"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.
Winter’s courting calls hung a siren screen across its dismal aperture, a whistling, haunting edge, a lilting, frostbite tune he followed through the beckoning squall and the eerie, otherworldly sheen, and he traversed so far, and for so long, that he’d forgotten about the Basin celebration altogether. Instead of posturing himself in grins and dancing on clouds, in fortune telling or riddles along streaks of ambrosia, Erebos chased down lantern lights and glowing spheres, incandescent hues and luminescent spires, focused, determined, reticent, and hardened, unknowingly pursuing bits and pieces of antiquity. The tiny beast’s eyes wandered, his movements sauntered, his motions galvanized: his curiosity could have been both a curse and a virtue, harkening through the warnings of lands beyond, drifting through his veins as a listless authority, begging to be released and untethered, unshackled from his majestic grace. He wanted to see it all, to have his eyes search through the storms and the sanctuaries, to peer down into the depths of salvation and stare upon the fruits of abhorrence. He wanted power and prestige, he wanted knowledge and wisdom, he wanted experience and sagacity, and the more he tumbled from his noble perch, the more he grew, the more he flourished, the more he succeeded in these small, insignificant triumphs. He yearned and craved, he pined and coveted, and he traced the walls of crackling foundations for a chance, for an opportunity, to seize the fine sketches of what so many others already seemed to possess. He hungered for the onset of his magic, of his incantations, to realize what they meant and what they could be for, to savor and taste the dark maelstrom in his heart again, wondering if it was real, if it was true, and if he could harness the eager, ferocious malice for something else. Was there more to the darkening pull of havoc? Could he seize it like his father did, intimidating and chilling, protecting and devouring? He itched and ached for bits and pieces of what the world had to offer beyond he wonderful days spent beneath the beautiful mountain peaks and treacherous lines of ice. He pondered what it was like to be bonded to another, like Adelric and his Tobias, or Cera and his friend – there were so many odds and ends he didn’t know, couldn’t touch, couldn’t relish, and instead of growing frustrated, he threw his heart into oblivion and searched for the opportunities, for the chances, of uncovering these vestiges and moments.
His original goal tossed aside (to find Rikyn and Aithniel, both drifting and disappeared from his sight after their day spent in the land of dust and desert; musketeers without their united band), he stole idle fragments of time and space to stare, to study, the ambience of the arcane, reclusive, and archaic. Lithe blue jay, like a vacant cub, like a miniature behemoth, brushed against the foundations of marbled architecture and wondrous beauty – stared at the radiating opulence, gaped at the nestled trove of mystique and ruin as if it were a treasure, meant to be discovered and peered at. But with nothing to snatch, nothing to take, he became a silent observer, slowly combing over the hardened floor, the still-standing columns, the change of hues, and blinding colors from the glassy roof. It meant naught to him without lessons, without guidance, but he was still permitted to wonder, to dream, to haunt and to perceive: did magic lay here, cast stone into monoliths? Why was it hidden, buried into the grove, into the copse, noble and regal, almost untouched? Why was it not weathered by war, like so many of the souls adrift in this world? His eyes swam over to the brook, nearly frozen and indistinct, and thought to run across it and at least feel the dim light of his potency; because this realm he’d traipsed upon made him look weak and inferior, little and meaningless, another grain of sand in the hourglass. Instead, he stood under the palace gates, and feigned confidence, pretended he reigned over the broken, shambled castle. Maybe then he’d been given all the answers he sought; the ones with power always grasped hold of their knowledge.
Whispers haunt the caverns of her conscience, maleficent meanings lost on the little flower traversing the snows. Midnight tales of rapturous defeats of dragons and saved damsels had never inspired her, nor had the woven stories of monsters, beasts and behemoths, barbarians and hellions, ever turned her away from the darkness of the night. At too young of an age she had already seen that world, felt the burn of meaningless hatred across her spine, cowered beneath the malevolent gazes of her captors. There was no longer anything for her to lose, for the raptors of the wilds to pluck from her soul.
There was no longer anyone left behind to miss her when she disappeared.
How long it had been since she'd left the borders was unclear, a smog that clouded and compacted in her mind until the days became a slew of hours. There was no desire to strip her allegiance, far too young for such a foolish move. Instead, borne in its place was the need to find her father. Searching, scentless and idly roaming, for the ghost perhaps better left lost. Chasing specters of her mind, a trail of isolation and loneliness that she hid behind demure smiles and misguiding answers. Benevolent wanderers, few though they were, oft stopped her and queried where her parents were, why was she out alone in the snow and the cold with such danger lurking? Asch would bite back her answers with a shy turn of her lips concealing her bitterness. Where indeed were her parents?
