Our story: The Epic of Trava Knights
The Hundred-Year Draconic War
Once upon a time, there existed the Trava Kingdom, ruled by Wise King Svitanae, ever prosperous and halcyon.
Then, the terrible Dragons of the North came. Led by the Elder Wyrms, they rent lands with their teeth and claws, burn cities with their fiery breath and ravage the forests with their wings.
Wherever the Dragons went, death followed suit. Fear and panic spreaded throughout Trava Kingdom, and the land once overflowing with life now barren, wasted and desolated.
Before long, the Dragons had scourged all cities and villages of Trava Kingdom but the Sacred Citadel, Middangeard, where lay the Lending Pool, the lifesource of Trava Kingdom itself.
The brief respite afforded the Kingdom was but fleeting, and the final days drew nigh…
In the darkest hours, King Svitanae walked to the Lending Pool, with the Holy Scepter tight in hand. “I summon thee, Goddess of the Pool. Heed my word, and deliver us from inevitable doom. Come, Viviane!”.
A vague silhouette appeared, radiating a bright aura that shone upon the castle not unlike midsummer noon. The Goddess Viviane appeared, bringing along her solemn voice: “The Champion hath been reincarnated, and he shall be the one who endeth the Dragons’ reign.”
At the same moment, an enigmatic voice echoed throughout the Kingdom. “Legends of the Land, heed thine King’s call. Gather thyself at the Citadel, and thou shall be blessed by my power. ”
Men of all ages gathered at Middangeard, and without exception, each was granted a Trava Knight Armor set, blessed by Viviane power through the Lending Pool.
The new Order of the Holy Knight of Trava was thus formed, and the hundred-year Draconic War thus began.
Until the prophetic Champion of the Crystal would arrive…
The Burning Flame of Daedalus
The night was dark and cold, and snow was falling down, whitening the shoulder of a robed figure, walking slowly but firmly towards a glimmering light in the distance.
The howling winds and blistering frost did not seem to deter this figure’s presence, even though his robe tattered, his boots torn, and each gust seemed to cut deeper and deeper into his flesh and bones.
Even in the blackest of the night, there were always two amber dots, shining ever brightly, gazing ever heavensward as they had done for so long.
For this robed figure was King Svitanae, and for him bearing the weight of his Kingdom on his back.
“Knock, knock!”. King Svitanae arrived at a wooden hut, located high on Orange Mountain, the source of the aforementioned flickering light.
“Who disturbeth me?” - a voice as hollow as a winter eventide, echoed through the darkness.
“It is me, King Svitanae, and I am here to collect thy debt.”
The door burst open, an old man with a crooked back and wrinkled skin thus appeared. “Thou hath come.”
“Daedalus, the greatest blacksmith in the land, I request thee aid. The dragons cometh, and ordinary weaponry do naught against their magic.”
“... I care not for the fate of this accursed land. But it is thou whomst I owe… Surpass me in combat, and I would consider thy requisition.”
“So be it.”
Moments later, two shadows emerged, stancing in opposition on a grassy arena.
Daedalus, once a crooked-back man, then standing straight. His head held high, his azure eyes shone bright, his grip on Damocles, the legendary sword, firm and tight, his grey hair blowing against the wind, creating mesmerizing silver lines.
In the moment, he was not an old geezer anymore, he was a warrior, the bloodline of Mars ran through his vein, burning ever fiery and fiercely.
Svitanae, breathing slowly and calmly, gazed towards Daedalus. His grip trembled slightly, not from fear, not from intimidation, but from determination, from the responsibilities entrusted to him by millions of his subjects. As if understanding its master’s resolve, Laevateinn slightly shook, creating a humming sound pierced through the darkness.
“We finish this in one strike.”
A flash of light. A sound of crossing blades. A circular shockwave, originating from the dead center of the arena, roared through the night. Snow instantly vaporized, raining down not unlike midsummer storms.
Dust slowly settled, revealing two shadows, each holding his sword straight from his arm.
As if time had stood still.
A long time afterwards, a shadow suddenly collapsed to the ground.
“Thou… hath bested me…”
“It is for my Kingdom. I can not… No, I must not fail my people.”
“Very well. I shall fulfill my debt… ‘Twas my destiny, and I shall accept it.”
Daedalus, having regained his old man form, stood up and walked back to his hut. Inside, he lit up a long forgotten furnace. The flame of Daedalus, not red, but deep blue like the boundless sky, danced happily inside the furnace, as if welcoming a long lost father home.
“Bring me materials, I shall forge thee equipment. Consider my debt paid in full."
The hundred-year Draconic War thus continued…
The Phantasm of the Auction House
“15 million TRAVA!”
“20 million TRAVA!”
“30 million TRAVA for this Crystal Armor, passed down from the legendary Sir Cedric of Mysidia! Anyone wants to contest this lovely lady?”
As the night passes, sounds of elites and aristocrats, carefree of the tragedy looming by the dragons, echoed through the vast halls of the Auction House, a mansion owned by Winfred Haytere, the wealthiest man of Trava Kingdom.
In contrary to the brave knights who put their lives on the line for the existence of Trava Kingdom, a huge portion of aristocrats could not care less about the survival of the common folks, and they indulged in endless parties, bought the most luxurious decorations they could afford, and the Auction Night, held semiannually at the Auction House, exclusive to nobles, surely was of an important event for the elites to show off their wealth.
The Auction this year was no different, until suddenly… the lights went all off, and a sound of bell echoed through the dreaded silence of the halls.
“There is no need to panic. I just came to retrieve what is rightfully mine.” - a dull voice emanated from a ghastly shadow, hanging on the beam of the Auction House.
“Who art thou? Guards! Seize this man!” - screamed Winfred, as he desperately tried to stop his shaking legs.
The guards were quick to enter the main hall, and began firing crossbows relentlessly at the shadowy figure, but all of the arrows passed through the figure effortlessly, as if the figure was nothing but dark mists.
An eerie laughter suddenly bursted, windows opened and a strange wind blew through the hall, extinguished the torches of the guards, and seemingly their energy too, as one by one they collapsed to the ground, like young trees before raging storms.
“They are just sleeping.” - said the shadow, while slightly turning its head and glancing at Winfred.
In others’ eyes, the shadow was but unchanging, but in Winfred’s, the shadow was a fiery phantom, a demon hailed from hell, with crimson blood eyes gazing into his very soul.
“The dragons cometh soon. Trava Knights needeth these armors more than these worthless nobles. Let them join the auctions!”
“Y… Y… Yes… Anything thou want.”
“Very well. Then I shall be leaving. I expect thy cooperation.”
The lights were turned on again, and after the rambles died down, people noticed the Crystal Armor of Sir Cedric was gone, disappeared from the podium. The Phantasm of the Auction House was thus born, as well as fancy tales and amusing ballads, fantasizing him as a noble thief, or merely an exceptional swindler.
From afar, on the hill looking down to the Auction House, stood still a shrouded figure, holding a Crystal Armor in its arm.
“Father… I shall don your armor, to protect my sister…no, to protect your beloved Trava Kingdom from the shadow…”