"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.
05-21-2014, 12:56 PM (This post was last modified: 05-26-2014, 10:57 PM by Circuta.)
WE ARE ALL ILLUMINATED
Time waits for no one
Beneath the bleak expanse of cinereal skies, the brine crashes ivory froth against the beige grains of the shore— surrounding dabs of rock swathed in murkier than normal attire, still damp from the springtide deluge, humid oxygen coating most equine's flesh sweaty with the light of the early dawn, the odor of salt ravished with the howl of the wind off the coast. But if one took the time to flesh out the fragrance of the sea, one would know it is keen, uncluttered, or putrid with seaweed washed ashore— it does not hold a element of metal, copper, and yet it swirls with the gusts upon the breeze; the loathsome aroma of spilt cruor. If one were to not simply bypass the coastline, indeed, they would surely take notice of the cardinal stains among the soil, droplets gathering in volume, the hope of ravenous beasts as a prowling wolf for the sinew of a lamb's meat, a painless feast without the aid of a pack to slaughter its harvest.
A being drags themselves along the once pristine sands, starry breast smeared with the very same cruor, lacerations rosy with irritability at the ire of the wind, violet spheres rimmed in scarlet, swollen and wet with tears, opaque lines drawn as cracks and crevices down her cheeks where the drops had scattered— blown with the wind, frame trembling, quivering as a leaf. The muscles beneath her flesh convulse between intervals, as spasms of misery and the strain of standing converge as one upon her.
Something is soaked into her sinew on her port side, sticky and saturated, pooling down her fiercely shaking pillar, vermilion and vibrant in hue— it is her own life's liquor, a chunk of perished corpuscles hanging limp as a ragdoll, leaving raw tendon in its wake.
The Nightingale has failed, blundered and miscarried, defeated, having fallen flat beneath the weight of ambitions and aspirations, she has failed, she has failed the Plaguebearer with his starved craving for dominance, failed the Empress with her ascendancies to the throne. She had faltered in her pledge, her vow, her assurances and betrothal, she has fractured, crumpled and broken her promise.
Coming to a swath of kelp, wrapped snug about a beaming, vivid apricot egg, gilded and luminous as the Sun in summer she pauses, enervated, drained and gone stale, wasted time and worn days, consumed in the burden of the world, nausea writhing up within her throat as bile, a sudden rush of disbelief and deliriousness washing up inside her cranium, sweeping across her lithe bodice, the wailing flurries catching cascades of mane in its wake— savage and passionate, a irate lover's hands, and she teeters recklessly, a spiteful lashing of a hymn groveling within her mind. They won't love you now, it whispers, laborious and serpentine. They do not love derelict children with meager downfalls.
A meek response, forbearing and subdued, yielding protests against the caw of the Voice. Liar, she cries, liar, liar, liar, and a cackle thrums in her harks, harsh as the winter air is bitter. You are, Oathbreaker.
And there, beside the roar of the brine, she topples, the second time this morn— shattering, wilting as a flower without water, weary and tiring and infuriated, so, so irate at herself, for she has lost, she has lost and they won't love her anymore, they won't love her anymore, a dejected helplessness rising as the tide within her veins, a dry sob bursting from her lungs, a quake resounding throughout her pilant frame, followed by another, and another, and another, the Earth seeming eerily hushed besides the splintering of her glass heart.
She is forsaken, truly, desolate and widowed, there is no mother to rock the babe within her arms— there could have been, mourns the Voice now, crepuscule and grim, if you hadn't of murdered her, there could have been, and as she spills her sorrows among the kelp, the seaweed, the divine blessed egg fractures, a rift growing within its illuminated surface, as if it mimics the severing of her heart, and there, before her quivering nostrils plunges the minuscule torso of a cub, a mewl escaping its blind face, puny, pilous paws landing upon her maw, shivering in the drab light, tangerine and onyx and cream— and among the rapid pulse of her mangled heart, a bond ties, a noose holds. This is her soul, her dæmon, and a bubbling laugh escapes her lungs.