She comes across the structure perhaps by accident, or maybe Fate decides she has been lonely too long, has been swallowed by the void of aimless despair and must be reunited with the world. Giving her a soul she may recognize, but one unnoticed for a few moments more. She tentatively approaches the masterfully constructed rotunda, gasping in the reverent awe belonging to those of newfound beauty. Pale golden hooves hesitantly placed themselves ahead upon the soft whispers of the snow, watching the iridescent swirls of color that swept her away on their ribbons of newness.
The sound of hoof on stone was a surprise, and her knee jerked the limb back before staring inquisitively down at the step she had attempted to ascend. It was quite like the quarries of the Basin, the stone of the granite often found intermixed in the tundra rock. Humming with curiosity, she tapped her hoof to the stone once more before dancing her way atop the steps, breath catching at the kaleidoscope of colors that exploded before her as she stood beneath the stone boughs of the structure, firmly atop the gleaming floor. Her circle ended abruptly as a deep sapphire figure caught her eye, and though she startled and dropped her head in automatic shyness, peering up she suddenly recognized the wayward son.
"Erebos?" she called, a little dumbfounded to find another her age so far from home. Clicking her heels as she walked, the golden dame offered a smile and gazed down at him cheekily from the vantage point she had over him. "Come on! It's really cool," she urged, trying to be normal for just one second Gods please just one day of normalcy. One where she wasn't quiet and bitter, as dark as the storms she often saw in Aithniel's gaze, or when her little sister played with reanimated dead animals.
Yeah, her family was all sorts of fucked up. But maybe for once, someone could see past that, see only her? Detached from the tangled strings of ArahArwenCrowleyRhiannon? Just...Asch.
Distance daydreams pressed kaleidoscope enchantments across his eyes. The pebbles were his subjects, the insects his jesters, the ivory, colossus marble his throne, and he presided like a prince, like a king, staring over his land with a mighty head and a noble crown. He pretended the world was his, and dreamed of the future, where power reigned, where prowess went noticed and noted, where he already knew what he wanted, what he consumed, what he devoured, could grasp and hold tight over granted gifts and invocations. He had distinction, intimidation, endless threads of wisdom and knowledge, collected and gathered segments of business, of politics, of merchants, of sneaky, clandestine cloaks and daggers, a demon-of-all-trades, neither a fool nor a priest. He embarked on the story, the tale, of a rotunda built for him, honoring his prestige, his potency, glimmering in grandeur, dipped in decadence, crooned and carved in opulence. The wind drifted against his blue coat and the little darkling imitated command of its wickedness, begged it to alter its path, narrowed his gaze and stared past the shaking tree limbs and the scratching boughs, but amidst the damnation, the pretenses, the illusion faded. His smirk faded, and he was left to ponder in the silence, to wonder and wander, over enduring empires and cracking facades, of sovereigns riddled with chipped buildings and unraveling tapestries, busts and statues sliding into salt and sand. Were he not distracted by another’s approach, perhaps he may have whittled away the bones of discarded monarchs and their fallen crowns, clenched and tightened with the images of their glory days: hoof to stone crisscrossed over his ears, and any enduring apparitions hastened back into the ruins. A mixture of gold and singsong thrummed against his ears, familiar, so the notion of alarm, of distrust, of apprehension didn’t mar his features, and only forced his brow upward as he struggled to place the name, the calling of the filly – Asch, hadn’t it been? She’d been a part of their school days, lessons murmured by the eerie Zikar-Sin, the press of a mirror and glass, and the ghostly callings of instruction (and how he’d wanted more, answers, answers, answers, the genesis of information and experiences, one more reason to embark upon crusades and journeys). Anything more than that was lost on him.
