"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.
For a beast so in control, for a monster so readily composed, it was difficult to admit when he was lost.
But it’d all happened so slowly, a trickling, eclipsing noose, tied knot-by-knot, inch-by-inch, until suddenly it was strapped, pulled, and tightened around his neck, choking, strangling, and suffocating, and he had nowhere to go. The gnarls and wires were marks of his failure, the cycle of steps he’d taken again and again, never realizing how deeply he’d entrenched himself. Reaching out to Huyana, bearing children, becoming Lord and King – all magnificent highlights, all anointed, consecrated favors – but what had he done after? What good was his crown? What deeds and duties had he possessed, had he seized?
War? Battles? Defenses? Brooding? What would he be remembered for, when his body collapsed into the soil, when his cold, nefarious heart ultimately failed him? His silence? His nonchalance? His arrogance? His powers? It would never be for how much he adored his herd, his brethren, or his kin, because he never told them, because he hoped somehow, someway, his actions conveyed all these sentiments, that his muted reticence forged bloodthirsty whims and sinister requiems: how he protected, how he shielded, how he thrust his sword, his rapier, his cutlass and blade into monsters, into fathoms, into pestilence for them – always for them.
But the Reaper had spun his own maze, his own web, his own labyrinth, entombed his soul in the longest reaches of claws and catacombs, fastened his entity, his presence, into the icy summits and barricaded himself from the aches, from the pains, from the numbing anxieties of the day. He didn’t get close to them. He didn’t them about himself, and he didn’t query for their secrets. He didn’t smile for them. He didn’t ask for their support, and didn’t lend his wisdom. He permitted them to live amongst the valleys without ever knowing the monster, the guard, the demon or infidel marching across the borders, patrolling the wilderness, sinking faster and faster into the wake of the earth. Eventually he’d likely be in Hell and never know it for weeks later – too festered, too succumbed.
He’d cycled back upon his old antics, when his life took a fatal turn, when his touch grasped and clenched and wielded death; hiding, shirking, doing naught but fighting cretins, fighting fools, fighting at growth, at resolution, at the crowd nestled within the Basin, at the walls closing in all around him. It took Ophelia, with all her screeching, with all her banshee antics, with her renouncement and abandonment, to realize perhaps he was truly nothing after all. When everything was over and done, what had he accomplished for the Basin?
So, the northern Lord wandered out of his empire, trailed after fire and brimstone, rampaged in stony fixtures and abolished ruins, neither screamed nor bellowed, but echoed in a widening abyss of predator movements; stalking the midnight oils, scaling the mountain heights, beating and bleeding a sinuous torture, a benign, numbing tension. He tore into his self-made warren and growled at its clawing, rasping talons, leaned into the irreverent doldrums, composed bitter, rancorous songs of death and damnation, labored through them in his constant, potent silence. He became shadow and hollowness, empty, void, listless and languid, a satanic, rippling bolero of sinister, routine upheaval, spreading sedition through his veins, through his lungs, through his skull until it defined a maddening, stinging, irritating pulse, and he’d somehow managed to surrender to the chasm, to the rifts, in his entity. The Reaper was nothing. The Reaper was no one.
The soldier of demons lingered around the heart caves, all of its acrimony, all of its potency, because it felt right, justifiable; too many parts of him had been made from infernos and infernal machinations, head hanging towards the great gallows, the gulping lava, and wondering how to make himself whole again, how to achieve greatness when he’d already thought it’d been thrust upon him. But, oddly, strangely, his ears pricked at a sudden noise (perhaps the motion was the only one announcing, registering, his existence, for otherwise he was stone reflecting embers, reflecting ash) – like the world carved his name across rocks, across rubble. All at once his memories stirred the wake of a great bull, forcing him to his knees, into the sea, torturing and flogging and begging him to die, and maybe this voice was too; a siren entity intertwining the abyss with its fallen King. But it came again, rushed against the grass, taking form, taking shape, scorching reality through the copper, smoke-induced haze, like a friend, like family, like a piece of him that had long since died. He dared not call out to him for fear it would dissipate, for fear it would disappear into the chilling, winter wind, and he’d be alone again (don’t I want to be alone?), but the familiarity of it, the worn edges, the pieces gathering in his mind begged, craved, yearned for it to be –
Could it be?
He hadn’t heard the same sounds, the same tones, the same resonance since he was a boy, jaw slackened or grin widened, in awe, in reverence, towards the possessor of such reverberations, and for a few treacherous moments, his heart clenched with feverish, wild, untamed hope. The monster whispered back into the grass, into the fire, into the blaze, eyes narrowed, body cautious, rigid, and taut, and his whole mind offering the slightest of reverent prayers. “Father?”