"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.
He drew a hostile breath and watched it part ways into the sinister exposition of the summit, the peaks, the valleys, ghostly and derisive, scorned and wicked, dipped and coated in the same relentless, infidel brushstrokes as he. Mordant, trenchant, indifferent, it glided and then disappeared altogether, driven to devilish, infernal pursuits, and he traipsed deeper into the fields of frost and rime, bellicose, menacing, a restless monster, a sword condemned to wander until it stained its edge with blood. But there was naught today whispering and moaning upon the hills, no inept soul dancing along their borders, smirking and snickering past mountainous bellows or warning glances, no trespassers looming in the shades, no innocence to be sullied or corrupted. The Reaper was a roaming, toiling, turbulent behemoth once more, tied and consigned to the shackles of heresy, heathen, eldritch necromancy poised and polished, scraping, releasing, unleashing coals and embers under the ferocious gleam of their icy empire – sovereignty condemned to a roaming throne, a wintery, thorned crown. But no matter where he struck, no matter where he loomed or presided, the subtle, unearthly sentiments beat down upon him, circled and swooped, clouded and curled, cloistered and coiled, nefarious, brooding, unsettled. Bellowing shambles and twisting cataclysms, wraiths shifting and turning in a poignant, alluring, beguiling enticement, a juncture, a promise, a benediction tracing its cold finesse over his antagonistic embrace – and suddenly, the intangible graces, the powdered sketches, the cascading outlines, urged, roused, stirred, and incised. He hunted.
An infidel’s hallelujah, drawn and quartered form the length of rapacious interludes, a serpentine dance, a heated bolero, a knife’s opus, peeled away the innards of his chase. Hot, searing, simmering debacles, calculated machinations, bristled against the layers and lacquer of his dark, brooding chambers, possessed, seized, plagued, his movements into barbaric swings and brutal strides, daunting, intimidating foundations. Wolfish and voracious, he followed the hint, the taste, the touch of rain, drowned himself in the wake, in the artifice, in the glaciers, in the peaks and valleys, scorching against their frozen embers, their silent, minatory temptations. He stalked the remnants of showers, drank the breath, the relish, the foundation and convictions, the bedroom hymns, the body and molding of the siren: insatiable, appetite not extinguished. Without absolution, without mercy, damned and composed, devouring and swallowing, the demon’s resolution, attracted, inveigled, by the pull, the savor, of one more harmonious plunge. Undone, unholy, irreverent and seditious, mercenary, avaricious grasps and chains, Lucifer’s oeuvre, Mephistopheles’ body arriving at Elysium, ravaging, ripping, tearing, and toiling. Corruption and debauchery, predatory, grasping, gripping, covetous, sinister contortions spilling from his virile figurine, burning at the seams, carnivore amore cast away into the seas. Seething puissance, forbidding, unraveling, ethereal ruin and bestial rampancy, heedlessly trapped by his own desires, by his own yearnings, plundered the recherché of his search, quietly crooned and murmured the pernicious penetration, the slinking, piercing, infernal clarity of his destruction. Her scent, her presence, drove him to the endless bounty of their glacial walls, at some instances feeding upon the deity of her virtue with slow, scandalous, serpentine maneuvers, a cataclysm, a schism, a patient, diligent effort, feverish and conniving. In other moments, when her existence dangled so precariously along cliff tops or open, hallowed voids, he plundered, a poet’s macabre glee thriving upon harbored, harpooned strife or the heated consumption of his passions.
Formidable, chilling, a terror, a tyrant, along the renounced walls and caverns, seeking mercy and heinous danger, induced and seduced, hushed reticence thriving only when a single grotto remained, reflecting the forbidding essence, the sought divinity, the wild, fierce, feral, ferocious hymns entombed amongst his chest, his veins, his bones, his soul. With a menacing madness, the heathen closed in, venomous, poisonous rapture and reverie, captured by the whims and enticements contained within: caged and incapable of escaping. Sliding amongst its cold boundaries, against rubble and rock, stoic scheming, primordial intrigue, slipping and pillaging the locked hold of her grace, her delicacy, captured, contained. His lips parted and his tongue set a snare. Forbidding, unrelenting, poised for the most beguiling of persecution, the deep, sultry candor of his voice echoed amidst the hollowed lair of gods, cajoled, provoked, and allured for his own paragon of morality. “I seek counsel.”
@[Huyana]
Death, you bring death, and destruction to all that you touch.
All was still in the halls of the Haruspex; even the air seemed to lay stagnant over the cooling breast of the earth. Eyelids, so heavy over dreaming eyes, concealed any trace of the physical world from the quiet mare, eyelashes clamped tight against each other while she swayed lightly, utterly oblivious. But she did not sleep, far from it; instead, her mind wandered from lily pad to lily pad, like an aimless frog. She thought of Deimos (what was he to her? her lover, the father of her child, her Lord?); of her daughter, who seemed to grow more beautiful and distant as each day passed; of her brash patron god, who left such a strange taste in her mouth. Was her life forever to be an amalgam of the unknowable, the unchangeable? Was she always to be a slave of the world, a drop of rain in an endless ocean, whose individual voice was doomed to silence? Was war to follow her and her beloved family for ever; was she always to be as helpless and dumb as a babe? Huyana's breath quickened with agitation, with desperation. She would do absolutely everything in her power to save all which she held dear, but was that enough? Was it ever enough? With the support of such an ignoble god and a blood-hungry populus, could she bring about the change she had yearned for, craved for?
