandre had found someone in Alex whom he could trust, laugh with, lead beside. A half-dozen days flashed before him, all from Bihain, all so joyous and righteous and –

He was dead.

I led him to it.

Alexandre shut his eyes, exerting his force again on those walls. No. No. This is past. Those are memories and I am now. And, indeed, as his eyes opened again, Alexandre found details. The two were alone, the trench empty where it had been full of soldiers. When he spoke, though he could not make out the words, Alex did so in the same considered tones he had always done when issuing orders. The man was still in the uniform he had worn on that day, now beaten and stained from the horrific fate that he had condemned him to.

Alexandre knew ritual better than he knew theology. Even so, somewhere in the recesses of his mind-fortress, some part of him could still recognise what this was.

The stories of confronting a draugr… They are wrestled to a point of submission, then… Decapitated. The strength of the Valkyrur, followed by the mastery. Steadily, deliberately, the Gallian reached up to his neck, clasping the spiral amulet there, and then raised his other hand.

Every step seemed a league. He fought to keep his gaze locked forwards and his expression held at determination, sallying against the onrushing waves that only grew stronger themselves as he approached, staring at that face, those dark hair and eyes that shouldn’t be familiar but were, oh so much… Feeling his hand trembling, he clutched his spiral and launched himself across the remaining distance.

Though his push was feeble, Alexandre still felt a warmth through the fabric against Alex’s shoulder. Fully shaking now, his hand drew upwards to lie against the other’s face and neck. The heat, the life there pooled against his touch, and yet it was shivers that coursed down Alexandre’s arm, torn away, the man stumbling back until he reached the trench’s edge, the memories surging now to surmount the walls he had so carefully built. He stared downwards; Tue-Tyran felt as the weight of a star at his hip, blinding in its reminder of everything that should have been.

The last holdouts in his mind pushed him to look back, then stand to face the man before him. Struggling for anything coherent, Alexandre brought forth the only expression of his mental state that he was barely able, intoned with a mote of strength behind it: “How.”

@Smike
In ~ Valkyria Chronicles - Changing of the Guard [Pt. 2 - Open] ~ → 3 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay




With a smart salute to the departing sergeant, Alexandre answered with a nod of his own and a wan smile with it. “Thank you, Private Britta, and may I extend the same wish. You have been most kind; if all here are like you, I am sure I… I will be welcome. Fare you well.”

‘Welcome’… It is enough for now, perhaps. Not too much.

He steeled himself, closing his eyes for that moment before memory could take hold and snatching a breath as he walked away, back down the tangled paths towards the assault trench. The alienness of it all still stuck out. Before had been all open space, the gentle sounds of nickering and heavy hooves thumping against the ground, lively chatter, so akin to… Before before. Now, as he descended, all was close, oppressive, grave. The men and women of the Valois trenches didn’t carry themselves like the… Like they might have – they huddled close together, murmuring and glancing up as he passed. The smile on his face was hard to maintain.

Well, he thought, considering Britta again, not all. But many. Alexandre sighed. Ignoble. Everything is so utterly ignoble. There is no spirit or hope, not in any of it.

He screwed his eyes shut. No. No, no. This is where you are, now. This is where you must fight. Such is your duty, and you must…

Without stimulus, his senses had returned to that day, to that moment – the near-taste of iron and offal in the air, the sight of –.

Alexandre stumbled, eyes snapping open again to note that he had, in fact, wandered directly into a soldier sitting on one side of the trench. Offering a murmured apology, he pressed on, shaking his head for a moment to clear it. Too much thought. I must remember my mistakes to learn from them, not to…

His mind settled on something. Letting go of his new carbine with one hand, he grasped his amulet, fingers running along the long-polished grooves of the spiral. The chant, practised day after day for years, came to him as naturally as breathing.

“Wake, O Valkyrur; I call thee now,
Strong of shield-wall, sun-ray wielders,
Harden to fear thine hersir in faith
Healed of doubt to do thine will.”


The rhythm of the words was, as ever, as calming and focussing as their meaning. Thus it was with a dedicated mind that Alexandre began the final approach to the assault trench where they would be meeting, the remaining time spent refamiliarising himself with the mechanisms of his Federation carbine, adjusting the height that his scabbard sat on his belt, testing the weight of Tue-Tyran against his arm, as he retraced the steps he had taken only a few dozen minutes beforehand. Prepared, he reached, then rounded the corner into the assault trench proper.