Despite the absconding of his boyish chimeras, the lad still fastened a rogue smile across his lips, gave forth a hearty greeting when silence was broken, when his name embarked over the stone and rubble (and did it quake, did it shudder, at the sound of his calling?). He chiseled back over the finery, against the colored glass and the impenetrable monument, gathered the raw, wry exuberance glossed over his menacing, mischievous heart. “Asch!” He maneuvered closer, plucked against the seams of rubble and ruin, mighty emperor for a few seconds more, pondered at the length of her cheeky grin, as if she had something planned for the future and it involved stray threads of wickedness. Erebos followed at her instruction, and defied it moments later by elongating his movements down a different path, pervading his curious airs towards a corner of the structure, dipping his muzzle towards the cold, chilling surface, chuckling when a puff of dust crept out of its corridors. The burst, the boom, of his voice flickered against the walls, stare segmenting towards the golden flicka. “Who do you think built this? Why is it here?”
They are pawns playing across a chessboard they don't understand. Blood has warped their usefulness, fate stringing them across a loom of pre-determined patterns. Summer children in snowy wonderlands, scorned and searched with wary languages and doubtful gazes. They are the cinders, and yet everyone is willing to turn them into tinder for their own uses. Only in solitude can they find the scattered gems of individuality at their core. Staring down from her minor perch to the king in waiting, painted in the colors of his father and cast in the shadow of their ruler's worth, the golden babe contemplated whether or not she was worth the hours he could potentially waste on her. A servant and a soldier, a maid and a ruler. His roguish grin is the growing version that will soon sweep unsuspecting damsels off their heels and force the puff of breasts from intimidated foes. A challenge, a spark that is more than capable of catching, causing damage.
But beneath the demure smile curling her cocoa lips, she maybe, perhaps, impossibly, is not that helpless servant to his anticipated greatness.
Dark lips form the syllable of her name, a surprise. She is a watcher, an observer. His name is written into the scripture of her mind regardless of their time together. Something Asch is aware not many others care to do, knowing she is but a gossamer ghost in the vibrancy of their more important lives. His recollection gives her the small warmth of recognition and importance in the belly of her soul, smile turning to reflect the temperature he has suddenly imposed upon her. It beckons him, but he sways away from her, deviant even to his own ages. Asch does nothing to force him to her side, for she is not the type to startle her prey simply because they do not waltze directly into her snare. It is still set, still functional, after all.
Spun gold hooves click melodically upon the swirling colors, dancing playfully away as dust is stirred up toward her from the exhalation of her sudden companion. Shifting hazels mirrored the expanse of colors surrounding her, shades as temperamental as a summer storm. Elusive, dangerous at times, but breathtaking all the same. She liked to think that as a whole she was the same, not merely reduced to the flitting of her irises. His gaze finds them, and she holds them fearlessly, even as her petite form traverses the milky expanse of the floor. A dancer on her stage, he her captive audience. Flawless in her unchoreographed dance. It's a simplistic answer, one that could be easily answered with an admittance of lack of knowledge. But she spins a tale instead. A spider to the fly.
"Maybe the Gods constructed it after the wraiths, adding the colors to bring more hope for future generations. Or maybe it sprung from the spilled blood of those who didn't make it, hardening into stone as testament to their sacrifices." She exaggerates it beautifully, letting her tone go wistful and awed, perhaps a tad fearful. Gemstone eyes glittering with the secret amusement that betrays her act. In a slow twist she turns, dropping her delicate crown to eye him at a closer level, vixen smile twisting her lips. "Or maybe, it is mine. I am queen and you must be banished from my beautiful structure." Haughty toss of her head brings it high, mane awash in shades of silver and gold as it falls across her shoulders like the royalty she joked of being. Flairs her forelegs towards Erebos with a forward dance of her hindquarters, a mock rear as if to chase him from her throne.
