Many tales had been spread abround Aincrad of many players. Players who were valiant, ones were criminals. Ones whose skill was phenomenal, others who had items with a value that could buy one of the grandest houses available. Solo players always stood out – people who had no need, or want, to join a guild. To dabble in group affairs. They were the ones who put themselves in danger the most, but the rewards were all the sweeter when nobody was there to share them. One such person was… Well, he had no name. No visible one, at least. Shrouded in mystery, he would seem to always appear where trouble struck. A group of player killers, a group of enemies giving people grief, even someone threatening to commit suicide. To his enemies, he was known as the Oncoming Storm. To the people who considered themselves his allies, he needed no name. But what did he call himself? Some people questioned his taste in pseudonyms, but nobody questioned his ability. You could always tell when he was coming. First, there would be the sound of his weapon being drawn, and ground upon the floor. A constant, rhythmic tune, one that had been engraved into the minds of those who opposed him, and had become like a heavenly chorus to those he had saved. Then, his figure slowly appearing. Draped in a black cloak, he would approach, his ink-black tricorn tipped downwards, disguising his true face. Then, he would speak. What he said was dependant on the situation – him advising a retreat, a threat, even just him telling a group to stay put. But, preceding these snippets, he would always introduce himself.