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.
The leader was a man, a [King]. He looked younger from a distance. Barely seventy years old. Barely…and far younger than those with pointed ears. Until you stared into his eyes and saw true age looking back. Age and despair and defiance and—in this moment—hope.
They shouted in alarm as a sigh ran through the waiting people. The [King] was on his knees, and his [Queen] was helping him up. The [Mage] beside the Blighted King had his staff raised, but his eyes were filled with disbelief.
But others watched with calculating, appraising glances. The [King] rose, beckoning, and the young people waited. There was nowhere to run—but they weren’t in danger. Yet. They were confused. Lost. Far from home.
He was a [King]. He spread his arms and woke. Tears shone in his eyes. Tears, for it was done. He stood and stretched, and decades fell off him slowly. When he called out, his voice was fuller, surer, and he pointed down at the two children, who only began to realize what they’d done now.
He walked down from the dais and began striding across the throne room towards the double doors. The twins followed him, not daring to be left behind. The [King] called out.
He wore black, almost like a servant of another time, but he too wore armor beneath cloth. What separated the two was that if the [King] was a man of passion, Orthenon’s own passions and personality were like a swinging blade. Precise—but the years had left rust on him as well.
But he did not see what he wanted. What he saw was the [King], foot upon that chair. While that pose should have tipped him off, he had missed the moment the man sat down on the throne.
Lord. It was an insult borne of a despairing man. The [King] nodded; he saw it. Yet now, his eyes were dancing with anticipation. He was still smoldering from the inside, and the fire was growing, but his steward didn’t see it. Not yet.
The [King] nodded. His eyes seemed to burn in the half-light. If Orthenon would look up—but he didn’t. The [Steward] continued talking, his voice slowly rising with passion as he listed the frustrations of years.
Twenty-two years. It had aged the [King]—and not at all at the same time. He had been a prisoner here, a slumbering man of his own making, so it was a younger man mixed with an older one who stared down at the [Steward].
In that moment—Orthenon knew. The [King] stepped forwards and placed a hand on his shoulder. Just that. It trembled as his most loyal vassal looked into his eyes, and the king’s own shone with tears. And the fire spread from one man to the other.
The [King] patted Orthenon gently as the man choked on his words. But in seconds, he had mastered his weeping and bowed low to the ground, one leg extended forwards as the other swept back. One hand on his chest as the other extended outwards. It was a different gesture than the stiff bow he had given earlier. The bow one gave to a ruler.
—They were the eyes of a man who had seen nations burn. Who had led armies. Who stood behind the [King], at his side, and had driven armies of legend into the sea. Even so, his words were tinged with regret. Regret—and with a rising passion for what he knew would come.