Preludes to the future: lithe sparks and midnight oils, restless, growing barbs and bulbs, blossoms and thorns, scattered amongst the plains, the skies, the stars. Defiant and deviant, a rebel in the making marched over the fine stone and cracked rubble, investigated and scorched the foundations of the earth, hummed the drumming crescendo of foretold goblins and subversive pariahs. Maybe one day he’d find the sway of power, hold and clench it within his grasp, make lords grimace and rumble, ensue panic and hysteria, carve malicious lies into emboldened pursuits. Perhaps in the coming years he’d stand upon pillars, upon thrones, knock them down, sculpt his name into their tumbled sides, into their lonesome valleys, laugh, gleam, cackle. The raptures and reveries of christened expectations were for the taking, and he’d bend and break to receive the hallowed proportions of his destiny – twist fate, contort providence, distort kismet, if fortune didn’t favor the bold. But wouldn’t they all be great, this mass of little beasts, little angels, little heathens, brought up amongst the scattered ice and built rime, homespun cavaliers and mercenaries, tranquil and ignorant, awaiting their turn, their time, to write history? Wouldn’t she, the mystical golden child, glimmer and gleam? Wouldn’t Aithniel glide and chime, scorch and sear? Wouldn’t Rikyn deceive and rattle? Wouldn’t Adelric collect wisdom, nurture sagacity, point them towards a kingdom in need of toppling? There was too much promise, too much prowess, to be denied in their feral, whimsical existences; and as they shuffled through the kaleidoscope temple, he smoldered, pretended, cast the lightest shell and spell of what he could be. The rogue smirk, the feisty, unruly strides, stood steadfast and corporeal across his cerulean hide, only one hark casting its wayward sway towards Asch’s words, her beliefs, her insight into the strange shrine and its cathedral bits, altars of every color, every faction (what would happen if it broke, shattered, slivered and splintered into wild hues and rainbow delusions?).
He was a holder of stories, enjoyed lavished tales of pirates, of thieves, of demons – he could visualize the slithering wraiths, the domineering Gods casting them away, embellishing the void with shades, tints, pigments until all were blinded by the sacramental lights. He could see the spilled blood, the hallowed droplets conforming to marble, stained and tainted, glass conforming to a deity’s will, and couldn’t decide which myth he enjoyed the most. Both versions were imaginative, creative, raw possibilities, and he laughed at them, amused, exhilarated, raising his head to stare straight at the bright looking glass above –
Or maybe, it is mine. I am queen and you must be banished from my beautiful structure. The young prince’s cranium swiveled back towards Asch, captured, enticed, and enthralled into battle: the seditious spring, the revolutionary toils, coiled and curled in his membrane, obstinate and resistant, a tiny beast lined with fire. Tempted and goaded into the fight, the haughty edges of her crown, the flailing of her forelegs, courted him into further measures: he swerved, he mocked, he roused. “Never!” He dodged to the left, quick, swift, kicking out with his hind, intending to cease any close movements on her part. He wanted to circle around, make it to another stone pedestal, another higher precipice, declare the rock and rubble for himself, the formidable palace sanctioned by Gods. The opportunity wasn’t presented, his gaze hastened for steps or shoal, but all he found were flat surfaces, fallen crevasses, molten cracks. Spinning back towards her frame, he puffed out his chest, anointed dares and incitements in a mockingly deep voice, poignantly drifting and slamming into the archaic walls. “I, Blackguard Erebos, challenge the Lady Asch for her empire!” He paused, maneuvered ever closer, smirk hastened into the depths of his debonair lips, daredevil colt cloaked in blue. “Do you accept?”
They are echoes of their lineage, little flasks of purpose and potential that parade around mimicking the future they will soon grasp tight in their hold. They are oblivious to their own importance, naivety and innocence allowing them these days of wonderment and play. Asch is blind to the gap in their importance, to the blood that runs in his veins and makes him a more viable King than any notions of royalty she holds for herself. Instead, she allows herself to be deluded, to think that she is worthy of his friendship and companionship. Even the partially godlike Aithniel would soon reveal herself to be of too much power and beauty for Asch to continue to desire to befriend her. However, pawing and prancing about on the marble flooring, she is serenely happy stuck in the moment. There is no awareness of her future, of the fact that she is surely to be deserted as her peers rise to the greatness they deserve.
Instead, she spins tales, her imagination flooding out possibilities that she uses in an attempt to entice and enamor Erebos to her. His laughter is her payment, and she brightens like the sun is shining through the gold of her skin to hear his joviality. She has succeeded, and for that she is contented. In time she will come to understand that pleasing others is no way to live life, that she must look out for herself first and foremost, but as a child clothed in her mother's robes of grandeur she is desperate to make friends with this little death chaser. The gleam of his scythe is entrancing, and she wants to bask with him in the glow of their collected brilliance.
Hooves paw at the smooth earth in challenge, and though he is taller than she, the little golden princess lifts her crown in a daring challenge. Amusement glitters like lost stars in her eyes, and he rises to demand of her the throne she has rightfully claimed for herself. He dances away from her playful hooves, and she drops to the earth with a spring in her step, knees high and shaking her mane like a proud lion. Tempting him, demanding he meet her step for step. Erebos does so and more, throwing himself to the challenge with a haughty rise of his frame. Asch is not intimidated, for these are age old tunes to which they dance, learning what battle will teach them in years to come. Testing out on one another their abilities.