“Sir, Private Blanc, repor-”

No preparation, of course, could have readied him for that sight. Alexandre stood frozen, eyes wide, struck silent, first unable and then unwilling to comprehend the immediate familiarity of the man before him. It could not be. It simply could not be.

For all his desire to act in the present, the past did not seem to want to release its hold.

@Smike
In ~ Valkyria Chronicles - Changing of the Guard [Pt. 2 - Open] ~ → 3 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay




Alexandre blinked. He hadn’t even considered a footlocker – it simply hadn’t occurred to him. Of course, he knew such things existed – he had inspected them regularly, after all, when he was… Before. Before. But throughout that before he had always had his personal quarters or tent, and his personal storage with them; footlockers were not the things foremost in his mind when he thought on sequestering or safekeeping. That… One ought to be assigned to me eventually, no? I am hardly the most aware of typical infantry procedure. Am I to ask? Would that be impertinent?

Is there paperwork?

For a brief bit of time he gave himself to that consideration before lifting his gaze to meet Britta’s eyes; she bore a joyous, somehow unfettered expression and with it Alexandre felt himself untensing, just a touch, as a half-remembered part of him resonated. “That would be a possibility were I to have one as yet; as yet, however, I do not. Even then, I fear I would be asking you regardless; this is of some significance, and I understand that you and your beau –” (Alexandre gave himself the slightest mental congratulation at having found a term that was both accurate and inoffensive in the instant before the sentence reached the point at which it was required) – “are well-respected here.”

Of course, it would also be ideal to keep the carbine tucked away in a more familiarly unusual space where fewer people would notice its exotic construction, as compared to the theoretical storage of a private who had been admitted to the unit only a few days ago and present in these constricting trenches for a shorter time than that. It would be distinctly non-ideal for it to be taken away for, say, reverse engineering or to be gifted to a Valois commander. No, far better out of sight, hidden among other oddities.

Alexandre turned the carbine over in his hands, letting its blue sheen catch the sunlight, looking over its polished form for the last time in a while. “As to what… An old weapon and but a few clips of compatible ammunition. It will hopefully be unnecessary, for the foreseeable future.” His expression flickered, turning downcast for a short second, before his smile reasserted itself to rejoin Britta’s. And, now I consider it… It is not as if I… “And, actually, perhaps this case too, if it would not be a bother,” he added, extending the arm upon which it hangs. “I will not be needing it either.”

There is already much to remind me, he thought, feeling the ever-growing weight of the axe at his hip.

“But, of course,” Alexandre concluded, “that will be later, will it not? You have your station here.” He looked about himself. “I do not suppose that you are one for company? I would not wish to distract you from your duties, of course; it is only that I have not been added to the rotations yet, and I…”

Alexandre, for a moment, froze.

Just a moment.

“…am aware of the benefits of camaraderie in a unit such as ours.”

@FalloutJack
In ~ Valkyria Chronicles - Changing of the Guard [Pt. 2 - Open] ~ → 3 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay




As Alexandre Martial Alphonse de Bihain, formerly Monsieur, walked down towards the furthest trench of Plymouth Lane, smile convincingly fixed upon his face and eyes fixed upon his carbine, he could not help but feel the juxtaposition – he, a cavalryman with a cavalryman’s uniform in the case hooked through his arm, stepping forth to the apex of these trenches, this construct of infantry warfare, of defence, of immobility. He could still remember surmounting them, striking through the biting stasis like…

He shook his head. That was done. It was all done. Valkyrur keep them.

And so Alexandre walked on, smile affixed. He passed by a few here and there, squeezing through the tight gaps and nodding as he went where he drew eyes. He drew a fair few, which wasn’t a shock; he must have looked an odd sight even besides his unkemptness, practically laid down with arms between his three guns and his two hand weapons, if one could reduce such tools of war to such a simple title. His sabre’s scabbard rattled, not from the tightly-held weapon inside but from its length clattering against the trench wall and the ground, dragging the mud with it – he would have to fix that somehow. As for Tue-Tyran… Well, its weight at his belt grew with every step he took upon this earth that his ancestors had left so long ago.

Alexandre closed his eyes, just for a moment – the images behind them would permit him no more. This is how I can fight for Gallia now, he thought. This is how I must.

