"Where brilliance is good and madness is better..."
Helovia Info
Helovia opened in February 2012! We are an active fantasy equine RPG
Where once the world narrowed into naught but gray dust and desolation, the gods called for life. Wielding the elements of fire and light, dark and wind, earth and water, spark and time, they have created Helovia. The realm is set within the mythical globe of Loorien, a planet rich with all variety of creatures and blessed with all manner of magic. Originally populated by nomadic, tribal characters, they've since grown into massive empires saturated with culture and history. Separated into four distinct segments of Helovia, called "The Regions," each band of horse strong enough and capable enough, took up the power and responsibility of leadership. Unicorns, old, wise and mysterious, took to the north, hidden in forests of mists and shadows and rarely making themselves known beyond their cliffs of the World's Edge. Equines, vast, organized and militaristic, split into two, one group went north to the Windtossed Foothills and the other group went south to the Dragon's Throat. Pegasus remained nomadic, making their homes in various parts of The Wilds in a migratory manner. For many generations, the land was peaceful and calm, but peace was never the way of the gods. With a clash of argument, war and bloodshed massacred Helovia, and in the aftermath, the realm was eerily quiet. Now, as newcomers sweep into this land, they are met with the lingering bitterness of the gods and the struggle to reclaim what was lost. Nothing remains safe or certain while sorcerers and soldiers alike brood and bide their time for revenge, honor and glory.
Site Wide Plots
Kaos :: The Beginning of the End ☼ - 6/2017 - Kaos placed Helovia in a time-bubble for a short period of time, but the Helovian gods are fighting back. But Kaos is powerful- far more powerful than anyone thought. This may be the beginning of the end of Helovia as we know it.
Kisamoa :: A New Kind of Kaos ☼ - 3/2017 - Kisamoa asks Helovians to help him restore the Spectral Marsh. Which side will you choose?
Invasions :: All Out War ☼ - 5/2/16 - New layout and the brand new invasion rules are up! Thank you for your patience and we look forward to getting started with this new adventure.
The Rift :: Gods Do Die ☼ - 8/2015 - Helovia Gods are saving the Rift from corrupt gods! Can Helovians band together against these foreign deities?
The Literal Ship ☼ - 2/8/15 - Oh no! You have to pair up for Valentine's day!
Sky Island :: Murder ☼ - 10/25/14 - Vesta has been found dead on the island, and the gods have called to you to solve the murder!
Sky Island :: Peace ☼ - 7/7/14 - An island has appeared in the sky! Clouds carry Helovians from the Veins to the sky.
Restoration :: We Welcome the Dawn ☼ - 9/21/13 - The sun has finally risen on this day, giving the land new light, but the Time God and the Sun God have yet to be seen.
Endless Night :: Broken Magic Plot ☼ - 8/30/13 - The earth god has returned and is walking across Helovia to heal the land. Every area can now be considered lush and prosperous, but the sun has still not risen.
☼ - 7/19/13 - The moon has risen in the sky, heralding the return of the Goddess of the moon. Lamp trees which light the paths have grown brighter, moon flowers which grow in dark places have begun to grow and prosper and the world is brighter, filled with a new hope.
Endless Night :: Dead Magic Plot ☼ - 6/22/13 - The gods of Helovia, in order to protect the world, have disappeared into the rift, leaving the world sunless, moonless and magic-less in their absence. Only the herdlands have a source of light, but lamp-trees with glowing leaves and branches sporadically line the popular roads and paths from place to place.
Doppleganger Plot ☼ - 6/20/13 - The God of Time is still struggling to close the rift though which the dopplegangers have come. He has requested that his brothers and sister assist in closing this hole, but without knowing why it opened, the task is proving difficult. Magic still remains faulty and hard to control, but the herdlands continue to be places of refuge for those who are fortunate enough to call these lands home.
