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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.  [i]Valkyrur keep them.[/i]

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.  [i]This is how I can fight for Gallia now[/i], he thought.  [i]This is how I must.[/i]

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 –” [i]Not that, you’re not a lieutenant any more –[/i] “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]