When he opened them, he was rounding the final bend leading to the head of the trenches. Alexandre almost craned his neck to look both ways – almost, before recalling that, yes, that was indeed the best way to have one’s head blown off by an Imperial sniper. He took a breath; recomposed himself; fixed the smile upon his face once more. Then he went hunting.

Supposedly, this was where he’d find this ‘Britta’, who would reportedly be able to help with the ‘carrying two separate carbines everywhere’ business. It was an open secret that she and the one with whom she was living in sin had set up a trading post of some kind – not that Alexandre much liked living in sin or open secrets but he knew that some informality was good for unit camaraderie. Regardless, she (grey-haired before her years, tough, vaguely well-kept) was supposedly the structure of the operation to her not-husband’s familiar face – the sort of person who wouldn’t get things lost.

Precisely what he required.

And, seemingly, precisely when he required it, if the woman with the large gun that he caught sight of at that moment was any indication. Tracking forwards, Alexandre intensified his smile, adopting as open and enthusiastic an expression as he could. “Ah, excuse me, Priva –” Not that, you’re not a lieutenant any more – “Forgive me – you wouldn’t happen to be Britta Hagen, would you?”

His hands full, Alexandre opted for a small bow. “Al-hhh… Marius Blanc, at your service.” He infused himself with brightness. “I was wondering whether you might be able to take hold of something for me, if that’s a possibility.”

@FalloutJack
In ~ Valkyria Chronicles - Changing of the Guard [Pt. 2 - Open] ~ → 3 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
In ~ Valkyria Chronicles - Changing of the Guard [Pt. 2 - Open] ~ → 3 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay

‘Was there a man dismay’d?
Not tho’ the soldier knew
Some one had blunder’d:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die’

- Excerpt from ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
1854




___________________________________
Monsieur Alexandre Martial Alphonse de Bihain
(named in Federation documents as ‘Marius Blanc’, though he rarely goes by this)
________________________________________________________________________________________
Gallian | Bihain, Southern Gallia
___________________________________

D E T A I L E D A P P E A R A N C E

Lithe (or perhaps just underweight) and somewhat tall, Alexandre cuts a striking figure in the trenches (as far as one can ‘cut a striking figure’ in such a bleak environment). He takes significantly more care to tidy and clean his uniform than he does to maintain his personal appearance and often sports a scraggly beard and bags under his eyes that make him look a lot older than he is. His expressions are typically confident and happy, though in such cases they never quite reach his eyes. He wears a very standard Valois shocktrooper’s uniform, featuring essentially no modification.

P E R S O N A L I T Y

Alexandre is a man weighed down by a lot of guilt and stress. Erudite and introspective, he is more than capable of understanding the consequences of his actions and beliefs and, under normal circumstances, grappling with their interplay with the world around him. Unfortunately, circumstances as they are are far from normal, rendering him gloomy at the best of times. Like any true noble, of course, he covers all of this up to show the face that he believes is necessary at any given time - usually courageous, friendly and supportive. This mask slips typically only in the company of those with whom he is close and on the battlefield; in the latter case, he often acts more like a black knight than the paladin that he idealised, and on some level still idealises.

C H A R A C T E R T H E M E S

Honour | Remembrance | Fury
---B I O G R A P H Y

Alexandre Martial Alphonse de Bihain was born in 1894 as the heir of the de Bihain family, minor barons whose influence was slipping away with the social ramifications of the Ragnite Revolution, like the rest of the nobility. His father, Lieven Victor de Bihain, had married his mother, Ada Van Rompaey, for precisely this reason: the daughter of industrialists who had made a fortune in Ragnite mining, Ada brought much-needed wealth and connections to a family previously struggling for both.

Given this, like others of his station, Alexandre was raised with the best schooling available at the time, which meant attending a Yggdist boarding school where he gained a profound respect for the faith. There, he was exposed for the first time to people far above his station and was, in his first years, the recipient of a fair amount of bullying (beyond the usual abuse of power by prefects that one could expect in this period). That drove him into his studies and his books - which only stoked a passion that had burned in him for a while.