ORANGEMOON cools off the lands with a a viscious force. Colder than normal, a sign of things to come during Frostfall, Helovia is bathed in a rich tropical lushness - albiet a cold one. The coastlines of the Dragon's Throat are pelted constantly by tidal waves, and the desert climate is humid but chilly. Ice begins to form early in the Aurora Basin leaving the winding trails slick and dangerous. The mists of the World's Edge coat everything in a glistening crystalline shine which encourages mould to grow everywhere. The Spectral Marsh is the only area which remains fertile, blissfully temperature and lush.
Cotm
Character of the Month for
June, 2017
WEAVER, Corporal of the Aurora Basin, is a relatively recent addition to Helovia and has taken it by storm. Branded with the seal of Death on her chest, intrigue and interest follow both her past and present. Though she is assuredly beautiful, her sometimes sharp personality reveals that there is more to this uni-peg hybrid than meets the eye. Proving herself able on the battlefield in the Basin’s warrior ranks, we can’t wait to see her test her mettle against the looming Kaos happenings! Congratulations!
Helovia RPG was created by Tamme and Blu and coded by Tamme also known as Schwartze. All coding, palettes and imagery are copyrighted to the website and are not for use outside of Helovia. Thank you to our ServerMaster for hosting Helovia. A special thanks goes to Neo for all of her coding help and fixing Tamme's errors, Boom, for her loyal service and creation of the Time God, and to Ali for her consistent contributions and dedication.
It is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken
The Songbird wandered; out of tune, out of touch, pierced and woven with snapped and tangled threads. Were she a dove she may have burst from the horizon and clung to the heavens – were she a butterfly she might have glided towards nectar and ambrosia, drank until she was full of virtue instead of misgivings. But she was without wings, clipped and broken, living off of hopes and dreams never meant to come true, dancing and teetering off the edge and dregs of a world she’d always cherished, always loved, with naught else to guide her but the chipped portions of splintered aspirations. Her spirit, beneficent and compassionate, warm and tender, faded in its discarded chords, withered without light and sea, flickered with a saddened, despondent glow – because she’d fallen again, stumbled and fumbled and scraped away everything she’d worked so hard for – a hypocrite amongst thousands of oaths and creeds. She’d watched her comrades march into battle. She’d taken part in stealing away the lives of creatures, monsters, Gods, just as merciless, just as ruthless, just as decadent and barbaric and savage as the rest of them, becoming another soulless heathen; a healer, brought into the folds and sanctions of war. No matter how hard she fought, she always managed to sink. And maybe, just maybe, a little part of her who’d always been renewed and revived by the gilded countenance of a beloved Thief suddenly felt the sting, the lingering particles, of heartbreak festering and brooding, brewing past besotted lips and out into the corners of her chest – because he wasn’t here and he wasn’t there and the harder she looked the less she saw, the less she knew, the less she understood…her heart had been carried off into the wind and void. Perhaps, even then, she simply hadn’t been enough for anyone or anything. The rolling tides failed to take away the charred fragments of her essence; sadness curled around her like a veil, distant and aloof, eyes staring over the patchwork of isles with no more than a trace of enticement. Breaths loosened in shuddering, stagnant sighs, and her harks twisted in various directions, honing in on the cries of gulls and the constancy of waves, cranium low, bent and angled towards the warm sand. Poor Imogen, unsure of how to tend to the natures of a cracked soul, chirped and clambered her way alongside her mistress, two whittled fairies losing their ability to fly. When they reached a cluster of rocks, a shamble of boulders a little ways from the sea, the fallen seraph, the shaken nymph, lowered herself upon the dunes, curling her forelegs and allowing Imogen to tuck into her side. In the sun, Lena began to sing – bright and stark, striking and vigilant, coiling the deepness, the vigilance, the vehemence of her sorrow, of her confusion, into a lingering symphony. She sang to the birds with their matching trills, she sang to the palms tossed about in the wind, she sang to the listless mist hiding them from the world, and she sang to the beings she helped to destroy, begging for forgiveness (sorry, always so sorry for the lives lost and the souls shattered and the essences buried deep into the earth, never to be seen again). She wished and she dreamed and she yearned to be so much more.
