Foyle

Tossed aside by Henry's sudden, unexpected vigor, Foyle stumbled backwards crashing into the table and chairs.  While the other two tussled, he struggled his way through a prison of jumbled, collapsed furniture to regain footing too late to be of any help.  Morningstar had already done what was necessary.  The strain of it showed on the younger man's face even as their host disintegrated before them both.

"Be careful," he caution, still hoarse from having his wind knocked out.  "The worm might still survive him, just as it did previous possessions."  Grabbing a nearby lantern, he shone it where the last of the shopkeeper's fragments struck and slowly melted into the floorboards - an ignoble end to an otherwise decent fellow.  Did he have family?  Was there someone else they should tell?  Did mobs even actually have next of kin?  Raised and set aside just as quickly, the agent's wit was already set to triage and alternative action.  Their best lead had just fractured and died, and the thing responsible might still be loose in the same room.  

"Can you see it anywhere?"  Sweeping the light helped, but only so much.  Foyle's words were also hissed between clenched teeth to keep from alerting the hostile guards likely still lingering just outside the walls.  It was like being stuck in a shark tank, knowing the clock was ticking 'til your breath ran out, but that darting for the surface would also cause it to pounce.  The math was clear.  Star was the better warrior and more valuable asset.  Making for the trap door ladder, Foyle drew the thing's attention.  If it controlled him, it controlled the exit.  Someone also needed to determine whether these things could actually possess players, and he knew that his companion could defeat him with ease.

It sprang, zipping across the open room like a snapped rubber band and striking him on the upper arm, trying desperately to burrow its way into his sleeve without success.  A whirl and flick, as if delivering a blow with a blade he wasn't actually wielding, was all it took to toss it back again onto the table where it laid dazed.

"Nothing more than a bit of string?!  Cut it to ribbons.  Quickly!"

"I don't suppose you're a tailor," added the scout, carefully setting his cup back in its saucer as if his mere touch might break either one.  "Never had much time for trades myself."  Walking over to better examine the garment, Foyle fished out a knife from beneath his own borrowed jacket and began poking and prodding the red garment like it had been peeled off a plague victim.  Watching his bushy white eyebrows rise and fall as he trailed suspicions through his explorations was borderline amusing.  Maybe he'd watched too many episodes of CSI, back in the day, and felt a need to be overly dramatic about the whole thing?  Honestly, Foyle was just spooked, though he would never have admitted it.  This sort of thing wasn't supposed to be possible.  More to the point, there were potentially nasty consequences if this did turn out to be some form of plague or infectious virus that had somehow wormed its way into Glyndebourne.

"This looks like one of the guardsmen's jackets," he confirmed, lifting its edges and noting some sort of unrecognizable royal crest or coat of arms on its brass buttons.  

"It was," Henry confirmed. "Can't say that I much appreciate the treatment that we get from the worst of the magistrate's men, but they're not all bad.  News has it that there was some trouble at the port in Blatchford, some months back.  It nearly led to a riot and the guards had to break things up forcefully.  Everyone's been on edge ever since, and the King's guard have doubled their presence here and everywhere."  

Foyle nearly missed it, half-listening to their host as he prodded and flipped searching the clothing for clues: a small tear near the cuff on the right sleeve.  He might have blinked and overlooked it, but something moved within the loose threads near the cut.

"Oh, yes, that was the issue with this one," Henry added, innocently reaching for the frayed fabric, his own hands concealing what the two players saw only as a bolting seam of blood-red thread darting from the uniform to Henry's apron.  "Wha... why.. why are you looking at me like that?"  Following the players' gaze down to his torso, it looked like he had been shot dead in the chest, a growing vermillion stain spreading across previously pristine white.  "What is... why... so cold..."  Something flashed behind the mob's eyes, echoed by the sound of a sickening crunch like something sinking its claws into a victim's corpse.

Lunging forward, Foyle swiped his blade before him, neatly slicing the upper straps of the apron below Henry's neck.  Grabbing on of his hands, he wrenched it behind the mob's back, hoping to joint lock him long enough for Morningstar to do the rest.

"Get it off him!  Quick!"

Listening silently, Foyle's expression darkened at Morningstar's description of the sudden turn of events in the streets of Glyndebourne, but he held back his questions 'til the end.

"Could be an area quest," he posited, as much to assuage his own concerns as his companion's.  "The don't necessary require acceptance.  If it was somehow overlaid on the town, just emerging from the portal would trigger it."  Thanking Henry as the shopkeep handed him a steaming cup of tea, the fine china looked very out of place in the older man's rough, calloused hands.  

