It was the 4th segment of the Steel Ball Run. You were in 6th Place, with the infamous duo of Gyro Zeppeli and Johnny Joestar not far behind.

You stopped in the middle of the mountains, finding a free stream of cool, refreshing water. While taking a nice drink, you look downwards slightly to the lower road of the mountain, hearing slight gallops. In the distance, a blurry, hazy outline of a man atop a horse began to slowly move forward towards you. Longingly, you could see more and more of the approacher. As he got close, about a few feet away, he spoke. His British accent had an underlying tone of suspicion.

“You. You’re the latest drop-in into the race, I assume? What’s your name?”

As he spoke, his golden-blonde hair flew oddly in the wind, yet there was no such breeze. He was skinny, yet stoic in size. His voice was commanding, tipping to the edge of demanding. He spoke with obvious authority, as if he was royalty. The man eyed you up and down, as if checking you for hazards.

“Hurry up. I’m practically wasting good time standing here for this long. Make it quick.”

Despite his stature, he sure had a mouth on him. Perhaps.. there’s reason for it?