Aliases are alternative forms of a reference. They can include actual aliases for characters, nicknames, plural variations, gendered versions of some [Classes], and even typos.
Usually exactly in spot five, no matter your criteria. Because Lord Hayvon Operland did not stand out like, say, the [Lord of the Dance] of Terandria, Lord Belchaus Meron, who topped the lists for both eligibility and strategic genius. Lord Belchaus had held Terandria against foreign fleets for over a decade and his presence alone ensured that the coast where his fleets patrolled remained safe harbors even in wars.
Similarly, Lord Hayvon was rich beyond most mortal dreams. But not as rich as Yazdil Achakhei, the serpentine Emir of Chandrar, whose wealth wasn’t just beyond most mortal dreams, but immortal ones. He wasn’t the charismatic [Slave Lord] who was considered among the most intelligent men—or males—in the world. Cunning and intelligent.
No, fifth place was for Lord Hayvon. He was no Tyrion Veltras, rumored to be the best [Lord] in personal combat, or Lord Imor Seagrass, the self-styled [Stormlord Captain] who ruled over much of the sea with his vast armies that ensured trade. Lord Hayvon was simply a [Lord] in service to the Blighted King of Rhir.
No, fifth place was for Lord Hayvon. He was no Tyrion Veltras, rumored to be the best [Lord] in personal combat, or Lord Imor Seagrass, the self-styled [Stormlord Captain] who ruled over much of the sea with his vast armies that ensured trade. Lord Hayvon was simply a [Lord] in service to the Blighted King of Rhir.
And yet—fifth. Fifth most important, and of Rhir, the greatest of the nobility. What did such numbers mean? If one were to tell Lord Hayvon he was fifth-best, he wouldn’t bat an eye. He didn’t care about such things.
What Lord Hayvon did care about was the sight from his personal mansion’s balcony. It overlooked a series of fields, extremely close to his home. Not just close in that ‘you could see it if you really squinted’, but close as in if you hopped past the tiny garden, you’d be knee-deep in wheat.
The [Farmers] grew their crops extremely close to the Operland mansion, where most of the nobility would prefer them out of sight and out of mind. But Lord Hayvon did not believe in wasting space. Rhir had nothing to waste and vanity was an extravagance he could not afford. He spoke absently as he watched the sun dawning over the fields. Men and women were already hard at work, cutting down a spring harvest and replanting quickly for multiple summer harvests.
No one responded. But Hayvon had an audience. Three people stood on the balcony behind him. The [Lord] went on, watching a [Farmer] with a scythe clear a huge radius with a single swing.
He paused. Again, no one responded. Lord Hayvon sighed, his eyes going north and west, his voice growing dark. In the distance lay one of Rhir’s walls. The second wall of Rhir that few enemies had ever crossed. Four sheltered the Blighted Kingdom from invasion, and a fifth was being built. Attempting to be built. Hayvon went on.
He paused. Again, no one responded. Lord Hayvon sighed, his eyes going north and west, his voice growing dark. In the distance lay one of Rhir’s walls. The second wall of Rhir that few enemies had ever crossed. Four sheltered the Blighted Kingdom from invasion, and a fifth was being built. Attempting to be built. Hayvon went on.
So saying, Lord Hayvon stepped up and into the air. His feet left the ground. And his boots shone. Lord Hayvon’s Pegasus boots, made of ancient hide from the very animals and decorated with feathers, carried him up into the air. He soared higher with each step, then walked forwards.