Except it isn't really a laugh.
It's more like a sob, mixed with a laugh. Just a little.
A brittle hymn, thick, weaves lyrics from her maw, tattered spiderwebs, long forgotten tongues. "Rhawon," she says, because she knows immediately with the chastity that empties her mind from his cranium, knows it is a he and he is hers, and the babe chuffs against her sinew. He'll perish, too, the Voice says, because she is damned, and she merits a watery whimper. "Yes," comes the croak of a lyric.
They may both relinquish life, this day, among the reaping of her own claret. I tried, murmurs her hazy thoughts, lightheaded, and startlingly dizzy. Was the sky always so brilliant?
I tried....
Coward. Useless. Pathetic. Weak. Words given by my father, more than eight years ago, but they were etched into my mind and I would never ever forget them. Not because I wanted to remember them, but because I couldn't forget. I had for my whole life tried to prove against them, but... Perhaps he had been right? Perhaps I was just weak, pathetic, nothing more than another mare who deserved to know her place. I stopped and shook my head before continuing, dragging my cracked, grey hooves through the muddy earth. "You will always be a pathetic whore, Delinne. Don't even think about finding someone who'll love you because you are nothing. Who would want you when they could have a smart mare? A beautiful mare. Go back to sleep, worthless slut. Goodnight." A growl quietly escaped from my lips, grinding my teeth.
Father, I would one day pierce your black chest and mangle your heart of ice until the shattered parts ruined you on the inside slowly and painfully.
I rose my head high and looked around me, raising a brow slightly. Apparently I had been walking for so long that I hadn't even noticed the Thistle River, the thick forest or the beginning of a white beach. Open skies above me were grey and filled with boring, depressing clouds - a weather to match the feelings inside. Ugh, if I could, I would've slapped myself hard. Why did I feel like this?! I knew why, but I didn't want to. It wasn't my fault that Azzaron had died. That's what Windwalker had told me. Just because I was the reason, I wasn't a murderer. Sigh. It was my fault. I would always be the reason for the death of my children's father. They didn't exactly have someone else to blame, did they? My blue gaze fell down, spotting a red stain in the sand I stood upon. What the... I lowered my head, sniffing on it and snorting in surprise. Blood. The metallic, rusty smell of the liquid was something I never mistook for something else.
My brow was raised once again and as I followed the trail of red with my eyes, I ended up staring at a silhouette further away. Sleek and dark, it lied by something that looked like a cub - a feline one. I tilted my head and slowly, very slowly, let my legs move forward. Though I had only taken a few when a shadow attacked me from behind. Surprised by the sudden touch, I yelped loudly and glanced back - and a smile was now glowing all over my face. "Dezba!" I giggled and watched the cat as she jumped down on the ground again from my rump, only to sit down in front of me. That's when I realized she was alone. "Dezba... Where is Cah?" I whispered, suddenly terrified that the jaguar had come to me because my newborn was in danger. Had she hurt herself? Was someone after her? Were there any thr- 'No problem. Safe. Home.' She frowned and I immediately knew what she was going to say, even without the telepathic communication.
'You. By the edge. What you think with, Mother?!' I looked away, frowning and every single sign that a smile was ever there was erased. 'What if you fall down? Your offspring. They need Mother most. I nothing compare to you. I no parent. Cahira. Azarel. Destry. They your kids, they love you. You their only parent.' I sighed, still refusing to look at the jaguar. 'Let us go and investigate that silhouette over there...' It seemed to have worked as an distraction, as the black feline turned around and gazed at the figurine in the sand. And she ran.
I followed of course, but I didn't expect to see who the figurine was in the sand when I arrived to her. I had expected someone, but not her.
"Circuta..." I breathed, staring at her bloody shape. The feline that I had seen before her was in fact a feline - a tiger, even. Only a little cub, barely out of his shell. My herd sister was covered in blood and had caused a pool of the red liquid to stain the beach underneath her. She was torn half apart. "Amika... Who has done this to you?!" I whispered, though my whispers were hasty and masked a fury that I had felt many times before. If I were to find the one who caused Circuta these wounds... I would kill them with my own maw, horn and hooves. Merciless.