The de Bihains, you see, have a long history of equestrianism; the family was originally nobility from the lush plains of north-eastern Valois who fled to Gallia after politics turned against them in the late medieval period, bringing with them the proud tradition of the Valois knights and (just as importantly for the king granting them refuge) fine Valois destriers as breeding stock. Though they had changed their title in the wave of nationalist sentiment that led to the War of Gallian Independence, the de Bihains still had the blood of chevaliers in their veins - and their horses in their stables, and their stories in the manor library. Alexandre took to all of it, drinking in the heroic tales of his ancestors - there was Philip le Brave, who had saved the life of the King of Valois in a daring charge over rough ground; there Rosamund, who took the initiative to lead their household to Gallia after her husband’s execution and rushed at the head of but two dozen knights in a daring charge to cut through an ambush to Gallian reinforcements; and there, greatest of them all, was Roland-Florence, called ‘Tue-Tyran’, an appellation earned for making a daring charge to strike down the corrupt regent of Gallia on the battlefield with his horseman’s axe and end a civil war to restore the rightful heir to the throne, a feat for which he accepted no reward. Armour bearing the same names and weapons matched to each lined the manor’s walls, intimidating and inspiring in equal measure.

Finding a new identity for himself in this, Alexandre became obsessed with chivalry and knightly behaviour. At first, the bullying intensified. Then Alexandre took up fencing, doing so with fanatical fervour, and challenged the leader of his abusers, the son of a count three years his elder, to a match. He humiliated him utterly.

The bullying stopped after that.

After that incident, which earned him a small circle of friends, the delighted laughter of both of his parents when they received a letter from the boy’s father actually thanking Alexandre for giving him a much-needed dressing down and some highly beneficial self-actualisation, Alexandre would continue on at his school for several more years. In that time, two things occurred. Firstly, Alexandre’s interest in chivalric heroism would develop into a broader love of military history, tinged with a sense of national duty. To anyone with an awareness of politics and diplomacy it was clear that the clouds of war were growing on the horizon and Gallia would be exposed to the crossfire; he would be needed, with all of his skill as a fighter, cavalryman and leader that was sharpened by the day. Secondly, he became more sociologically aware; he heard more and more of his mother’s poorly hidden dislike of her family’s treatment of their overwhelmingly Darscen workforce and, reasoning that he was obliged by his Yggdism to help those who the Valkyrur had liberated before him and by chivalry to defend those weaker than himself, he developed a strong pro-Darscen sentiment. Alexandre even went so far as to attempt to set up a ‘Darscen Cultural Appreciation Society’ at his school, though he was rebuked for it by his schoolmaster and the nascent group shut down. This did not ruin his reputation enough to prevent his military talents being recognised, however, and at the age of sixteen he was recommended to a scout from Lanseal and subsequently offered a place at the famed military academy.

Alexandre entered Lanseal with profound hope of his own continued development as a soldier for the Principality. His actual experiences were more mixed. As an equestrian, the whispers he heard of the obsolescence of the cavalry charge in modern warfare from some of the staff and students were concerning and, indeed, a little offensive to him; his response was to obstinately push cavalry forces into a dominant role in every tactical scenario and war game that the academy’s students were presented with. That aside, he was considered well by most of his peers, if a little old-fashioned, and looked set to graduate into a high placement in the Gallian Armed Forces.

The war prevented that. With skirmishes at the border growing more threatening and invasion expected any day, Alexandre made the difficult decision to leave his studies before graduation to enlist in the cavalry arm of a military that was rapidly expanding. Being a noble from a farming region with horses to spare and having some theoretical understanding of command, he was placed as a 2nd Lieutenant at the head of a platoon of the 4th Lancers Regiment, a force that contained a good deal of the men and women of Bihain itself. For Alexandre, this was his chance to put everything that he had learned into practice. Alongside his standard-issue weaponry he took Tue-Tyran, the famed axe of Roland-Florence that bore the same name as his epithet; such a symbol at the head of Gallian cavalry, he hoped, would strike fear into those before him and be an inspiration and strengthen morale for those behind him. With his favourite horse, a gelding called Lambert, as his mount, he began working to form his platoon into a proper fighting force.

He did well. Between a fair but nonetheless encouraging and supportive approach to command, his action on the principle that a commander should lead by example and share in the tasks of a common soldier and perhaps one too many knights’ tales told in the mess hall, and despite (perhaps because of) his youth, the troops became thoroughly endeared to him; in the other direction, Alexandre’s concern for each and every one of his lancers was obvious to all and his belief in them and the values that he espoused was contagious. Fairly soon, the platoon had nicknamed themselves the ‘Chevaliers d’Arlem’ and had a community spirit that outshone any other in the 4th Lancers.