The clip of hooves against rock interrupted the frenzy of the Haruspex's thoughts. Eyes opened to study the dimly lit room, tracing the familiar silhouettes of rubble and rock, seeking out an anomaly from the still shapes. A familiar voice rang out against the deafening silence, stirring something within the blue lady's belly. The corners of her lips turned up in the threat of a smile, and she found herself moving toward the dying echoes of that voice, low and solemn against stone. From the shadows she came, her lithe, silvern body unsheathing itself from the darkness of that unlit room. He stood inside the house of her god, of her work, as handsome and menacing as when she saw him last. Her blue gaze was cast over his strong, fit frame which shone dimly in the low light. "What do you wish to know?" she queried quietly, but for all her self possession, she could not hide the tender feelings she felt for the warrior, the fondness, the sadness. Did he wish to know of impending war, of invading hoards? Did he want her to read the stars for him, to cut the veins of a god and read the spilled ichor, to search every crevice of this cave for the destiny of their people? She would do it all for him, but with all her power, with the might that was bestowed upon her, she would fight for peace—she made a promise to herself to keep him from war, from disaster; at all costs, she would keep herself from a broken heart, no matter how much power the Reaper wielded.
Somber eyes regarded him, betraying an age which spanned beyond the six years she had lived so far. She moved closer to him, ever respecting the magic which burned through his veins as it did in herself and their child. Huyana paused, the tip of her lion's tail flicking lightly, faint light reflected across the rain blue of her gaze as it bore into his face.
--
i'm always in this twilight, in the shadow of your heart,
Wicked and primordial, spun from the eaves of devils and heretics, he slipped into the quiet caress of showers and oblivion, feverish croons, frenetic murmurs, sultry hollows hallowed from chilling irreverence. Constantly consumed, possessive, seizing and avaricious, grasping hold of each droplet of water, licking, lapping, swallowing, devouring, selfish and greedy, absorbing every warm rivulet until his charred, blackened heart couldn’t contain one more beatific bead. Instead of scarring or maiming his wretched hide, it embodied reveries, raptures, repose, ghostly fingertips placating the roughened, grating, ferocious movements and motions, assuaging, soothing, the sweltering damnation, the hedonistic elation, the push, the pull, the spell of animosity and abhorrence, wrapped him in another veil of composure. Rapturous and decadent, clawing and gripping, echoing sweet nothings when he deserved none, beguiling, alluring, scythes and rapiers through the darkest trenches, the lengthy gallows, the deepest pits and pendulums, reticent relief. Curled into cavernous depths, eternally aligned, damned and chained to her duties, to her obligations and commitment, finally exposed to the predacious whims and satanic snares of his diabolical schemes – in truth, he’d yearned for naught more than this: her presence, her mind, her existence in front of his covetous blade, elements driven together through death and desecration. The scorch, the burn, the searing, puncturing lance she held against his soul, the balance of power brewing, quelling, boiling in the length of his virile figure, the sting, the sweltering proficiency he occupied, entranced in the vision of the Haruspex, the raingirl, drowning over and over again. Pushed into the depths of her frame, of her might, of her own, peaceful potency, she’d plunder and ravage and pillage him in eternal ease, in perpetual, undying, immortal fire, flame and then shower him in the dreams, the serenity, the tranquility, of her vital, remorseful sea.
Drawn closer, he followed her quiet onslaught into the archaic, primeval dwelling, overwhelmed the darkness with the plumes of his own unholy violence; spun, webbed, molded, sculpted, sketched into animosity, skin singed and pulsing from the maddening degree of closeness. The wraith, the phantom, the mask and ruse of touch, of fiendish caresses and unholy embraces, strokes and smoke coiled from sighs, whispers and moans flowed from his presence – extended from his mouth towards her shoulder, her nape, her ear, her cheek, kisses maddeningly never placed, a feral breath, a iniquitous hiss, a savage sigh away. Brushstrokes of the vile, clutches of the corrupt, and if she craved more, they would be an endless wave of untamed ferocity. Epicurean, carnal, passionate drums beating against the scythes of his soul, of his Machiavellian mind, and only resting precariously only the tip of his tongue, uttering syllables and words until they danced across her skin, leaving trails of scalding, longing, desiring, lusting opuses and hymns. “The aspirations of rain.” This couldn’t have been enough, wasting away in the caves of harsh deities, at their beck and call, at their merriment and plucked strings, at their mercy. Was this what she envisioned? Was this what she wanted? What more could he give her?
Death, you bring death, and destruction to all that you touch.