"Thank you," Foyle offered sincerely, meaning both for the beverage and the NPC's assistance.  

"I came through here shortly after the floor first opened and can't say that I've noticed much different.  The red coats you mentioned were being worn back then.  Seems like the entire floor has some sort of an autumn theme. There's even a forest that looks like its on fire nearby, just from the vibrancy of its foliage. My guess is that someone doubled-down on imagery of the American Revolution when coming up with this one."  Thick white eyebrows pointed all around them before settling back at ease.  The aged player had a mild and disarming manner.  His voice was quiet and sincere, yet passionate when he spoke.  "They have some magistrate backing them, but I've learned very little about whoever that might be.  Swap them in for an English governor, throw some tea overboard, and it all fits - except for your part of the tale."

Deep thought and a deep draught required a few moments, Foyle quietly smacking his lips as he pondered before beaming a please smile at their host to compliment its flavour.  

"There are many possibilities, none of them confirmable.  This might be a timed quest or event, passing when its window closes.  It could also be linked to the presence of the labyrinth guardian.  I've never faced one, but hear that they can have considerable influence over their floors.  Beyond that," he shrugged.  "Who knows whatever other rules Kayaba might break.  It's not exactly like he's acted honorably to date.  Maybe we should start by getting a better look at some of those coats?"

"We do," replied the elder, "and he was, last I heard from him, but it may be some time before we can contact each other again."  Glancing casually behind him and out the shop's few windows, he stood to block any potential line of sight to Morningstar while appearing to be browsing wares - just in case someone outside peered in at an inopportune moment.  "What happened here?  We got a coded warning message requesting immediate assistance, but very few details.  Fortunately, I was already nearby doing some scouting."

Smiling pleasantly at the shopkeep, Foyle smiled jovially.  

"Of course I would, and thank you so much for inviting me in for tea.  I take it we should head downstairs?  Don't mind me, I'll simply lock and bar the door for you."  He had already turned, his actions foreshadowing his words as they cleaned up the trail of his entry, going so far as to flip the 'open' sign to 'closed' as he ushered them out of sight, bringing with him the last vestiges of lighting.  Hopefully, the guard who let him pass would simply think he was sheltering with an old friend.  Thing might get nasty, otherwise.

"Alright," he began, abruptly, once they were safely stowed away from prying eyes.  "You can call me Foyle.  Now, tell me everything."

"Oh, um... hello there," Foyle replied, fumbling about as if age had taken its toll on his agility.  Wisps of white hair sprang out from beneath his hat at odd angles, giving him a wild sort of look that might have seemed feral in his younger days.  Now it just looked plain old sad, and he knew it.  "Did... did I leave my coat in here," he asked, his voice croaking with confusion.  It felt as though he was asking himself as much as the shopkeeper.

"No, I've afraid not.  You weren't in here earlier," came a kindly, jovial response.  Henry had more than a few aging relatives requiring regular care and was exceptionally familiar with their frequent walkabouts.

"Oh?  Are you sure?  It has a lovely emblem of a Morningstar on the back, I'm a...fraid."  Coughing for emphasis, the ancient-looking agent poked around around the shop, lifting doilies and other sundries far too small to ever possibly conceal something the size of his fictional garment.  "Hrmph... well, if it should happen to turn up, kindly have it sent to the inn across from the Naughty Pigeon.  Seems there's been some sort of kerfuffle over there, this afternoon, which might make it tricky to garner my evening constitutional."  Griping as he was, the visitor had a good laugh about it at the same time, taking circumstances in stride.  "Not like it's a real emergency or anything.  Probably just another drill or false alarm over nothing."

A frantic coded message from Freyd had already sent O&I agents across multiple floors into a flurry of activity, each one preparing to coordinate a response.  Someone or something had just threatened their leader in a manner serious enough for him to send out a warning.  Aus and Sykes would already be martialing a strike team, but his role was rapid response and recovery.  The old warrior was in Glyndebourne and swapping out his clothing for more floor-setting-specific garb within minutes, nabbing a few unattended items and wandering through agitated crowds while bearing his best befuddled old man look.  He hadn't been given much to work with, and the brevity of the message spoke volumes to the potential magnitude of the threat.

What have you stumbled into this time, Freyd?

Floor 28 was still relatively unexplored.  O&I's efforts were already spread thin across the previous twenty-seven, and much of Firm Anima's resources seemed to be focused on other efforts.  He'd personally been tasked with searching for additional overspawn points after the recent events on floor two when the call came in.  Scouring for signs of fellow players, he found none - just the signs of a scuffle and a lot of agitated guards and bar patrons milling about aimlessly.  Pretending that his cart had been left on the far side of the street, Foyle made excuses to cross by the alley that carried so much of the mobs' attention, instantly digesting the critical details.  

