"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.
12-26-2014, 05:55 PM (This post was last modified: 12-26-2014, 06:00 PM by Zenobia.)
The daughter of the Wildfire drifts above the narrow peninsula, wings outstretched and spread taut. With but a mere twitch of her primaries, she soars upwards, leaping from one thermal to the next with an almost feral grace- her raw movements controlled only by instinct. She exudes ferocity, glows with passion- made of ash and pearl, bone and scorching flame. Perhaps if she could see herself now, so clearly the daughter of Gaucho and Sohalia, a striking warrior in her own right, she might be more at ease in her own skin.
And for a moment, lulled by the harmonious serenading of the wind knotting it's fingers in her mane and caressing her outspread wings, she does feel comfortable, fierce, untameable, as she damn well should; but when she opens her eyes once again, reality kicks in. She was nothing- less than nothing- in comparison to her parents (king and queen! Sultan and Sultana!) No matter how hard she tried to change that, to steer herself away from their ominous and imposing shadows and the horseshoes they left her, she could not forget them, could not forget their legacy. Skills were honed, sharpened, forged, as she made temper into zealous warfare, transitioned from juvenile foot soldier to gladiator of steel and flesh- and yet she still felt the weight of her parents on her shoulders.
Some deep and sickly part of her longed for their disappearance, for her to wear the crown and hold the sceptre (ambition of the worst kind), to no longer be only their daughter instead of herself; but most of her clamoured for their love, their adoration, their approval.
If only she knew how to get it, how to stop disappointing them.
The wind stings at her eyes and she blinks back a dampness, eyelids pressing close together to block out the worst of the breeze. It tastes of salt here, like ocean and kelp and rotting things, even a couple miles up above the water; if not for the humid feel to the sea air, she might've mistaken it for the Dragon's Throat.
Zenobia begins to descend, meandering towards soil and earth once again. Her trajectory is not aimless, however; she intends to land towards the desecrated shrines, the ruined altars to gods whom have instead taken to roaming the lands. Those places, these places, bruised and battered, shrines of prayer ruined and smote down by the deities they worshipped, she could not forget. There still lingered here a promise of magic, a taste of witchcraft, and despite the absence of the divine, it felt like they were listening.
Hooves scrape on rock and stone as wings back-beat. Down she goes, staggering clumsily upon landing; she had not realized how long she had been gone among the clouds, and now her legs are reluctant to respond as they should, weak around the knees and softer along the fetlock. Silly of you. If there was anything lurking about, it wouldn't be easy to run- nor would it be easy to take-off again, with the lactic acid keen to begin building up in the sinuous muscles of her shoulders. But you're a warrior, Zenobia reminds herself, and on that note she drifts closer to the shrines, cherubic appendages rustling to align along her pearly flanks.
Underneath the bright light of the midday sun and a bluebird sky, the altars are... menacing, almost. Not friendly. Perhaps it's because she just hasn't prayed enough; or maybe, there's a more legitimate reason for it. What it might be, Zenobia never could've guessed- that was a question for her mother to ponder with her ghosts.
Nostrils flare as she exhales, lowering her head, peering through jaded lashes at Ra's shrine. She wishes she could fix them, somehow; even though the gods are happy and roaming, it doesn't seem right to have them all in such states.
Tentatively, the young daughter tries to blow away the ash from the Sun God's shrine, but beneath it is only coal.
Although Gaucho would not let himself admit it, he was growing weary of his quest. Everything always took longer than you initially think it will but ... this had gone on long enough. He felt stretched, stretched thin. Exhaustion overwhelmed him often, darkening the patches around his eyes and slumping his normally proud blue-striped shoulders. First he had lost his hearing - at least, lost the ability to hear the sounds of others. Now it seemed he lacked the ability to feel those around him. Mara was weightless in his antlers, and the physical greetings of his herd went un-felt. The Sun God meant for him to feel isolated and he was. The Wildfire, stoic and strong, needer of none was slowly filling with need. He hadn't realized how much his herd meant to him. He had always thought of him as family, but thought of himself merely as protector and head of the herd; distant but powerful. But over thee past few seasons since he had returned they had become so much more to him. He cared about the well being of each one of them, rather than the wellbeing of the herd as whole, regardless of who comprised it. He knew them by name, knew their patters. He greeted each of them rather than merely passing them by as he patrolled.
He missed them.
Two of his children were absent as was Sohalia. Perhaps he should have missed them more, held them in special regard, but he didn't. He cared for everyone in his herd equally, placing no emphasized importance to those who carried his blood. Although perhaps he did judge them more strongly for it.
Zenobia. He could see her below amongst the shrines. His stormy gaze narrowed as he watched his eldest and only daughter gently brushing the shrine of their deity. The sight brought a smile to Gaucho's dark lips as he gradually descended, not wanting to interrupt a moment of prayer if indeed that was what she was doing. The Wildfire assumed that every member of his herd held the same regard for Sun God that he did. He didn't care to realize that he had been especially blessed by the God, having received aid and many gifts from the golden stag throughout his time In Helovia. Gaucho would have held the same reverence without his tangible blessings, and assumed the rest of his flock would as well. And that included Zenobia.