A snort flies from her paper thin nares with the contempt of a queen far beyond her own measly years. "Do your worst, Sir Blackguard! For you will fall, and I shall build an empire of your bones!" They are macabre and degenerate beings, playing in fantasies of blood and ruin. Unfitting their ages, their meaning in the world. Neither seem to care. Asch lunged for him with a duck of her head, horns meant for battering rather than spearing as she gives her best war cry. Her past is already sullied, she has fought for her life and her sister's as well. But this is make believe, and because of that she is allowed the pleased curl of her lips. If only he knew how parallel their little scenario ran to her dark past.
The Sun amulet hangs around my neck on a thin gold chain, glowing with the power of the magic it holds. I have accomplished all but one goal of my quest: to spy on an enemy. I don't consider myself to have many enemies. Parelia? Maybe. I don't think she is an enemy but I don't like her much either. Windwalker? Not necessarily and I haven't seen him in ages. Hotaru - the sleuth from the Basin? Yes, but after my failed attempt to steal her I was warned to leave her be and let Gaucho take command of that situation.
Any Basiner would probably fall into the category of enemy. The Throat seems to be slowly drawing away from the other herds. My hooves step quietly through the snow as I keep my red eyes peeled for anyone to spy on. Two souls are making a commotion, and I freeze, turning my head in their direction. Young'uns. I am not familiar with either of them, a girl and a boy. I try to stay behind the cover of sparse growth. It's difficult but not impossible. They are focused entirely on the rotunda - the great structure that had appeared after the darkness. They wonder how it came to be. I watch them and listen for any interesting tidbits. At first there's not much, but soon the two become more fired up and I watch with an amused smile on my face. I find out who they are with one simple sentence from the young boy. Horned, cerulean eyes and dark with a strange skull marking on his shoulder. He cries out to the lady, labeling himself as Erebos and the lady as Asch. A strange name for a lady, I think. Erebos challenges Asch, and she accepts his challenge.
I think that there is a lot more bravado and ignorance here than the situation warrants, but what do I know? They are mere children, but they dance and prance, declaring war on each other for their kingdoms. What kingdoms? What on earth are they in charge of? I bite my tongue, careful to not reveal my position in the trees. I am here to watch, not interact or intervene. I wonder if they will fight....
Miniature heathens tethered together in a mass of impending stories, little, lithe heralds courted their namesakes to brows and bands of future endeavors, tied and taut, dusting off wooden swords, rusted sabers, embellished carvings for fortunes’ favors. They erupted and proclaimed, played and contorted, and the tiny Neptune with his eyes fixated on pernicious prowess and his mind riveted to reverential anarchy, could only see the emboldened segments of potential and disaster. She snorted, she rose, she caved into his provocation, and the devil’s hands whittled away down his spine, elongated the silly, foolish tempest brewing and swirling amidst his childish mind: of knights, of relics, of stone soldiers collapsing fortress walls (and maybe they could tear this one down too, rock by rock, pebble by pebble, to show what their world would look like when it was conquered). A stage, a portrayal, a performance of years in the making, when their bodies conformed to age and sagacity, when gangly limbs hardened into furnished, undulating muscle, when prestige and supremacy wasn’t just a dream, an ambition, but a fire burning and churning in their veins, real, corporeal, tangible. She was a series of gilded flames, rubies, gems, garnets clasped in stone, and were he not participating in the orchestrated movements, in the motions meant to swindle and deceive her, he would have laughed again, gleamed and preened in the midst of his satanic smoke. Instead, he swayed and maneuvered, attempted the primordial dance of his ancestors, twisted, turned, yielded to lanky conjectures and light, clumsy airs upon the ground. So he was surprised, shocked, when a bounty of pain erupted over his left shoulder, a battering ram keened and honed from her rapier bridging and flying in a beguiling assault: one moment he’d been an effortless blackguard storming the castle, next, a silly fledgling knocked to the ground, legs flailing, body smarting. His eyes widened, his mouth opened, and one bewildered snort echoed from his nares.
