"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.
02-04-2016, 12:27 AM (This post was last modified: 03-10-2016, 08:37 PM by Mirabella.)
M I R A B E L L A
So, I have this really bad habit of not being able to stay home where it is safe. No, instead I choose to wander out and away from the Basin and right into harm's way. But hey, that is what makes me well, me. I know I should of stayed. After all, Lady Hotaru believed I could be great. She even gave me the necklace with the amber diamond that now hung from my mane. I stopped walking, did I mention I was walking? Well anyway I stopped walking long enough to turn my head to make sure it was still there. SHIT! It's gone. The amulet is still here... But the necklace is... gone... Maybe I deserved it. The amulet in a way, I had lied to receive. Even worse, I don't have a bit of remorse about lying to get it. Maybe this is payback...
Did I forgive that asshole of a bird-brain who had burned my childish drawings? My invitations that were being given out of peace? No, no I did not. In fact, not only do I not forgive him but I am glad that he died in the clutches of the Basin. Did I tell Lena that I would let it go? Why yes, yes I did. Why you may ask would I lie to the sweetest mare i've ever known? Simply because I wanted the peace offering. The damage to my fragile mind was done. If you have wings, I hate you. I want nothing to do with you. I'm not so sure the same can be said about equines... After all.. There's Volterra. Mhm mhm mhm.
I think that's a slight reason why I am here. Well, back here that is. I have wandered far from Helovia, in search of the family line that did not exist within Helovia. My dam had confessed my impure bloodline. That while she may walk and talk like a unicorn, there was equine blood in her veins. Until I had been brought into womanhood by Volterra, I had planned on eradicating that part of my bloodline. My dam was dead, murdered by the Sultan of the Throat who had been controlled by that bitch the Moon Goddess. So why should her parents get to live when she did not? Lucky for them, my mood had been changed by that black stud. In fact, I wouldn't mind spending a bit more 'time' alone with him.
But he is not here, and I am not sure I want to return to the Basin. After all, what awaits me there? Twice now I have wandered far from home. I have heard that the Basin does not offer a home to those with wings or hornless... Yet I have seen a few with wings and a horn upon their heads among the ranks. As much as I hate the bird-brains, I do not think it wise for me to linger among those who are mixed. So, now what?
Typi non habent claritatem insitam; est usus legentis in iis qui facit eorum claritatem.
@Hotaru - come in after Reggie please @Reginald - you know what to do
I'm braver, because I fought a giant and won.
I'm stronger, because I had to be.
I'm happier, because I've learned what matters.
I stand taller, because I'm a survivor.
With all this fever in my mind
I could aim for your kerosene eyes
He has hunted in these blood-red forests before—and he refuses to be deterred from his prey once more. The forest screams for blood around him, a pulsing chant he cannot ignore (and he does not want to. Blood is hot. Blood is fresh).
He is not alone, however; this conquest is, queerly, not for him alone, not anymore. They are tiny shadows behind him, trailing along in his wake as he teaches himself not to lash behind him on impulse (for his body has been trained to hate the filly). They are surprising, however; their obedience is quiet and precise, even as his instruction remains veiled.
He has not spoken to his daughters individually, as he intends to very soon. All he knows of them is their spun-glass fragility of days-old children, the reluctance of their mother to allow him sole custody for these few hours. Reluctance, and not outright refusal, for the woman is not an idiot, and knows not to keep his children from him (he has not learnt her name). Their lives are his to do with as he wishes, demonstrated by the contract signed in the blood of mercy, sparing their lives at birth. She knows he could tear apart that contract at any moment he decides they are not worthy.
He has not decided this, not yet. There are things they must learn, facts they must be aware of, before he can truly pass judgment on their character.
“Oizys, Enyo,” he murmurs; he never calls them with a brash tongue. He waits until they come to his hip—never at his shoulder, he taught them better, never near enough to breach the barrier of familiarity, equality. “Listen, now,” he instructs them softly, his words driven, “I am going on a hunt, and you will follow, and watch.”
