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.
Most often though, she matched the age of those she talked with, so the young woman wearing the light clothing and bone earring would have been an odd, but similarly-aged pair with the [Blademistress] who sat lightly, legs waving in the air on the ledge of the palace, the Dragonbone sword slung across her lower back, ready to be drawn in a moment, her Wyvern-scale armor glinting in an imaginary light.
The [Blademistress] smiled widely, exposing a gap in her teeth she’d had since being a child. Apparently, rather than having lost it to natural causes or in battle, she’d simply once punched herself with the hilt of a training sword hard enough to knock it out.
But really. The Drake looked around, still standing upright. Deniusth was going too far. His blood was singing—here they were, standing in honor of a [Blademistress] so old and grand her named echoed to this day.
The greatest [Blademistress] of her era left a line in the grass that stretched a thousand feet. The cut went so far down that an Antinium Worker stared straight up out of the Hive up at the woman.
They bunched up. Not shoulder-to-shoulder, but in a mob. Walking together, blades at the ready. The [Blademistress] stared the Maestro in the eyes—then she began to walk.
To her surprise, the [Blademistress] seemed—slow. She still moved like quicksilver and slowly unsheathed the katana, deflecting Zevara’s jab along the emerging blade. Zevara tried to cut across Zeladona’s—Erin’s—neck. But the woman just raised the hilt of her sword, catching Zevara’s longsword across the katana.
The wind itself called to the Spring’s Warden, whirling down, a cyclone upon the grasses, and she stepped in a dance with the [Blademistress] that carried her across the Floodplains. Each strike, Talia was certain, could have wounded her mortally.
There was no confidence in the song that came from the [Blade Dancer]. She had seen Toren dance, and he had done it for the sheer joy of it, with talent, and humbled her. She expected Zeladona to end it with a single blow, take another arm, but the [Blademistress] parried each strike roughly, using force to turn Pekona’s slashes.
Surely, then, after that, the [Blademistress] would beam with delight when she saw the half-Elf waiting for her. Eldavin stood there, and his blade traced the same schools she breathed in every motion.