Then came the anger. Too immersed in bloodlines, in hierarchies of competence, capacity, and capabilities, sundered and destroyed, distraught and torn. Raw, unconcealed, unrestrained: a solo eruption, a virile explosion, vicious and ardent, because he was ashamed to be kneeling upon the cold, hardened floor, shaken and stirred from the regalia of warriors and shown to not be as mighty, not be as strong, embittered and vexed at himself, at her, at the ways the world composed his defeat. Instead of admitting his frustration or the conquering of his dispute (so easily, so effortlessly), a wrath, a commotion, burned amidst his mind. Wasn’t he stronger than that? Was he so weak, frail, fragile, pathetic? Where was his strength, his cunning, his potency, when a girl of locks and curls could beat him? Where was his might? His dominion? His potential? The ferocity swelled and burned in his chest, a bright, brilliant spark of titanic irritation, crisscrossing in the warrens and labyrinths of Erebos’ youthful mind, poignant, sparking, kindling something buried, brooding, stewing in his veins, a torch, an inferno, a blaze beating a savage, wild crescendo. He rose swiftly, jaw clenched, and lunged, springing across the short expanse, reaching, reaching, reaching for the filly, for Asch, for the queen who dared to triumph over the villain. And when he extended, drove forward, became pariah all over again, the tiniest, most miniscule flame flared from his touch, from his caress, from the feral antiquities and the crimson fervency he shared with his ancestors: ablaze, evoked, ignited.
Magic does not exist within them all, but those who do find it hidden deep inside, interwoven among the innermost workings of their energy and soul, often don't know they have it. Asch could recall how she'd determined her own magic, purely incidentally of course. Recollection did not come easily, repressed memories composed of the darkest sort of experiences. Rather, it was something Asch never desired to remember, and so she had shuttered it away in the tightest of metal boxes, soldered shut with the ferocity of her own desires to remain untouched by such things. Her scars had faded, youth lending her nigh regenerative abilities, Lena's song mended straight into the skin of her younger self. Still, she could not stand to see her own reflection, at times. Even with the flesh healed and hardly off-color, she could still recall the burn of flames against her spine, the shriek of a crazed dragon, the bloodlust in his bonded's eyes.
How playful cavorting could turn sour so fast was beyond the mental grasp of the golden girl, but still her eyes widened into a gleam of peridot surprise as the ring of connection swirled up her leg. She retreats as swiftly as her gangly legs can hold her, thrusting herself away as she spies the glow of ember in his dark stone features, smoke on granite as his internal war is lost. Set upon her, his internalized weakness, fissured greed and distress. Emotional distress seemed the best kind of fuse for magical discovery.
It flares from him like a supernova, an exploding sun that manifests in the form of hot flames that kiss and seduce her. She shies away, instinctive fear, a memory of a thousand bolts of fire heading straight toward her. A hound rushing to defend her sister, ready to take the blush of pain straight to her bones. Asch is too unwilling to relive such a thing, and she is half caught in flashbacks, in a mirage of pain and a gaping maw of magic to realize what is happening until it is already done. Her right shoulder is left half-singed, stinging, sweltering. A new memory to add to her fear bank of fire.
Even so, Erebos is her only friend, and though she trembles with fear he can never understand, she can see the lack of comprehension in what he has done.
"Are you okay?" is first to sputter from her lips, despite she being the one with a singed shoulder, a burdened mind. Advancing towards him tentatively, she cast her eyes at him, little hazel orbs of understanding. "Was that your first time, doing that?" Perhaps it was presumptuous of her, but she recalled all too vividly her own magic revealing itself. Tiny birdlike shoulders shrugged, a shy smile on her face, far different from her acting previously. Where she had been elegant, beautiful, entitled. She had been dethroned as effectively as he had, when her hoof had struck him. Even with smoke still curling from her skin, she could not place him with blame. She was perhaps too kindly, or maybe she was far too desperate to acquire his friendship.
"I did the same thing, when I found mine. I can...I can superheat blood, boil it even." Would sharing help him stabilize? Would he even cease, listen to her? Or was she the same target she'd always been, a body to be beaten and bruised?
