The Chronicles
The story behind Rafterburn: Time has no relevance, distance makes no difference. An epic journey awaits
Preface
This is a space in the multiverse—an epic story that makes our current view of space, time, and similar worlds irrelevant.
In this realm, the Walking Cavapoos evolved over thousands of years. They stemmed from pets but underwent a miraculous evolutionary growth triggered by a race similar to humans—superior beings who, with the irrelevance of space and time, can be anywhere at any moment.
The "Original" Walking Cavapoo is somewhat of an oxymoron. He came with flaws, but his determination and will formed patterns that others copied, weeding out bad habits over the centuries. This created a collective consciousness—partially dependent on vast knowledge bases, and partially shrouded in the mystery of how we arrived here.
The Violations of Cavalerian
Cavalerian was a small speck in this universe, but a pioneer whose stories have been passed down through generations. Some would say he was a fool. In the early days, mistakes were made. Resources were wasted. He suffered from self-doubt—all of which are now considered violations of "The Code."
But this was long before the Code of Brotherhood was formed. Back then, he didn’t have many SOPs (Standard Operating Procedures, for those less-evolved souls further back in the timeline). He was merely one who asked the right questions, one of the first to discover his immense abilities and perseverance. In his midlife, he discovered a powerhouse of consistency: The Galactic Reporting Chronicle Team (GRCT).
The Moonbase and the Datastream
The GRCT is an advanced information-learning bank for several galaxies. They collect and store knowledge in a vault the size of a moon—a datastream that allows these stories to travel to you from far, far away. The Moonbase reaches across the void, all the way to Earth.
The Moonbase was beholden to 1,000 paintings, each carrying a member of the Cavalerian bloodline. These are relics more than paintings—pieces of history meant to inspire greatness and remind the beholder to be true to themselves. They are anchors of truth and justice, ensuring the galaxy never relapses toward the old ways.
The Tribune and the Cavapoos share some visual similarities to Earth, but the language is all interpreted. It is a completely unrecognizable coincidence that a culture like Japan shares certain similarities and translations with the Cavapoo. Within the Moonbase vault are the rules and morals that have helped civilizations thrive beyond all expectations. It creates ideal conditions—not a perfect world, and not a controlling one, but a vast assistant helping anyone in need.
It was built to be a tool—a perfect one.
Koji
Edition I of VIII
The stars aligned just right that day, there was a relic from the old world being delivered to Kojis front door, the old world Tribune told him they were coming using the suns bright reflection in Kojis window cell, fascinated at first, he was motivated and ready to accept the gift bestowed upon him, a fresh adventure ahead that knew no bounds.
The glimmering sun Code specifically told him to cut ties with all the unnecessary formalities , his daily trip to the local food market, part time sword training for the military, his commanders would look for him but not until he slipped comfortably out of reach into the remote farm lands where no-one would notice him. Sun Code was an advanced communication technology, it had told him repetitively the pickup details of the token over a month of numerous guidance, who to talk to, where to camp, when to come to his window, when to take a break, how to remember every specific detail of his upcoming journey and how to face a storm he hasn't even seen yet. As instructed on November 17th he packed his bags and knew there was no turning back.
The Pirate King of Rafterburn
Edition III of VIII
Standing at the threshold of fire and salt, the King chose the horizon over the hoard. This is the moment he decided to blow it all to hell…
Lucious and Koji shared the same blood, the sacred Cavalerian bloodline, but Lucious carried the skeptic’s burden. To him, being a Pirate King meant order, discipline, and the occasional indulgence decadent rum When the light flickered on his sill, a throbbing wave of pain permeated his skull. "Malarkey," he spat. Observations were not for everyone, and he had no time for the Tribune’s games.
But the Tribune do not negotiate, and they were neither impressed nor patient enough for insubordination. From the high crowns of the Seven—crowns worn not for status, but as symbols of their immense duty—the command was issued. These seven highborn tribunals of great age and intelligence sat at the apex of the Galactic Reporting Chronicle Team (GRCT), an organization spanning two mid-sized planets and a fleet of ships with a technological sophistication beyond most understandings.
