On a rather dreary, foggy morning on a moor in a place similar to England if not England itself there was a lone traveler. He was traversing towards a certain destination, the name of which is not important and rather irrelevant on account of the fact that he never reaches it. The man was about two meters (or eight and a half feet tall), but he was no giant. He was simply on his horse. If he were to dismount he would come to about 6 feet tall. He was rather dark skinned with curly black hair. He was somewhat provincial, but could occasionally afford decadent things. Anyway, this man, mounted on his horse, traversing towards an irrelevant destination was soon joined by another man. He was on a white horse and was dressed in rather worn white and blue outfit. He had a fleur-de-lis on all of his belongings in one form or another and was obviously the epitome of a French noble.

The two travelers exchanged sideways glances without trying to be seen doing so. After a few minutes of riding in silence, the black haired Englishmen started the conversation:
“So, you from around ere’?”

The Frenchman looked at him in disgust.
“I am obviously not.” He said with what seemed like a great effort.

The Englishmen, somewhat taken aback by the strangers rudeness rode for a few more seconds before saying:
“So, where do you hail from?”
“I’m French! Can’t you tell by mah outrageous accent?”
“Well I suppose I could have guessed by the way you…”
“The way Ah talk?”
“No, no. Oh what’s the word… smell! That’s it! The way you smell.”
“The way ah smell?” The Frenchman yelled.
“Yes, well you do smell rather…bad.”
“I smell like a new bottle of Au-de-Toilette, sank you very much.”

The Englishmen registered in his mind that Au-de-Toilette was in fact a women’s perfume but decided not to say so. He instead decided to make a snide remark because he did not like the Frenchman one bit.
“Yes, well, I guess you do smell like a toilet, but, to each his own.”

The Frenchman looked at him; eyes widened in rage and inveighed angrily:
“You dare insult me? Do you know who I am?”
“Of course I don’t, I just bloody met you!”

The Frenchman drew himself up, straightened his back, puffed out his frill covered chest and said with absolute, outrageous pomposity:
“I am Monsieur Jean-Femerichue de Sashaumauteiee, son of Prince Cheleseshemontee Sashaummauteiee.”

He pronounced both names with a slight falter at the end, making it sound as if he was not confident in their pronunciations. He also pursed his lips after each syllable, making it seem like he was kissing his own name. The Englishman looked at him peculiarly and retorted confidently:
“Right then. Well, I’m John Wiltshire, son of John Wiltshire the fisherman, son of Robert Wiltshire the fisherman, son of John Wiltshire the executioner.”

The Frenchman raved on:
“That does not matter, you ave insulted me so I challenge you to a duel!”
“You must be bloomin joking! A duel? Ere, now?” John Wiltshire laughed.
“Yes!”
“O bloody ell’, you’re serious! Oh, that’s tha thing wi’ you frenchies. There ain’t a single witness for miles! All I would’ ave ta do is take out me pistol, stick it tween your eyes and blow ya brains out.”
“Zat is not how a gentleman would act!”
“Well, were'd you go off getting the idea I was some sort of gentleman?”
“Oh yes, Ah forgot you where Englash…”

Monsieur Jean looked away with a slight smile playing on his lips. He quickly turned back around to see the barrel of a pistol a few inches from his face.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite ear’ you. What did you just say?” demanded Mr. Wiltshire.

The Frenchman crossed his eyes and looked down the barrel of the rather shiny gun.
“I said zat… England eez ze best country I ave ever traveled to and traveling wis you is an honer.” stuttered the frightened foreigner.

Mr. Wiltshire drew his weapon back and said:
“At’s what I thought.”

The two traveled for an hour or two longer, but by then it was getting dark. Not so dark as though one was completely without sight, but enough to impair ones vision so that he or she may trip over a dog lying in the road or perhaps even a shrubbery. Although the chances of a shrubbery being in the middle of a road are very unlikely, unless of course it was planted there by someone, which is equally unlikely because no one in their right mind would plant a shrubbery in the middle of the road. Anyway it was getting dark and the two travelers stopped at an inn in a nearby town. Without saying a word to the other they paid for two separate rooms and went to bed.

The next morning the two were awakened by a clamor in the street below their rooms. John Wiltshire looked down from his window to see the townsfolk crowded in the street yelling angrily about something or another. He hobbled down the stairs, as people tend to do when it is early in the morning, and out into the street. The people where rather angry about something and John wanted to see what it was all about. By the time he reached the town square he could see that a pile of brush and wood had been placed together and people with torches were jumping fanatically about it. A woman was forced out of the crowd and towards the pile of kindling. John soon realized what was happening. She was a witch, and she was to be burned. John was very much pleased by this and yelled along with the crowd. She’s a witch that’s what there for; burning.

After the townspeople had dispersed, John headed back to the inn. All the yelling and smell of smoke, he was very parched. I pint sounded like just the thing he needed. As he walked in the door, Monsieur Jean was storming out, followed by an obviously intoxicated man.
“Oh God, what did you do know?” sighed John.
“Zis English pig was ruder than I could bear, zerefore I challenged him to a duel!”

John rolled his eyes and sighed. The Frenchie would never get it.
“Look…” John tried to explain, “You can’t just go runnin about challenging people to duels. It’s just not how it’s done!”

But it was already too late. The two had already walked to the nearby field and began to have at it. John decided not to watch but instead get himself that drink. The inn was crowded with rowdy, noisy people. Apparently everyone had the same idea he had. He sat down on a dirty barstool and ordered a pint. As he was drinking, an interesting conversation came to his ears;
“Look man you’re not understanding what I’m saying. The man keeps bringing us down, and we just keep going along with it. It’s like we don’t care about the ludicrous norms placed on us as a society. Brother, are you even listening to me, ‘cause I’m feeling some really negative vibes coming from you…”

John turned his head towards the man who was talking. He had long, shaggy hair and rather ridiculous attire, which consisted of white, skinny pants and a large multicolored vest. John, confused by all of this posed the question to the man;
“Excuse me for askin’, but what are you talkin about?”
“Aww, finally someone who wants to hear me!”

At that the door slammed and Monsieur Jean stormed inn and marched up the stairs. He was soon followed by a somewhat translucent, hovering figure that very mush resembled the man he had previously dueled. John decided not to question it, for he was more interested in what the peculiar stranger had to say.
“Any way, what I was saying…” the man continued.

He driveled on continuously about things that meant absolutely nothing to John, and John stopped listening after only a few minutes. After a while of this situation which bored John Wiltshire so much, the door slammed open yet again, and a weather worn adventurous looking man took a few steps in and glared at those inside.
“I am about to go on a quest across the sea to seek my fame and fortune.” He said with a thunderous voice. “But, I can’t go on this quest alone. I need a crew. All those interested in joining me, be outside in the next five minutes.”