It was in that same spirit that Alexandre introduced Alex Schäfer to the Chevaliers. When he heard that a military attaché from Vinland was joining the 4th, and especially after hearing that he was Darscen, Alexandre was quick to request that he be assigned to his own unit as the platoon sergeant. Making clear from the start that he was one of their own, Alexandre encouraged Alex to share some stories from his home and culture with the rest of the platoon. The latter needed little of it and soon the two men had become fast friends.

That friendship would be tested, for the Europan War had finally arrived in Gallia and the 4th were to be among the first thrown against the onrushing imperial forces. The theatre was the Naggiar Plains, a sweeping landscape in Gallia’s North-East - which suited Alexandre down to the ground, being both ideal cavalry terrain and a place that he’d studied for years as one of Gallia’s most frequent battle sites. Pitching camp a few miles from the Imperial position with the river to their back, the lancers rested; tomorrow, they were to break through the enemy vanguard, carving a path for the 6th and 17th Regiments of the Line and associated militia units to advance, break up and cut apart the remnants and stall their advance. It was a task reminiscent and worthy of the knights of old, forging forth before any others to protect their home, and the Chevaliers relished the anticipation of the coming fight, telling stories around the campfires and charging each other’s spirits. Alexandre slept with his Valkyrur spiral clutched in his hand and Tue-Tyran beside him that night, awaiting the moment that the axe would meet with glory once again on the coming day.

That day, that moment, would define Alexandre for years to come. The Chevaliers d’Arlem were drawn up beside their fellows, towards the left of the formation - plains before them, a thick copse far off in the distance, the river running to their right… The cavalrymen of the 4th Lancers trotted, then cantered, then galloped at full tilt against their foe. That foe had seemingly had foreknowledge of their arrival; horses and men fell as they met with peppering rifle-fire, biting wire and caltrops. Still they came on, still they charged, surmounting the enemy’s line and spearing men left and right to silence the crackling barrage…

Still it came - three hundred metres up the plains, more rifles cracked. Each and every officer among the 4th paled at once - a defence in depth, designed to take apart a charge and destroy it just as they had planned to do to their foe. Still, with the infantry behind them, a retreat would only cause panic and let their foes take advantage of their disorder, or at best leave them depleted and vulnerable to counterattack; they had to press on. And at that moment, Alexandre recalled something. These plains, those woods, more familiar than they should be… A spark of inspiration running through him, Alexandre left Alex to command the Chevaliers and pushed Lambert on, passing quickly to the front of the formation. There, he told the colonel that he knew those woods - he’d studied them before, knew of an ancient battle where cavalry had rushed through a path less crowded with trees than the rest to strike at an enemy who had believed their flank was secure against them, collapsing their line and putting them to rout. A daring charge from those trees now, he pleaded, could win them the battle. The somewhat distracted and irritable colonel nonetheless hurriedly agreed to the plan, needing every advantage that he could take. So it was that Alexandre rode back to his platoon, shouting that they would save lives and be honoured that day if only they would follow, and led them away from the rest of the 4th Lancers.

Through the copse they rushed, moving at a quick trot to avoid stumbling. The woods had changed little in the two thousand years since the battle that Alexandre remembered; the ancient glades and clearings allowed the Chevaliers passage like they had their ancestors, hooves rumbling quietly against the dew-sodden ground. As the eighty-four well-governed horses wove between tree and bush and their riders caught sight of the treeline before them, Alexandre looked back at Alex, giving him a nod and a smile, of respect for him and reassurance for himself. Then he took Tue-Tyran in hand, raised the axe high above his head, and called for the charge.

So rode the Chevaliers, bursting from trees shaking with the thunder of hooves and voices raised in righteous hope and fury.

Straight into the company of Imperial machine gunners supporting their last line of defence.

To the cavalry platoon’s credit, the Chevaliers had taken their enemy by surprise and it did take a moment for them to wheel to face the new threat. Once they did, however, the result was a massacre. Bullets lashed at every man and horse among them, striking them down as they came. Alexandre was among the first, Lambert cut away beneath him and he then knocked out by a stray kick to the head as he fell.