He does not know that his eldest child had already spilt her first blood; they do not speak until he asks, and now, he has not asked them (the hunger gnaws). “The blood of a monster runs through your veins,” he tells them, thick, rope-like tail weaving soundlessly behind him, “My blood. Never forget this. By my blood and only by my blood you are worthy of greater things. Clutch it close—otherwise you would be nothing, unfit for this world, crumpled and weak. Dirt beneath your hooves. Meat for your stomach.”
He does not know if he scares his children—and woe be to the child who exhibits fear. He snorts, squaring his stance, preparing for the change. It is never easier. “I will show you this weakness now,” he breathes, and before the tender eyes of his daughters, he bursts.
He never screams during, even though is spine, his bones, his muscles—everything breaks and re-shapes until he becomes sleek, powerful, true. He rears and regards his daughters with eyes that remain grey and his. “Watch,” he hisses and he follows the scent trail that had been just barely detectable in the cloak of horseflesh.
It is a blinding trail of heat and woman-odor that awaits him, painfully obvious, and he wonders, as he always does, how is it the equine species continues to exist when they are so simple to hunt, so easily found. His coils move through the crimson underbrush, expert in their execution, meticulous in the machinations of a perfect body. His eyes can detect the outline of a shapely woman, although, unfortunately for her, these assets of hers, valuable and pleasant, fail to satisfy the interest of the basilisk. His hunger is particular, and insistent.
He emerges—slowly, clinging to the shadows that wreath around her. The strike will come, soon. First he must study his quarry.
[Reginald is in his basilisk form! I hope you don't mind my pp of Ozzy, Snow! Also, she can post!, although posting order is up to Emily and I!]
She trails behind the grey steed, instinct telling her to stay away from the feet, the crushing hooves that could break her skull with a single flick. Perhaps the worry of death at their sire's hands is why Mother looks so nervous when she and her sister leave the silver woman behind - or perhaps it's because she knows, on some primal level, that when her children return they will be forever changed. The stone child cares not; the thrill of spending time with Father overrules all else.
The eaglet rocks on the filly's hindquarters, chirping excitedly. She knows there's something happening, too. Oizys idly wonders whether Father's harpies will see her and swoop, devour her - she decides that she wouldn't like that. "Hunt?" Her ears prick at this word, the wonderful word, and she remembers the slaying of the wolf, the blood, the glory that even made her forget the Thing, the Cough. That had been simply thrilling, and she is about to tell Father about it - to earn his approval, to see if he likes it - but then he's continuing, he's talking of monsters, and her own tail mimics his. It twines idly behind her, copying, wanting to be more like Father, waiting for his command.
She's so excited, the Cough tries to bubble up into her throat from her weak, weak heart. She smothers it, ashamed by it.
He stands strong before her, and the girl does the same; she braces her stout young limbs, twirls her tail against her thighs, holds her head high. She is eager, anticipatory, unafraid; Ker quivers against her spine, so excited that her feathers expand like porcupine spines.
Father begins to twitch. Father changes.
Only a robot would be unmoved by the sight, but Oizys' only reaction is to bat back her ears and grit her teeth, half-expecting the beast to eat her whole. She automatically shifts towards Enyo, seeking comfort, until she remembers herself and steps away like nothing's happened, hoping snake-Father hasn't noticed. Ker, meanwhile, shrieks like a banshee and hides her head beneath her wing, as though that will make the serpent go away.
Watch, he commands, his voice a savage hiss. Obedient daughter she is, she watches. Her flesh stands alert, twitching with excitement. She wonders what he has in store for them - her nostrils smell only snakeflesh, and the faint reek of a mare. She wonders what her innocent young eyes are about to see, what he may command her body to do, like the puppet she is.
04-23-2016, 11:03 AM (This post was last modified: 04-23-2016, 11:03 AM by Reginald.)
