Aliases are alternative forms of a reference. They can include actual aliases for characters, nicknames, gendered variations of the some [Classes], plural variations, and even typos.
Crimson light was what she saw by. Skinner’s glowing red eyes lit up the inn brighter than the light from the moon. Bird had taken his place by one of the windows, a sword in his hand, a buckler in another.
Bird nodded again. Erin looked at the undead. They were still bashing at the doors, the walls, trying to climb through the windows as the seven other Antinium moved around the room, slicing off limbs and bashing heads.
Erin walked into the kitchen. She had one jar of acid left. She took it. Bird grabbed her arm as she walked towards the door. The Worker stared at her.
A Worker caught Erin as she fell. Bird. He pulled Erin away, handing her a knife from one of his hands. Skinner was screaming again, the wormlike parasite emitting that high-pitched wail, only twice as loud now it was out in the open.
A tendril shot towards Bird. He choked, and Erin screamed as the tendril lanced through the Antinium’s side. She cut at the tendril with the knife, and Skinner screamed again and pulled the tendril out. Bird collapsed on the ground, bleeding.
A tendril shot towards Bird. He choked, and Erin screamed as the tendril lanced through the Antinium’s side. She cut at the tendril with the knife, and Skinner screamed again and pulled the tendril out. Bird collapsed on the ground, bleeding.
The bodies of the Workers were gone. Sometime when she hadn’t been watching, the Soldiers had taken them away. Erin had asked one of the surviving Workers—Bird—where they had gone. He told her she didn’t want to know.
Now, Bird sat on the ground outside of the first bonfire, so vast and hot that it was baking the ground, splitting the earth and threatening to set the cold grass on fire. The heat and light reflected off his armor. Green blood had dried from terrible bites that had torn into his chest and arms.
But the Worker just sat there, staring up at the twisting column of smoke. It rose like some mournful creature, great and terrible and beautiful. But for the stench. Into that dark sky turning brighter with each second. Bird saw the beauty of it.
Of the thirty-two Workers that had chosen to save her, four remained. Bird, Garry, Belgrade, and Anand. They lay in her inn or sat propped up, wounds covered by some kind of sticky red substance. The Antinium had little in the way of medicine, but they were tough. They would heal.