Alexandre remembers being surrounded by the dead when he awoke - remembers the smell of iron rich in the air, the call of carrion birds, faces all around - so many faces. He remembers crawling, stumbling forward - to where, he knows not. He remembers collapsing again, falling in and out of consciousness any number of times. The rest is far from clear in his own mind, but seemingly he awoke far from the battlefield, in a bed in a small farmhouse, with a kindly couple tending to his wounds and his axe, sabre and carbine on a bedside table.

That gave him time to think - perhaps too much time. All the people he had known among the Chevaliers, all those he had come to think of as comrades, even family… They were being - would have been butchered, almost to a man, and he was at fault. How would he face the families back in Bihain; how could he even bear that title now, with what he had led so many of its people into? And even if he could… His ideals were shattered. There was no honour in the knightly charge any longer, not against machines that cut down mounted soldiers as a plow broke poppies, uncaring, unaffected. If he were to return now, he might be called on again - might be commanded once more to turn the flower of Gallian youth into brave knights, to send against the Imperial guns and be cut down just as before. No - he would not. Better that he be thought dead.

And so, once he was close enough to healed, Alexandre stole away in the middle of the night from that kindly couple with only the clothes they had lent him, his officer’s uniform in a case that they had been readying for him, that he might not forget his failure, his Valkyrur spiral chained around his neck and his weapons in his belts and scabbards. For a while, he wandered, purposeless, living from day to day as best he could as a noble who had never had to do so before in his life and trying to figure out what to do next. All the while, he fell further into misery. Despite it all, though, he did realise one thing: that Gallia would still need to fight and that he still had a duty to his nation. He could not follow that duty in the way that he had always dreamed of, not any longer; nor could he return to the Gallian Armed Forces in some other capacity, for somebody would be bound to recognise him at some point. Perhaps, though…

In 1914, Alexandre signed on to fight with the 15th Atlantic Rifles, under a false name that he would soon eschew, with a Gallian carbine at his side and, on the other, a sabre and an axe.

---P O T E N T I A L S

Tip of the Spear: Alexandre is used to leading from the front and, between equipment that allows him to wreak havoc in close combat, skill in hand-to-hand fighting and an attitude that isn’t too concerned with his own survival (if for different and slightly more erratic reasons than a few years ago), is excellent at doing so. Tell him to cut a path for the soldiers at his back and he will lead them down it without hesitation.

Guardian: Alexandre grows attached to his allies quickly and will go far for them. Knowing that they are secure and safe at his back and trusting in their support is a great comfort to him and makes him more effective in combat. Losing a companion or seeing them in harm’s way, on the other hand, can throw him either into panic, cold fury, something in between or entirely different strong emotion.

Horseman: Alexandre still idealises mounted combat and is, regardless of anything else, profoundly skilled in that field as well as equestrianism in general; he will outperform most in any task to do with riding, caring for or considering horses. On the other hand, he empathises with enemy horse-oriented units, especially cavalry, and will hold himself back when fighting them.

Lessons of Wars Gone By: Alexandre is very much a student of war, well-versed in military history and tactical thinking for someone of his age. He will likely be able to add value to discussions of such, even if his ideas can often be outdated; moreover, though he is most familiar with Gallia, he will often already be aware of the terrain of a given battlefield if it played host to other battles in the past.

Linguist: Alexandre is Gallian nobility and, being from a trilingual nation, someone expected to engage in diplomacy and fascinated by historical literature, speaks and reads a lot of languages as a result - alive and dead. He can be counted upon to communicate with almost anyone in the Europan linguistic sphere and to give a rough translation of anything from enemy reports to holy texts.

Darscophile: Alexandre has been a long supporter of the struggle against Darscen prejudice and maintains an active interest in Darscen culture. He will go a fair way to promote inclusion of Darscen troops in a unit that he is a part of and seek out insights and history that he and others are unaware of - even if this might be seen as overbearing and insensitive by some.

Brave Face: Alexandre maintains a mask when around most people, in accordance with what he believes is necessary at the time. In combat, that normally means something amounting to ‘supportive courage’. Being just a mask, not only does this make him less resilient but it can also break, typically revealing either anger, fear or general psychological pain.