Landing lightly, with a grace ill-befitting a creature so marked by colours and scars, the Wildfire arrived in a display of power and light. Flames trickled down from the tips of his wings to his shoulders casting a beautiful and warm aura on the shrine as he moved closer. His antlers pulsed with the same warm light - another marking of the Sun God. In those antlers Mara hissed gently, greeting the girl happily. Mara had always been fond of Gaucho's offspring. She slipped down his dark nose, resting her body on his muzzle as she drew her head up with a serpent-like smile upon her parted lips.
Zeno" Gaucho's voice was rich and deep as he greeted his child, although didn't hold any particular warmth.
He thought of commenting that she hadn't returned to her mother like he instructed but thought better of it. Sohalia wasn't in the Throat to go to, although he hadn't known it at the time. Folding his flaming wings against his flanks, he let his gaze slip to Zeno's pale chest and legs, inspecting her with a paternal consideration.
The shrine begins to glow. Pale gold gildes it, runs along every edge, a shifting kalediscope of orange and amber and shifting yellow playing over ebony and charcoal. It's beautiful, unpredictable, just like the flame which dances in the wind... her breath hushes, snags, and her eyes widen, dark lashes spreading wide. In her thoughts, the depths of her ponderings, she had slipped into a trance- an imminent quiet unruptured even when Gaucho had landed behind her. Now it seemed as if something, someone had been listening...
A sign from the gods.
Knees tremble as her blood burns, an electric current sizzling through her ruby veins; it hurts her head, makes the world spin out of focus, and for a moment she is drunk off her own charged body.
The young girl snaps back into herself at a faint whisper underlying the crackle of flame, the serpentine hiss of an old friend. Her heart, thumping wildly, gleefully skips a beat in aroused hope; what a coincidence! And yet in a way, it was not at all; where else would she run into her beloved father, her idol, chosen of the Sun God, other than at this shrine? Wasn't that, submerged deep in her subconscious, part of the reason she had been so drawn to Helovia's veins, where the magic pulsed outward? This... this was a place for reunion, for old memories burnished by the passage of time. It was only natural for Gaucho to be here.
With a pronounced cautiousness, a nervous twitch to her pearly skin, the Wildfire's daughter turns to face her father.
He's not as magnificent as she remembered.
Don't get her wrong; he was big. Strong. The very epitome of masculine paternity; it couldn't be any clearer he was a good warrior and a good man if he had it tattooed on his dark skin. Still, he wasn't the same as she remembered.
She hated herself for it. Hated herself for... Growing up?
"Mara," Zenobia says quietly, and the corners of her lips tilt upwards in a smile. It's a relief to see someone's staying the same in her time away; at least the snake is as beautiful and lethal as ever. Her gaze, so bright, so blue, shifts back to her father; and her throat convulses, works, as she swallows down the tangle of emotions. It's not worth getting worked up over, seeing him. He didn't even seem particularly inclined to shows of family love. (And, gods, that hurt; not that she would admit it. She kind of deserved his casual affection for fleeing him.)
"Father." Wings rustle, half-spread in her discomfort, before settling back to her ivory flanks. "I'm sorry." And down her retinas drop, to observe her hooves.
She wants him to comfort her. To tell her it's okay.
Somehow, she doubts it's going to happen.
She had grown considerably. Her body had lengthened out, although she definitely took after her mother more than he, remaining rather petite. Still, she appeared both strong and agile, two traits that he possessed as well. As he looked at her, it suddenly occurred to him that she should nearly be at the age when she could begin her training as a war. She was fit, and her bones had finished growing so there would be any lasting injuries from basic training. Had she started yet? No, he doubted that she had. The idea of her beginning her journey to become a warrior (as if there could ever be a question as to whether or not she was going to) without him didn't even cross his mind. Who else but he would train her?
Who else but he would she want to be trained by?
Maybe someone who actually paid attention to her every now and then.
Gaucho snorted softly as the girl offered an apology. For missing herd meeting? Or not going to Throat when told? It didn't matter. But of course, when you think about it ... it did. Had Zeno stayed, defied her Father and perhaps continued to fly with him to the Island, none of what was about to happen, would. He and Ampere wouldn't have sparred. Sparring wouldn't have led to the inevitable climax of their nearly two year long courtship, if it could be called that.
Instead of reply, he merely shook his antlered skull, now glowing with faint markings left there by the God of the Sun.