The GRCT maintained the moon database: a vault of order, records, artifacts, and technology run by 1,000 high-elected officials. Their goal was galaxy resonance and equilibrium, a strict adherence to the Cavalerian code—a code of old ways to rule with integrity and discipline.
“Shall we intervene?” The wise one spoke in a cryptic, otherworldly burst of short creaks and grunts.
“We shall,” Tempedfyortlian responded. In their world, names were a formality; complex names represented complex duties, and the Tribune were the most complex beings in the galaxy. Order and control came at no expense.
The wise one spoke slowly, yet efficiently, to Tempedfyortlian: “Key. IT. IN.” Two or three characters were struck. The screen came to life almost immediately, sparking a board of LEDs to life. As Lucious nursed his headache on the deck of his ship, his world was about to break.
Lucious threw the device across the room in a fit of rage—for once in his life, could he get something to cooperate? He remembered his patience training, but in the heat of the moment, he couldn’t restrain himself. He was programming the logistics to raid the Pirate Cove, but the device kept suggesting meaningless tips: Will you be needing a survivor kit? Want me to show you how to start a fire? It was all unhelpful garbage—extensions to original questions that he just wanted a step-by-step plan for.
He needed to know the pirates' schedule. The pirates were hateful things—greedy, possessive, political, and opportunistic. Not all of them, but most. He had learned about them in training before his abduction.
The god-damned Tribune. He understood his role and what was required, but how could a group be so obsessed with controlling the fate of a planet—a timeline of souls? When he started questioning the third or fourth in command, he never got his answers. What would happen if you were compromised by a virus? What if I helped the pirates and decided to live with them? The Tribune had a way of deflecting his questions. Anything that had to do with them was met with: “When have you been wrong?” “Why did you pick me?” “Who watches the watchmen?”
If he ever got too pushy or tried to escape, he would suddenly fall asleep and wake up in his cabin, having dreamed of duty, order, and purpose. He’d remember everything, but he started to avoid sleep just to deal with their "dream lectures" and being treated like a child.
This went on for months: eat, sleep, study, exercise, train, question the Tribune, throw training devices across the floor. The Tribune provided him with an armband that held a translator, a computer, and a communication device for back home. They didn't always hand-hold him; they let him do some of his own training to keep him from becoming too reliant on beings that could take over a hundred planets if they wanted to.
The device was virtually indestructible, so it didn't break on the hard steel floor. Lucious was on board a ship called the Pirate King. It was critical to fit in with the timeline as to not risk altering the period. If one pirate knew he had advanced technology or figured out how to fly a spaceship, it would be disastrous. It would fall into the hands of men who could take over the planet and subjugate millions—or fly the ship like a missile into a castle and set off a nuclear explosion.
Months passed in the silence of the deep. Abduction. Study. Exercise. The relentless "dream lectures" that treated him like a child. Lucious had been trained, polished, and prepared by the Tribune until he was no longer just a man, but a sacrificial anchor for a timeline he didn't ask to lead.
The moment of the Great Choice arrived at the edge of the Sentinel.
Lucious stood high above the Pirate Cove, his heavy cape snapping in the gale like a funeral shroud. Below him, the pirates were closing in on the gold reservoir—greedy, opportunistic things that would burn the world for a chest of coin. He had a decision to make: be captured and let the hoard fall into their hands, or erase the board entirely.
He chose the horizon.
As the reservoir ignited in a blinding plume of fire behind him, Lucious leaped from the Sentinel.
For a moment, he doubted the physics of his own faith. As he plunged into the void, his cape caught the updraft, and he felt a brief, deceptive glide. He wavered, wondering if his training—his leg strength, his resolve—was enough to clear the jagged rocks. The glide held for a heartbeat, a suspended grace, until the air gave way.
Fifty feet from the surface, the glide stalled. The weight of his armor and the burden of his skepticism took hold. He fell faster and faster, a streak of gold and shadow against the spray. He hit the water with a great, violent SMACK, the impact knocking the very breath from his lungs and the Tribune’s voice from his head.
In the crushing cold of the deep, for the first time in months, there was finally silence.
Lucious - the field of Yasumi
Edition III of VIII
A brilliant break, safe and tucked away from chaos.