[Open to anyone! ^__^ Hoping to use this for character development. <333]
11-17-2015, 12:55 AM (This post was last modified: 11-17-2015, 12:56 AM by Sikeax.)
la mer détient pas de beauté
It’s hard to think of a time when she could actually find a place to hide off in. Caves are always lovely, but the majority of them are easily accessible and anyone could crash into her hideaway and do what they please with the place. Her tree in the Dragon’s Throat(well, it wasn’t really her tree, but it was a tree she enjoyed) was easily seen by any Pegasi that happen to fly by.
But this was her gift. This was, at last, the place where she could get ignore them, a place where she could turn a blind eye to everything and choose to ignore every little thing. Her own small cave, tucked away in the sea-beaten cliff walls, guarded diligently by the waves.
The only issue was that the scent of blood made Hobgoblin excited. It made him ruthless, hateful and easily triggered. Birds split their flocks in his presence, crying with screams that fall upon her tired ears like endless cacophonies. She even goes to wonder if it’s her own doing, that the bitter temperament she’s taken on has finally begun to weigh down on his marble shoulders, crumbling them til his pillars fall.
Sweat coats her honey hide and paints her in a deeper shade. The increase of humidity is enough to make it difficult to breathe, taking lazy, shallow breaths when her chest feels like a thousand pounds have been added on. All she can care to think about is sleeping in her happiest of holes, pressed in against the dark, stone walls with a cool sea breeze to fend off the heat, but that’s all too far off right now, and armed with glazed eyes, a dive was the last thing on her mind.
Through all of this, she could almost fall asleep on her feet, mid-stride as if her world suddenly decided to stop at that exact moment. Deep within, she longs for the brutal, dry and burning hot heat of the desert island further south and to the west. Sunburns are easier to treat than lethargy, and when you don’t know the lay of the land and any of the herbs residing within a labyrinth of dangers and the unknown, there’s no hope for an immediate cure.
Black fuzz builds up around her circle of vision. Eyelids just happen to feel slightly heavier when the noise collects in her ears, rising above the squeals of pain brought on by Hobgoblin’s reign of terror to the local wildlife. Curiosity sparks in his mind when the word ‘Siren’ crosses her thought train.
While he has no what this ‘Siren’ is, he can’t help but be intrigued. For her, it’s a stone she hasn’t been able to inspect enough, one that turns over and over again in her brain til she’s managed to grind it down. There’s something about the song that brings a slow ease over her features, something calming, nurturing in a way that she believes only mothers could manage.
In a flurry, he’s gone, driven by the urge to claim the source of the sound in whatever way possible. It’s his and only his. Something so beautifu- Don’t.
Scraping stone, a long hiss fills up any empty space left in her ears and boils in her eardrums. Scales trade themselves in for fur, pressing a black stomach along the stone and glaring with yellow eyes as Sikeax takes her sweet fucking time arriving.
Lena.
The bay mare is a sight for sore(or should we say sleepy) eyes, tucked away in the warmth of the sand and singing a song of such elegance and beauty that a Nightingale could find themselves damned to envy. It brings a smile to her hard face, that for once there’s someone she can trust to have good in the soul.
Her visit with her sister in the medic tent had gone well, or was it the fact that Lena had found herself in the boundaries of ex-enemy homeland that kept her from acting of true nature?
Sikeax would just have to make the leap. If things had been good in the past, she can see no reason now that they would not be the same. “You have a voice like an angel." She tries to remain calm, serene and gentle when she is so obviously nervous that even Hobgoblin’s tail bounces back and forth, striking the air and stone with violent lashes of a whip. His laughter plays on repeat inside the confines of her skull. A number of insults tango with his teases.