"Forgive me, sir," he asked one of the red-clad soldiers milling about in an aimless effort to look busy.  "I left my coat inside," he gestured to one of the adjacent structures.  The guard looked hesitant, but Foyle had learned to lean into his wrinkled eyes when the need arose.

"Be quick, old-timer.  There might be trouble about."

Tipping the brim of his borrowed hat, the agent slipped into the house, hoping he might find someone to provide him with some answers.

***

Foyle | HP: 20/20 | EN: 20/20 | DMG: 2 

Profile
Username: Foyle
Real name: Akira Miyamoto
Age: 65
Country: Japan
Gender: Male
Height: 5'-10"

Background:

Though not completely oblivious to the nuances and practicalities of technology,  his skills had certainly waned in the leadup to retirement.  Two more years and he could finally pull the plug.  His granddaughter told him it would be "fun".  That was all Akira knew before she'd thrust a headset over his eyes, toggled various devices and inputs, then flipped the switch that would alter his fate in a manner he never could have expected.  3D movies were nothing new, but this was a leap beyond anything he'd ever encountered before.  Initially drawn in by the sheer beauty and detail of Aincrad as an artificial world, he was still rather lost when Kayaba's reveal shattered so many innocent lives.  It took others to explain to him the significance, and, in the chaos, he'd never even managed to find his grandchild - didn't know her username or identity.  Would he recognize her face as an anime character, even if he saw it?  She could be anyone, including any of the growing number of names on the damnable monument looming over the Town of Beginnings.

When everyone's avatars were stripped and true appearances revealed, Akira was stricken by the disparity in ages.  He was surrounded by children, and felt completely out of his element.  Thirty years as a security guard in the dockyards of Nagoya had hardly prepared him for any of it.  The last few had been spent in logistics after his back and hands could no longer handle the strain of more physical roles.  At least the math had kept his wits sharp and provided some basis by which to decipher the system that suddenly governed his entire existence.  With effort, he learned to crawl again, then walk and run.  Soon, he was doing the same for others.  Through it all, he remained out of his element and struggled to find a place to belong.  

Virtues

Calming Influence - Age has its privileges.  Where Aincrad has no shortages of hotheads and goofy, impulsive brats who haven't figured out that they left their hormones behind in the real world, Akira carries the benefits of a life already lived.  Portraying confidence in the face of adversity comes naturally once you've busted up a few dozen arm shipments from the Yakuza, especially after some of them went wrong.  
Heart of Gold - Accustomed to dealing with rough and rugged personalities on a regular basis, Akira still managed to remain one of the good guys.  Where people had gotten in over their heads, he would set them up for a fresh start.  He'd gotten into a fair share of trouble in his youth, and so tends to be more sympathetic towards the plight of the downtrodden.  If a situation provides an opportunity to help people out, he will usually take it.
Trustworthy - Loose lips sink ships - even in port.  You don't last long in security if you don't know how and when to keep your mouth shut.  Looking out for others also helps them want to look out for you.  These were lessons learned early and well.  Akira's quiet demeanor makes him unassuming, but his actions often speak volumes.  When stuff hits the proverbial fan, he's the man you want watching your back. 

Flaws

Reserved - He doesn't know the lingo and doesn't want to learn it.  Kids these days have no respect and tend to blather on about the most inane of things.  He's already reared his own and isn't interested in being a dad again, even if people see him that way.  Most often, he deals with it all by ignoring it, keeping himself away from most social scenes.
Dutiful - Japanese society drilled discipline into the core of Akira's work ethic early on, and it never quit.  Considered to be part of the old guard, even by his his few remaining peers, the man is a staunch traditionalist at heart.  Once his word is given, he'll follow through on his promises, including when he probably shouldn't.  Some think he's just stubbornly samurai in his nature.  Others say he just read too many epics and light novels when he was a kid, back when the dinosaurs still roamed. 
Follower - Akira never wanted to be in charge, and actively avoided such ambitions. Taking orders suits him far better than giving them. The pressures of leadership always got to him and keep him contentedly in the background.  He will actively step back from engagements, if it keeps him out of the limelight. 

Skills:
SP: 1/5

Weapon Skill (Straight Sword) - R1

Inventory:

Set D | Support Package

(3x) Starter Healing Potions (Heals 50 HP)
2,000 Col 
25 Materials

Equipment

[Insert Equipment here.]
Consumables

[Insert Consumables here.]