Lucious had healing properties but they weren't good until he could rest, the fall from the Sentinel took its toll, 30 feet the Tribune estimated, they didn't miss a beat, or did they, Lucious hit the water with a big smack knocking the air out of him. Singed hair, you dont notice it on the relic but never had he made such a sacrifice, such a close call, before he could wind down and sleep he thought of the day he blew it all to hell, he thought of the fall, and he thought of his training. The Tribune after the fall and burns finally came to the rescue, to bring Luciouss shocked system to some-where no-one would find him, a sacred place tucked into the bamboo forests. The Tribune would not come back for him as he completed the hamalarian requirement, it wad a magical place. One of reflection and solitude, it had a glow to it
Castleburn
Edition IV of VIII
The stars above Rafterburn do not twinkle; they pulse with the rhythmic hum of the Moonbase, a silent reminder that the Tribune is always watching, calculating, and "remembering" us into existence. In the wake of Lucious the Pirate King’s defiant plunge—that violent smack against the water that finally silenced the Tribune’s dream-lectures—the timeline shifted. While Lucious rests in the gardens of Yasumi, recovering from the weight of his skepticism, the burden of the bloodline moves to a darker, more fortress-like frontier.
The air at the gates of Castleburn tastes of ozone and ancient parchment. Here stands the Cavalerian Rider, Edition IV of the sacred bloodline, a sentinel carved from duty and silver plate. He does not have a name—names are formalities for those with the luxury of a home to return to. He is simply the Guardian.
To the untrained eye—the Raiders peering through scorched binoculars or the desperate bandits seeking a quick hoard—it appears as a lonely, church-like spire rising from the dystopian dust. But the Cavalerian Rider knows the truth. The stone of Castleburn does not merely sit upon the earth; it anchors it. The surface building is a deceptive shell, a crystalline filter. This establishment is no mere tavern; there is no scent of roasting meat or the slosh of cheap ale here. Instead, the air vibrates with a low-frequency hum that resonates in the marrow of your bones—the sound of the Great Archive breathing.
Behind the Guardian looms a structure that blurs the line between a cathedral and a bunker. It is a sanctuary where the stained glass doesn't just tell stories; it breathes them. Beneath the dirt of Rafterburn lies the true Castleburn: a subterranean spire that drives miles into the crust, a reverse tower of light and logic. This is the Knowledge Well. When a guest approaches, they aren't looking for a bed; they are looking for a tether. If they are found worthy—if they are willing to surrender their ego—the floor of the "church" does not open; it dissolves.
The Exchange: Guests do not pay in coin—greedy, opportunistic things that Lucious would sooner burn.
The Price: They trade their ignorance for principle and honor. The "food" served here is raw data harvested from the Tribune's own observations, processed through Cavalerian filters so a mortal mind won't shatter upon impact.
The Vault: Deep in the subterranean dark lies the Loom of Logic, an ancient processor that translates the chaotic barks of the multiverse into the structured Hamalarian Code.
The Guardian stands at permanent attention, but his fur is matted beneath his gorget. He is weary. The assignments from the GRCT (Galactic Reporting Chronicle Team) have been relentless, and his rest was over long ago, lost in the sea of tasks and the endless guarding of the gate. The conflict here isn't just the Raiders scratching at the perimeter; it is the "Internal Madness" of the bloodline. He guards a trove of advanced tech—relics crafted from light—knowing that if a single piece of this "Sun Code" fell into the wrong hands, it could be triggered like a missile, causing a nuclear end to the timeline.
As the purple twilight of the multiverse settles over the stone, the Guardian remains unmoving on his obsidian mount. He is a sacrificial anchor, the bridge between the mortal world and the divine technology of the Moonbase. To the traveler, it looks like a church. To the Raider, it looks like a fortress. But to the Cavalerian, it is the only place left where truth is heavier than gold.
He adjusts his posture, his eyes scanning the horizon for the next seeker. He is ready to help them "key it in" to a higher purpose, ensuring the galaxy never relapses into the old ways of chaos. In this realm, the Rider is the first layer of a security system designed by a race that views time as a suggestion—a silhouette of silver against a temple of secrets, waiting to see who is brave enough to trade their old life for the Code.