I'm surprised at the two children. I expected very little, only to see two foals frolicking in the Rotunda's embrace. But these two children seem to be friends exploring, well, not what you might usually think of a boy and girl exploring. I watch closely, and am surprised to see a ball of fire seeming to come from the boy, suddenly and clearly without planning. The girl shies away but stays, apparently not wanting to leave her friend. When all has quieted - the girl burnt but not too badly - she (Asch was it?) asks him if he's okay. What a silly question, he could be asking HER if she's okay. My protective nature of foals rises inside me, and I want to step out and nurture the both of them. (And scold Erebos for hurting his friend.) But no, I must stay in the shadows and keep my cover. So Erebos has fire magic of some sort. And... this lady Asch claims she has magic too, and that her discovery of it was just as sudden and unpredictable. She can boil blood. I file this information away in my mind, thinking that it may be someday important, should these two ever come into conflict with the Throat. This is a good bit of information, and I shall go to report it to Gaucho as soon as I am allowed a chance.
I wonder if the Gods will be interested in my information that I've collected. If I return to the God of the Spark, will he want to know what I've found out? Will he use it to his own gain? Do I care? No, not really. I shall report this information to Gaucho, then go to see the God of the Spark, and I hope that perhaps he will grant me what I seek now that I've completed these tasks.
He’d felt magic before, rooted and stoked in the denizens of his feet, bestowing him the ability to seize, to possess, the squalls and tempests of the ocean. Mystical and enigmatic, strange and uplifting, the blue prince had been scared of its mysterious qualities. What had it meant: a possession of power, or a demonstration of wickedness? Enchantments and invocations were something alive and well within the inhabitants of Helovia, but to have his own had been a noteworthy venue (shock, fear, then satisfaction, laced, woven, ensnared, into his passionate, demonic mind). But his water-walking, his Poseidon abilities, his Neptune faculties, had never hurt someone before – only tarnished the waves, the sea, the churning, arbiter’s grounds with his presence, while he coasted, while he ghosted, from shoreline to shoreline. The fire blooming, flaring, brewing within his steadfast heart was another thing altogether.
It erupted and roared, blared through his eardrums, cried through his veins, harked and heralded in the mass of an enriched inferno, drowning out anything and everything amidst the cathedral walls. It drummed in massive swarms of influence, of authority, of dominance, marked future wars and bestial hymns, clambered and sizzled in bellicose shards, tied and tethered to the ferocious fuselage of his anger, of his ire. While he should have cherished it, coveted it, tasted and relished in the fathoms of his capabilities (because it had been dormant within him all along, this great, zealous, fervent art; he could be a monster, a King, a sleuth!), the actions unwinding from its terrible blaze interrupted the careening vehemence of his latent talents – Asch was hurt. She waltzed away, sharp and quick, trembling, shaking, shuddering from the burning doldrums he kindled and ignited, and instead of savoring the legacy he’d managed to forge, he panicked.
Erebos ceased all movement, extinguishing the flame as quickly as it’d arrived, burning the holes back into its wares, into its holster, shoving all the rage, all the tempestuous chords away, eyes widening, pleading, begging for some solution and salvation. He hadn’t meant to harm a friend, he hadn’t meant to gauge and seize and maim a companion, and before long he too was shaking, little muscles rippling, tiny body terrorized and diminished for wounding someone he dared to call brethren. Even his voice choked and smothered, ashen and devoured, strangled from all its prior strength, eyes winding their way across the floor, too ashamed to look towards Asch and her seared frame. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to!” He raised his head, gallant heart bewitched and spellbound by the apologies scarring his throat, blistering, scorching enamel, a loss of control, slithering and damning. Would she hate him? Would she chastise him? Would she tell everyone on earth that he was the worst? But then the filly asked if he was okay, like she didn’t matter, as if he hadn’t terrorized her with his complete lack of control, and a tiny prick of tears collected in the corner of his eyes, because the realm was unfair: declaring him powerful while attacking, assaulting, a friend. “Are you okay? Do you need a healer?” He couldn’t understand why she was being so kind to him, why she was nurturing a feral, barbaric storm, why she didn’t flee from the scorn, from the brutality, he’d managed to unfold upon her. The lad sniffled once, downcast and forlorn all over again. “Yes. I just got so angry-,” he stopped his speech quickly, swiftly, for there was no explanation he could give to assuage the situation and restore her psyche. He’d done her a grave injustice.
But the scion also listened to her tale, of boiling blood, of superheating ichor, and it suddenly warmed his heart to know there were others like him: making mistakes, sinking beneath errors, waging wars over their own invocations. Like two friends constructed and composed in trenches, his steadfast features glanced over her benevolent ones, intrigued, curious, struggling to regain equilibrium. “Really? What happened?”
