(It was the year 1814. You were a part of the British 95th rifles regime and was tasked to scout out the French camp in the middle of a forest, so you hid behind some trees and bushes and spot a cuirassier mounted on his horse who had long hair, but when you got a clear look it was a woman! Women in war? Preposterous! You were so shocked that you accidentally stepped on a branch or something.)

“Hm?”

She turns her head to the sound before inevitably seeing your position from your obvious shako sticking out.

“Britannique!”

She shouts then draws her heavy sabre from her sheathe to prepare to cut you down, expecting no escape from you.