Ever closer he drew, that dark lover of her's, like a plume of dust in the nighttime, the lull before the storm. He called for her endeavors, her rainy hopes and cloudy dreams; she in turn had nothing to impart but words of dread and grisly futures. From beneath half-lidded eyes she watched him, saw how the dim light caressed the taut lines of his athlete's body, saw how longingly the dark muzzle trailed over her body, like a wistful bird whose only barrier between freedom and captivity is thin latticework. She sought to do the same, to feel the thin, soft hairs of his sinewy mouth, the fine hairs of his chest like she had the morning the sun rose. Warmth spread over her cheeks like shame as she thought of that day, the longing to say words that went too long unsaid, to feel things that went too long unfelt; their eyes, both impossibly blue, glittered like the sulfur amulet he offered her in the thickening sunlight. And from that day her life was changed profoundly—and soon afterward their daughter was born, the first flower in her thawing heart. Would there be other children, laughing alloys of rain and doom? She pondered this briefly, but soon a darkness cloyed the affection in her eyes as she remembered the words of the lightning god, the sadness of a girl whose home was taken captive by the dead, the woman who saw a half a year without light and took death as a lover.
She tilted her head upward, slate lips brushing against the velvet of his dark ear briefly, ever carefully even through the longing expressed in the gesture. "There will be darkness," she whispered, her sweet voice strangled by fear and sorrow. Pulling back, her eyes, dark in the dim light, bore into his with an air of gravity. "He said our mountain walls wouldn't be enough to save us," Huyana told him, every word quickening in tempo, the hushed sound of her voice like a grave dirge, "he said we would be forced to sleep with our enemies, that we cannot fight this darkness." She paused, frustrated tears glittering in her wide eyes, but she refused to let them fall. "What will we do, Deimos? I've had enough of this darkness—how will we raise a family with all this misery, all this strangling darkness?" Her voice wavered, and she pushed her nose close enough to his body to feel his warm, to smell his delicious musk, and for a moment she was caught in the comfort of his immediacy.
--
i'm always in this twilight, in the shadow of your heart,
A shift in the paradigm, swindling away the sensual, ravenous, epicurean exploits, sharpened the keen resolution of the Reaper’s desires. No time for the sultry swings, the sinuous blend and bend of skin against skin, sin sliding upon virtue, robbing paragons of sight and blinding the folds of flesh to the ire, to the tribulation, of manifested, carnal regime. No lids half-shut, no mouths taut with the silent opus of nuptials and sweet-nothings, torn from the fray with the heavy cadence of rain shuddering against the cold, chilling, wistful ends of shelter and sanctuary. Affection swayed from her gaze, and his chiseled, piercing stare traced to the stone apertures, irritated by the change in disposition, by the reality brutally marring and maiming even the briefest of tete-a-tetes, listening to the chords woven in murky, dwindling tranquility. The slip of her maw against his ear, the tilt of his frame sinking towards her fathoms, captured the distinction of her words, wanton and enticed, then hostile and turbulent all over again. Darkness – there was always darkness (and some days he was the one to fill the void of its hollowed schemes, instigating and fueling the threads of saints and reverent souls with the canvas of necromancy and abhorrence), channeling and filtering into their decadent world. But perhaps this event would be different, would touch their lives in even more terror, deeper than the loss and failure of conquering, scathing and rancorous, derisive and rasping, grating against nerves, against minds, against entities pulsing with resolution, determination, brutality and violence. She was dipped in fear, and he loathed the very notion of it, that the realm brewed with such wild-eyed hunger, not even his own, but foreign and intangible, not easily destroyed, unattainable and unreachable, incapable of being terrorized in the same stead. And what more could he do? How could he stretch his arms wide enough to engulf their kingdom in the safety net of his blackened, charred heart, of his nefarious yearnings and deplorable actions, how could he secure the hold of their supremacy, of their ascendancy, when his powers could not touch upon the apocalyptic brow? Was he to be useless, ineffectual, another inept blight along the horizon, some nameless individual to be entombed by an invisible hand? No, his heathen mind choked, he would not let them falter beneath his daggers, not while he still breathed, lived, reigned.
The Reaper’s mouth ran over her ear, coaxed the rough candor of their machinations, no longer stoked by the finery of licentious stirrings, swift, abrupt, decided, and final. “We must leave.” His stare rendered towards hers once more, penetrating, alluding, promising a reticent conviction through the brief quietude. Deimos was nearly afraid to offer her too many things at once (because he was capable, he was powerful, he was might and domination, but he knew naught about the world imploding upon them), but the press, the ache, the devoted, beloved doldrums between them remained a steadfast hold. Words curled and coiled in the midst and mist of the cavern, a shuddering breath, rapture in the haunting, poignant escapade, a halting command. “Retrieve Loth. Go to the Sanctuary.” And then, one feral kiss exhaled and brewed along her cheek, beneath her chin, along her nape, brushstrokes of the damned and corrupt, but immersed with the only principled ethics he held, providence, shelter, refuge, influence and mastery in the daunting, merciless wake. “You will always be protected.” Then, he turned, away from the stone, away from the showers, the rain, the drowning effusion and deluge carved around his entity, an archaic monolith guarding his kingdom from a discarnate force.
Death, you bring death, and destruction to all that you touch.