"Fine. Your mother and brother go anyway." Did Zeno know that Sohalia had given birth? If she hadn't returned to the Throat then likely she didn't. "You have brothers. Ivezho and Rhoa. Twins." Would she even care? Looking at her now, into the depth of her strong gaze, Gaucho wasn't even sure he really knew her. They had shared their time together when Zeno was young but after that ... the wraiths had come and Gaucho's attention had focused to the protection of his herd. It wasn't his fault that he was not in a position to place the safety of those related to him by blood over those he had sworn to protect.
Snorting gently, his gaze refocused upon his daughter. His only daughter. His relationship with Soh had been too knew during the time of her birth, and the hectic seasons that followed precluded him from having any time to teach her (or Sohalia back then) his native tongue. The twins and Soh knew it now, or at least enough to get by, but it was yet another barrier between he, and his pale offspring. Words that she would not understand bubbled up in his mind and danced upon his tongue, yet remained unsaid.
She wants to cringe, shrink, recoil from the exasperation of which rolls off him, the waves of which she feels to border on the territory of scorn. She knows she had let him down, and her mother, and the Throat; but it didn't change what she had done, couldn't make up for what time was lost between them. Why should I regret? Why should she remain beholden to a father who didn't care for her, a mother who came and went like the wind? I shouldn't. And yet her ecstatic blood pulsed, pulled, coaxed her towards the antlered god with stern eyes and a sharp face, a planet orbiting the sun, ever wary of the flame but ever seeking it.
Gaucho shakes, the sound rippling through the thick air and cutting off her perpetuating thoughts of anxiety and apprehension, dismay and shame. Moonlight catches, clings, to his antlers, illuminating runes there.
Had they always been there? Were the details of him lost in time to her sprightly memory, or had he merely changed in her time spent away? The ground snaps into focus, and she quivers, pale skin shivering over sinewy muscle. Head tilts, bird-like, as ears flick and snap forwards, letting the sound of his voice, the rasp of his breathing, lull her into contentment and memories disappeared in the winter chill. It's easier this way, with voltaic blue trained on the rocky soil, examining every fleck of crystal and adornment of silver, than to look at him.
Zenobia wonders if she'll ever be able to redeem herself now as to look at him in the eye.
Stop. You're being selfish.
It shouldn't matter regarding their relationship. It never really had. Mother... Sohalia was another story, one that could be made up later. Right now, she should be focused on the present, ways to fix up the tattered mess father and daughter had become. Heart quails. Head up. Gaze fixed on his. I won't be afraid of a man I don't know. Won't be ashamed for someone who doesn't deserve my affection. A thin, eerie shiver runs down her from muzzle to tail, a subtle symbol of the electricity which hums, whines, whimpers, beneath alabastar skin. Childish whims urge her to zap her father; but she stays still. Silent. Soldiery. Listening.
Hiding away the emotions which burn beneath.
The ache which grows as he lists, rattles, charts off his children.
Wasn't one child good enough to screw up on?
"I..." the daughter of the warlord trails off, lets one hoof scuff over the ground. For the proud arch of her neck, the scintillating curve of her wings, she is still only a child. Only a girl. Eventually, she huffs, ruffling up her feathers. The words she wants to say tangles on her tongue; not that that's a bad thing. She's not sure he wants him to know everything. "A lot happening - happened - since I was leaving. I mean, left." Zenobia finally settles, propping up one hind hoof comfortably. "I want... to, like, make it up to you. And meet my family." The plea creeps in under her words anyways; a sigh, a longing, for what has been lost.
Gaucho was never a creature who held grudges, least of all against children. Especially not his own children.
Had everyone banded together behind his back, deciding what it was he expected of them and already agreeing that they could never meet his lofty demands? Whatever responsibility or sense of duty that they felt came merely from position. Zenobia was a princess of the Throat. Of that there was no denying. Though for some reason Gaucho sensed that her inherited lineage felt more like a curse, rather than a blessing.
The dun had never planned on playing the role of distant and untouchable father. Hadn't he played with Ranjiri when she was younger, teaching her to fly? Hadn't he bonded with Cera over starless nights in the Throat? So why was it that his own kin found such a gulf between themselves and him? On what pedestal had they placed him that he was a distant warrior rather than their father?
Or was the distance his doing?
"Nothing to make up." He replied after a time, exhaling gently. He had been spoiled by Mara and Sohalia - two females who seemed to be able to read his thoughts so easily. Gaucho realized that he had likely never told Zeno that he loved her, past the moments just after her birth. He had never explained the visions he had for her, however idealistic they might be. To have her lead his armies, to fight alongside her and watch her grow. Although truly, he would settle for whatever made her happy (so long as it wasn't to end up with some weakling of a stallion).
Zenobia.
His eldest. His only daughter. She was as beautiful as an eagle's scream and just as wild and yet ... if her words were any indication, perhaps she could find a home in the Throat once again.
"Your brothers say you are a warrior princess." He commented, a wry smile parting his lips, not noticing the difficulty with which Zeno spoke. "They will be happy to have you back."
With an uneasy uncertainty Gaucho's stormy gaze searched his eldest daughter's. Would she return?