Against all of her better judgement, she hesitates on her first step forward, silently agreeing with herself that if Lena does make the choice to attack her, that she’ll have to do nothing more than accept fate. The humid has drug her into the depths of hell and there’s not enough strength to pull herself out. “Would you mind if I joined you?” Some company never hurts, does it? She spares a moment to think over how Hobgoblin is meant to be her permanent companionship, how they’re supposed to keep each other from being lonely and safe from harm. It seems the exact opposite from what she expected. His yellow eyes are dark and hateful, claws gripping the rock that he spreads himself over as if he threatens Sikeax’s hide as their next victim. A little kind companionship won’t kill me if I’m careful.
He smirks. He smirks because she is always at the mercy of others and too weak to live without his strength. His pride strikes her small, frail attempt at courage, wounding it so brutally that it shatters and cuts her with jagged edges.
When she doesn’t care to make eye contact with him, he leaps from his throne, landing softly atop the sand, placing himself beside her as if she will show him off like the king he is to yet another face she knows.
It is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken
She lived in between lines in the sand; drawn, idle sketches of good and evil. She could balance along both, travel and twist and tumble through her wiles, her traces, her infinite, compassionate trills, until one action or another sent over the edge, and she stumbled. Some moments were sculpted in warfare, in strife, in belligerent invasions or abductions, taken from her home into another’s against her will. Some instances were carved in rapture, in utter, blinding euphoria and she couldn’t dream of anything else until that too shattered. The nymph was used to the notion, to the art of savagery and the coil of determination and everything else pulsing and distorting the way they all became so rancorously entangled, but it still hurt every time. Her dreams could be full of bliss, of hope, of ebullient, spirited pursuits, only to be dashed by reality, thwarted by catastrophe. It was brutal and soulless, the way their paths were sometimes laid out, because no matter how many times she gave every ounce of her love, of her being, of her strength into the world’s intrepid, daring whims, she was only repaid in guilt, in rue, in vehemence. Perhaps she should’ve learned by now not to aspire, not to wish – but that was what separated her from the cruel, from the monstrous, from the decadent. She tried. She craved. She prayed. She didn’t give in. But some days were much harder than others. The Songbird’s notes didn’t end, whirling and twirling in boundless possibilities, scaling the rock walls and the floating, humid wind, spiraling in warm cascades and silly follies. Her mouth opened to the beguiling orchestra unwinding and unfurling, a beatific glade, a beautiful serenade to pieces of herself she’d forgotten or the individuals she’d understood, she’d cherished, she’d loved, never to see again. Lena painted pictures and images and tapestries with her voice: gilded, glowing, glistening, mellifluous splendor for all the things she missed. Her eyes closed, drifted shut, and she pushed the tones higher, then softer, alternating patterns of fantasy and regret – forgoing the tears building behind her eyes and the painful, barbed nettles driven into her core. Then Imogen burrowed into her side again, dulcet and warm, tender and perfect, chimed along with the echoing symphony, and another voice pulled her away from the sorrows. Her gaze fluttered awake again, reacquainting her sights with the girl from the Dragon’s Throat, a compliment gliding along the breeze and ruffling her sentiments. She blinked several times, hiding her broken pieces, but not rising from the dunes, not trusting her limbs. Her smile, always elegant, always refined, always gentle (despite the heartbreak clawing and rasping against the composed remnants of her soul, despite the savage, acrid bile returning to cloud her thoughts, her mind), remained poised over the loss of life. “Thank you,” her words hovered, poised aloft like wings and feathers and threads waiting to snap, entirely too delicate. Instead of falling apart, she chose to savor the appearance of another, a worthy distinction, a distraction, from the tumbling nuances and the way she never seemed to topple her demons, gaze enigmatically drawing over amber gloss and honeyed whims, to a child who’d grown into a beauty. The Mender’s smile widened. “You are more than welcome! I trust you are well?” Then her stare pinpointed to the imp manifested at Sikeax’s limbs, felt her own kitsune stare, growl in suspicion, and the strength of her dominion rose, beating, hovering, within her chest. Gentle but not deceived, she claimed her voice again, tilting her head in curiosity, in divine inquiry. “Who is your friend?” The sylph wondered, speculated, how far demons and monsters and fiends crawled into one’s mind – and if poor Sikeax had been possessed by them too.