With all this fever in my mind
I could aim for your kerosene eyes
Blood, blood. A burst of blood. The forest is painted with it; she is pelted with it. It gushes into his mouth. The air is misted. The scent wafts, lingering in his nostrils. His heart beats with it.
It does not take long, for fear paralyzes. He was naught but a moving shadow to her in those final moments; his coils are large, and yet they move so soundlessly, easy and quick through the underbrush. He is upon her before the scream. He grasps her temple, fangs finding the soft, delicate places there.
His body rolls forward, grasping the curves and valleys of a mare who could’ve been useful for other things, he finds. One hunger has one over his attentions, though, and complies, and his stomach fills quickly with good, hot meat to satiate a rumbling that grass refuses to.
She hangs limply from his jaws, her body relaxed in his grip, a puppet with cut strings. She bleeds freely into his mouth, down his throat. His children have stayed in the brushes, their scent no part of this. Not yet.
“Come,” he says, a snake’s gurgling leer. He drags the body forward some, and a blood-red neck is proffered, bared for his children, still thrumming with confused arteries and veins that do not know, yet, that their host is dead.
Yes, she is well and truly dead—half eaten, her legs stripped and the fatty heart ingested. She is just as red as she was before he began.
His children will do no more damage; the life is long-gone, the soul escaped, and his belly is already purring with pleasure at the meal. The throat alone remains unmolested—pure. It does not matter that the woman is already dead. You do not need the life within for ceremony.
He waits, rattling snake breath, seeing which child it will be to take the mantel, to show him the monster bred in their bones. Slitting the throat of a virgin (he supposes this is a virgin, for she has never died before). Who will it be to grasp this dagger at their tender age? They do not have much time; they must not be spotted.
Speak
Oh, you're just a target in the sky
image: frogthroat @ flickr
@Oizys -- go ahead and post! I'll be posting Enyo afterwards!
--Please tag REGINALD in every reply!
--All force is allowed to be used against this character!
When she thinks of death, she thinks of her own bleeding face, her blood staining the earth, her agony a howling lament into the night sky. It would have taken her hours to die, the life slowly oozing from her ruined face, her body paralyzed by pain....and yet this, this is swift. This is merciful. It is both confusing and terrifying to think that she could be stood grazing, minding her own business, and the next minute she could be Dead, without a single warning as to the threat in the bushes, the snake in the grass.
But this mare, this prey, got off lightly. She did not have her face ripped in two. She was not tortured, ruined until death became a blessing rather than a curse, until agony became life and blackness became the ultimate desire. The gargoyle is somewhat disappointed, but the kill has been made and there is little to be done but watch as the body is....devoured.
Except it isn't. She's half-eaten, but the throat, the throat is still intact, and with a serpentine command her father suddenly bends the corpse so the tender, delicate throat is proffered like a birthday gift to his daughters.
Oizys looks to Enyo, her heart pounding - what do we do, what do we do? But there is only one answer. The kill has been made, but the throat-blood must be spilt to water the lands below; the gargoyle's heightened emotions are so intense that Ker topples off her back in a fit of shuddering excitement, twitching happily on the ground as her bonded prowls forth.
She doesn't know if Sister would want to do this, if she should let her twin have first blood. That would be the selfless thing to do, to give her sibling the glory and Father's blessing. But her limbs move independent from her body and her mind, and her instincts grip her like a vice. She is a robot, a puppet to her desires, to the kill-lust that burns through her blood, from Father's genes, from his wickedness.
She grabs the dagger, her fingers caressing the hilt, her breaths ragged and haggard and thrilled as she dives forwards, head lowered - her triple horns slash across the tender throat, and the sound is wet.
Her face is suddenly damp with blood, but not her own this time - no, she's done it, she's wearing the blood of her first victim (so what if the spirit was already long gone when she landed the blow, it still counts.) She steps back, painted red, and looks to Father out of eyes glimmering with hope and pride, eyes normally so cold that are warmed by the thrill of the hunt.