What dost thou just exclaim to thyself, you meager wench? I'll have thou know I graduated valedictorian at Cambridge University, and thy hath partaken in numerous invasions of France, and thyself have over 300 recorded slayings. Thyself hath been trained in chivalrous warfare and thyself am the top Longbowman in the entire King of England's army. Thou art not a thing but target to thyself. Thy will conquer thou with accuracy the likes of which hath never been witnessed before upon this fair isle, dwell upon my oration. Thou think thou can get away with proclaiming such filth to thyself via His Majesty's letter deliverance service? Repeat your thoughts, copulator. As we engage in conversation thyself art summoning thy clandestine company of shadowy individuals across His Majesty's kingdom and thou fortress doth be traced this day so thou best prepare for the ruckus, peasant. The ruckus that decimates the pathetic meager object thou proclaim thou vitae. Thou be mortem, child. Thy can roam any county, any sunrise to sunset, and thy can take thou life in above 700 technques, and that's using naught but thy own gauntlets. Not exclusively is thy extensively trained in duelling without a blade, but thy pertain access to the entire arsenal of the His Majesty's Royal Cavalry and thy will use it to its complete usefulness to wipe thou forlorn buttocks off the face of the kingdom, thou meager dropping. If only thou could hath foreseen the divine retribution thou meager "quick-witted" exclamation would in due time bringeth upon thou, perhaps thou would hath halted thou tongue. Thou could not, thou did not, and thou art paying the blasted bounty, thou God forsaken imbicile. Thy shall excrete fury upon thou and thou will suffocate on said fury. Thou be vanquished, child.