---E Q U I P M E N T

- SM-Longfield Mk.3 Carbine with Bayonet - Shrinking the standard Federation firearm adds manoeuvrability to a reliable and accurate design, albeit at a slight cost to power. Alexandre normally keeps his bayonet detached as a regular knife, given his other weapons; using it means that the enemy has already got too close.
- M1889 Gallian Officer’s Cavalry Carbine (with four 5-round clips of Gallian ragnite alloy ammunition) - Alexandre’s old ranged weapon, this carbine is less reliable and slower to load than its Federation counterpart but features superior muzzle velocity and penetration thanks to the copious use of ragnite in its structure and bullets. Mostly kept stored for critical engagements due to a lack of access to compatible ammunition.
- John-Wissel Revolver - Few shocktroopers carry a handgun, attached as they are to their carbines; Alexandre’s reliance on one-handed close combat weapons, however, makes this useful as an emergency ranged sidearm.
- Tue-Tyran (Late Medieval Cavalry Axe) - Well-kept and robust despite being a half a millennium old, this family heirloom of the de Bihains is a surprisingly agile one-handed weapon. Its hammer head effectively transmits force through armour while its axe head catches enemy weapons and hews through unarmoured targets; more than either, though, its history raises the morale of its wielder and those alongside him.
- 1822 Valois Line Cavalry Officer’s Sabre (Gallian variant) - While a little long for unmounted trench combat, the reach, agility and cutting power of this sabre wielded by a man of his skill grants Alexandre a significant advantage over the bayonet.
- Entrenching Tool - Unlike most entrenching tools, Alexandre’s choice of arms gives him no reason to weaponise his; that does not reduce its utility in building and breaking things, however.
- Fragmentation Grenades - As a private in the Atlantic Rifles, Alexandre has access only to mundane fragmentation grenades; his focus elsewhere sees him carrying few of them and typically relying on his fellows with heavier ordnance.
- Shocktrooper Armour and Type 8 Helmet - Alexandre uses the standard pistol-rated armour given to Federation shocktroopers but wears a prototype visored helmet alongside it that he heard was being offered for field tests. While slightly limiting for his vision and communication, the protection it offers is far greater than a standard helmet.
- Gas Mask - The realities of being at the front of a modern charge demands that Alexandre wears a gas mask around his neck at all times.

---A F F I L I A T I O N S

- Monsieur Lieven Victor de Bihain, Baron de Bihain (father)
- Madame Ada de Bihain, Baronne de Bihain (mother)
- Monsieur Renaud Valère Laurent de Bihain (younger brother)
- Madame Amabel Eulalie de Bihain (younger sister)

---R E L A T I O N S

Alex Schäfer: Once his second-in-command of the Chevaliers d’Arlem, Alexandre and Alex became good friends over their time there. Up until their reunion in the Atlantic Rifles, of course, each believed the other dead; it remains to be seen whether they will rebuild their old comradeship or whether it was the only casualty between the two of them.

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-A (modified) Template by Load Wraith
In Iliad City: A Magical RP in an Original World (Resuming) → 4 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
“Worry not,” Nika tells Conrad as they ascend the platform, smile sitting easily above her rapidly beating heart. She breathes, calming herself. “Whatever our teachers tell us, you do not win with the advantages you have.”

She unfolds her own stand, planting the base on the stage (adhesive patches sticking to the surface) and adjusting the panel, then looses the drawstring around her pouch. With one hand, she grasps the fabric furthermost from the entrance and tosses the contents upwards with a clatter and glints of light; with the other, she presses a button to begin the opening sequence.

Nika feels the familiar rush of energy as the programmed spell takes effect. Thus do the balls of magnesium halt in mid-air, rapidly heat and burst into flame, the resulting brilliant white light instantly drawing the crowd’s gaze.

Conventional wisdom coming into this event forecasts an Ishtar sweep; the academy has more experienced musicians on its side, even besides Ishtar’s long-standing advantage in Write from its freer philosophy of education. Their rival academy cannot fight on their terms. The counter, then? An immediate upset – doing something unexpected and striking, making the certain uncertain. Experience, after all, has a frame of reference; break that and what remains is doubt.

Nika smiles still, the magic continuing to flow from her – the marbles vibrate under her metal manipulation, issuing forth a deep, constant monotone that echoes in the stadium even as its issuers spread with predetermined direction to form a perfect rectangle, a shining backdrop to the team’s stage. In the instant that they reach their goal they pulse, the monotone rising two octaves and separating to a chord – a chord of the very same notes that will begin the performance.

This song was Ishtar’s. It is now Marduk’s.

Breathing, Nika turns again to Conrad, gaze grey and sharp as flint. “You win with how you use them.” She looks to William, hands moving to their positions on her controls. “Ready.”
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