In all reality, it seemed the blue kingly son was more surprised than she, though it was her shoulder that was smoldering. Whatever had broken her self-preservation instinct was not truly important, though she suspected it was somehow her twin sister who was at fault for that particular way of growing up. In a twisted fashion, Asch felt rather regretful that she was still causing him grief, as he seemed strangled by the fact that she was apologizing to him rather than the inverse option. He seemed to have suddenly been imbued with stone, riveted him to the Rotunda. Frozen, stilled, encased in ice and time. As if he were clueless as to how to proceed, process, handle the situation presented to him in the form of her broken, battered, burned and cindered body. Then all at once he comes to life, animated, seizing and exploding with concern and caustic passion. It brings a gentle smile to her face, to see him so worried, and attempts to pacify his pleas for forgiveness she'd granted long before he'd recognized the damage he had done.
"It's okay, I promise! It doesn't hurt nearly as bad as the first time," she assured with a helpless little laugh, not sure how to respond wholly to his concern. Nobody had ever shown concern for her aside from Papa, and he had disappeared a long time ago. She doesn't recognize her own admission, the story of her scars written into the rippled flesh healed too late by Lena's magic. Not capable of detection unless one were to feel, to look too closely, inspect. His tears only furthered her sudden panic and she dances closer, cooing in the manner she'd always used on her sister when her tears would come unbidden. "It's okay! It's okay, I'm fine, I'm not mad," she babbles back in return, his apologies twining with her reassurances like a rope that will soon become the fibers of their past, woven into a blanket they carry upon their shoulders to warm themselves with on lonely nights.
Healer. It reminds her of Lena, and she calms as he does in turn. Her smile never wavers, content and understanding. Magic was frightening, uncontrollable. She'd been too angry to be scared at first when she'd boiled her captor's blood, but it had come in time. Fear of her own power. "No, I'll be okay. Like I said, it's not as bad as last time. Lena can fix it when we get home." Her mind is simplistic when it comes to topics regarding herself, when it comes to her health, her safety, her importance. For she has none in her own eyes, merely a flask to better others, a stool for those who care enough to befriend her to scale her to the tips of their dreams. A down pillow to catch them when they topple from their foolish precipices.
His sniffling drove her forth, attempting to breach the void between them and brush the warmth of her lips down the canvas of his cheek in silent acceptance of the broken half-tale he'd begun to spin. Instead, she draws him in with tales of her own, spun in blood and ink and sorrow and pain beyond what the child before her could imagine. Their paths had become divergent the moment she was stolen away, and it was like viewing a mirror where she was the one distorted, reflecting a perfection she might have achieved had Confutatis not taken her soul and bent and twisted with the heat of her rage. As little as she desired to remember, to scrape off the plaster covering the wound still so fresh in her malleable mind, her selflessness drove her to masochism in hopes of steadying her only friend.
"When I was really young, a mare named Confutatis stole myself, my mother and my twin sister. They held us captive, hurt us, starved us. My mother challenged her one day, and I grabbed my sister and tried to run. They cornered us, and one of them had a dragon companion. It swooped down on us as we were trying to run and burned us, but I shoved Wennie down and it got my back." Twisting, contorting, she highlights the horrors of her body for him to become captivated by. The shiny twist of skin that is a little too pale to match the gold and cocoa of her coat, a seeming trick of the light until attention was riveted properly upon it. "But Wennie was hurt, and I was so mad. Furious. All I could think was I wanted him to hurt, to die. I wanted to kill him. And I screamed at him, and it was like...it was like someone let all the air out of me all at once. Like the bang of rocks when they roll down a hill, and then he was yelling and I could feel the connection I had to him. Feel what I was doing to him. And I made him burn, for hurting my sister." Darkness creeps into the innocent tale she spins like yarn on a wheel for him, remembering the sick taste of pleasure she'd felt to have him squirming in agony at her mercy.
"Wennie has magic too, she can animate dead things and talk to their spirits. Manipulate their energy. But I'm used to that, she's always been better than me, I just protect her as much as I can. So it's okay, I'm glad you discovered you have it!" Excitement reigns supreme, eyes glittering naively as her little tail curls around her hocks. "It gets easier to control, I promise. Maybe I can practice with you?" She tries to negate the admission of her past with promises of the future, and maybe she wants to secure more time with her new, only friend. Maybe she just wanted companionship, for he could surely train on his own.
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