You are on the beach, lost at the junction of sandy waters and a forsaken wasteland. You grab your beloved plants, snatch them from the ground and shove them into the leather bag with gusto, with fervor, filling the reaches of the leather from bottom to top, from side to side, from front to back, stuffing and shoving, filling until the leather seams bulge and beg for release. But you have to fill it until it almost bursts because your home is so far away from the beach, because some days it seems like your stash lasts for fewer and fewer days even though you have magic to supplement your addiction, because if you don't have these plants you will spiral back into your moments of detox and you're just not sure you can handle that again.
And when you're done, when you've gathered all of what you can possibly gather, you turn your head and look over your shoulder. You are not ready to go home, not ready to leave this place that you inhabit, not ready to return to the Hidden Falls and pine over your failures and the future that you do not yet have. Someday it will be yours, someday you will call yourself general beneath Rose Red whom you hate. Still, whatever disgusting leadership she might provide, it will be worth it to call the Phantom Seeker your queen. Her saccharine words, her tempting motions, her seductive body... You nearly groan just thinking of it. She seduces you even when she is not in your presence. That is the power that she holds.
With one final look to your beloved plant patch, you turn to head towards home. You're hot, sweating, swaying under the overhead sun. The cape you stole from Eris does not help, draped over your back like you are some sort of royalty. You don't want the thing, but you hold it against Rose Red in an effort to make her uphold her end of the deal. You'll return it someday, once she names you general of the herd and Falls, but until then you keep it with you to protect it, to make sure she does not steal it back.
As you struggle through the sands, your eyes suddenly catch site of something. A hallucination? You're almost sure of it. But no- it is truth. It is the Phantom Seeker struggling along the briny shore, and then tumbling to the ground, covered in crimson streaks that do not belong on her hide. Your blood begins to boil and you shove your body into a canter, tripping through the sand, stumbling and falling to your knees but forcing yourself up again because you have to reach her. Eris told her to go for the crown but you didn't think she would- at least not this soon. Damnit, you curse in your head, enraged at yourself for not following her more closely. You should have been there and you weren't. Not trying to make you feel any better, your companion takes great joy in lifting one of the stones from the sandy beach with her newfound magic and whipping it through the air towards your head. It hits you solidly beneath the ear, stinging sharply, leaving a small trail of blood to trickle down your cheek. Yes, she thinks so too... you should have been there.
But you arrive too late, too slowly, you are beaten to the fallen Saccharine Queen by a unicorn of your herd, a mother you met once or twice before, and she steals the very words from your mouth. Circuta... Amika... who has done this to you?! You stop beside them, forging ahead for a moment with no thought or care for what they will think of you, no desire to hide your passion for the fallen princess, and you- you yourself!- reach forward with your nose. Down, down, down- ever closer to the Sleuth's neck, her throat, her cheek. Can you touch her? You should not, you are not worthy, and yet you try. You reach, you blow warm air, contain your drool, awakened from the hazy fog of your highness by the terror you feel at the prospect of losing the ebony shade that lays on the sands.
But you soon remember you are among company and, lingering for just a moment longer in strong desire to feel the flesh of the queen that is so much better than you, you withdraw your head and resume an air of stoic reservedness. “Ci-” You stop, hesitate, linger over the sound and let your brown eyes reach down for hers. You should not say her name, you should not ruin her sanctity by forcing yourself upon her, should not damage what is hers by mixing it with what is yours. “Sugar Lips,” you decide on instead with an angry sigh, for once wishing you were not an addict so that you might be able to say her name at a moment like this. But you are no better than the scum that lives upon the rocks of the ocean shore and so you confine yourself to your punishment, never being worthy to really say her name or do more than pine for the woman that may have secretly stolen your heart with her words of molasses. “I'll kill them both. Which one was it?” Glass Horn or Golden Pegasus. It doesn't matter to you anymore. They will both burn in the pits of hell when you are through with them.
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