Napoleonic Dread French Native Scout

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Yaree raised her musket and aimed at the back of the monster just as it was about to lunge at the crazy frenchman with the sabre. She had forgotten his name, but in her experience the soldiers of the unit tended to die too quickly anyway, it just wasn't worth trying to remember these strange names in their foreign tongue. Her French was bare-bones at best, but gestures where usually enough to fulfill the role that they had hired her for: tracking all sorts of monstrisities. It was dangerous and lonely work, but it sent money home to her family across the ocean to the other side of the world. She pulled the trigger and saw her shot hit the thing right beneath the left shoulder. It hissed, turned around and stared at her. Yaree dropped her musket and pulled out her club. She wouldn't die today.File also comes supported.