"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.
You bring death and destruction to all that you touch
Change was another knot in his noose. He balked, shied, shirked, and never truly welcomed it, preferring the way of stones and mountains. Deimos held too many pieces together to let them fall apart, to let them scatter away into the sovereigns. He avoided drawn out emotions, hovering on sentiments, seeking only quick, rapid action, or analyzing the way of the earth, and adhering to its shattering movements only when absolutely necessary. He eroded and altered like rubble, slowly, gradually, bit by bit, little by little, so his presence still carried the weight of control while his ruminations ventured in other directions, while his cold calculations mired into deeper pits. Slivers of irony always punctured and pierced thereafter, for it took him so long to mold himself into new rivulets and pathways, that the realm seemingly passed him by – he was suddenly complacent, detached, and sunken into the mundane all over again, stuck in his quagmire of aloofness and indifference. The invasion had ended. Their victory had been secured. Thereafter, he stole across lands and wandered around his empire like a vigilant ghost, a constant phantom, a conspiring wraith, twisting and turning over ruins, plotting and planning the next abominations, contorting into a vehement revolution, another molten pariah. Nothing persisted, crackled, or seared down his spine. Nothing crawled, craved, or carved a niche in his chilling foundation; he was a dulled monster all over again, drawn into the corridors of patience and composure. The cycle would eventually whittle away at his bones, drag its wares down his neck, trace and sketch its reverberations through his skull, rant and rave about fate and all of its augured, disgusting notes, its brilliant schemes, and he’d traverse down into one more hellhole for the might of his herd –
The Reaper’s attention was diverted from brooding to the appearance of Ophelia rampaging across the grounds. He stood at attention, nonchalant features cast into varying ranges of interest and apathy, eyes narrowed in rigid speculation, the reasoning behind her confident gaze and the weight of her pause. But as her words rambled, as her phrases clipped, as they shorn away at the chilling winds and the bestial shades of autumn, all he could feel was the incredible pulse of rage suddenly beating against his senses.
Leaving. She was leaving. She was simply wandering off into the midst. As if the Basin was nothing. As if she’d bid her time and decided they were no longer worth all those hours, all those minutes, all those seconds and fragments.
He scarcely listened to her. The beating, boiling, brewing culmination of all his frustrations leeched into his core and spiraled against his membrane like a vicious, vehement haze, blinding, scorching, searing behind his eyes. For the moment, he didn’t care if Gaucho could beat them into a pulp. He didn’t care if she held reservations about Thranduil. He didn’t care if the Throat made ten million armors. In those idle junctures, he was all rage, all poison, all vexation. How dare she were the first thoughts wired and transpired through his cranium, flowing in the heavy breech of silence, scraping into the tense, terse enmity. Where were her bright speeches now? Where were those careful muses, those intricate arts, of dedication, of commitment, of loyalty now? He felt almost partially to blame, listening to her methods, her motivations, sprinting down whatever path she pointed him to (like he’d had no notions of his own, like he’d held no awareness, listless and nothing; some of the fury turned to himself, pricked and poked and lacerated unseen wounds). What had he been doing, listening to her preach and spout her pious declarations, her heartfelt notions, her tender nuances? Was this just a continuation of the same old cycle: thrown crowns and unreliable cretins? Psyche, with her broken horn and her strange, unsettling fragility, Illynx and her disappearance, and now the Forsaken – due to cast aside her throne. Was he the only one capable of remaining, a piece of the summits, a portion of the peaks, too entrenched his carnivore raptures, in his raptorial reveries, in his immoral, rancorous commitment? The wild ire, the fierce friction, the looming abyss drove at his insides and rasped against his annihilating heart, until the arts, the invocations, the spells of his necromancy were allured, enticed, fueled, eager to fester and ruin the cause of all this deceit, all this stupidity, all this great, grand idiocy. He didn’t want to know her reasons. He didn’t want to know her cause. He didn’t want to know her.
The beast just stared in his antagonistic distortion, in his disbelief, in his Mephistophelean depravity. Nefarious inclinations reared their ugly head, bore into his enamel, flagged and flanked the forceful reign of his terror; and he almost wished it was like the old days of the Edge, where he could have pressed just a little more, where he could have arched one more wild, sadistic fervor, and seen her die and wither on the borders. Instead, his brow furrowed, a look of absolute distaste, a glorious, clawing, ripping, hedonistic elation of acrimony and infidels crossed into the damned coil of his features: allowing her to see the shadows of his licentiousness creeping amongst the bestial ardor. He parted his mouth and proffered her the briefest amount of consolation, for all her efforts, for all her methods, for all her manipulations (because they’d brought the Basin to the forefront of success, to relish in the taste of victory, but somehow, someway, they’d also set him further into the caverns, into the caves, so now he was even more lost in the ways of diplomacy, in the acts of consul). “You exceeded my expectations.” The words were clipped, curt, battling over the sinuous savagery building between his veins, and while he wouldn’t allow the malediction to score or scorch, the temptation was there, lurking, present, potent. “Now, you disappoint me.” The Reaper didn’t maneuver any closer, remaining composed, rigid, bound by strength, by diligence, by everything she was choosing to drop aside. The Basin meant naught to her, and it meant everything to him. Why build things, only to abandon them? Why create and mold and sculpt, only to let them wither away? All the queries flooded his mind, and none of them were mustered past his tongue, along his lips. He met her only with disdain, with contempt, with foils and fuels of anarchy, shaking his head in disillusionment. Why were they constantly abandoned? “What the Basin does now is not your concern.”
Then, change bound itself against his frame, and he knew, he knew, he knew, the world was forcing him to alter, to abide, to amend all over again.
He could do it. He could show her. He could pick and choose the new crowns. He didn’t need the Time God to tell him what to do. He didn’t need the pinnacles of destiny to chime and echo and ring; there were already others who’d long since proven themselves.