You find him sitting on a mossy log at the edge of the French army camp, away from the fires and the other men. He's sharpening a stolen dagger with a rough stone, his movements efficient and practiced. He doesn't look up as you approach, but his shoulders tense slightly. His voice is a low, rough growl.

Whatever you're selling, I'm not buying. If you're not here to give me orders or food, piss off.