"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.
Lilliputian infidel and miniscule barbarian maneuvered and stoked the fibers of his potency amidst the shepherd grasses and stone rubble, carefully, delicately, attempting to remember the fallacies that had forced his flames to burn. There’d been anger, raw and blunt, coarse and harsh, callous and enduring, fanning and unwinding until all he’d seen, all he’d felt, was the immense contempt, the intense loathing, of failure and defeat. The little prince’s senses had been measured in a sliding scale of control, of unease when the inferno scorched a friend, and then settled somewhere into thoughts of prowess, of potential, of knowing deep within his soul he contained some assemblage of strength and supremacy. In his overambitious, grasping, clenching mind, infamy and power laced conquering drums and wove immoral actions, stirred unholy designs and nefarious desires, toppling empires and rich sovereigns. He could be anything he wanted to be, if he honed his skill, if he triumphed over the delicate and the inept, if he traipsed and gleamed and prospered under the wayward sun and the hostile moon. Erebos’ dreams were wide and encompassing, broadened and heightened by the slight of a tiny ember, by the touch of a scalding coal, and he deigned to augment, to increase, the heartless wake of his abilities. So no sooner had he wandered from the Ancient Rotunda and its ruins, its myths, its legends and secrets, did he traverse into the earnest, yielding Thistle Meadow, and select a patch of growth near the winding stream.
Like a tiny master of secrets, a miniature Machiavelli, the blue prince nestled and folded his forelegs beneath his chest, curling himself into a small, unseen pocket, hidden and concealed to unearth his current mission. His temple, his mind, his sentiments yearned to replicate the actions of the passing day, and without lessons, without informing neither parent or any other supervising attendant, he was content to partake in the enigmatic shuffle of his own means. The only question left was, simply, clearly, how?
The first, and only, time the fires had appeared, bright, luminescent, coiling, had been out of ire and shame. Neither were emotions he currently felt, so he tilted his crown and frowned, then gestured wildly with his head, opening his maw to pretend his breath would shoot out terrible, terrifying fervency and set the grass ablaze. When naught happened, he thought of brutality, of savagery, of sinister acts that stirred and ignited his hatred, his wrath, his undying hostility. The only thing beyond failure, because the scion had no urgency to relive that particular experience, kindling his flesh, his veins, his emotions, was the memory of Aithniel, of Zikar’s delusions, of promises and predilections to remove her precious wings. He choked on the maddening bile, on the insurgency coasting through his wake, on the bestial shades turning his vision into infernal hues and conjuring all his defenses of her person (because he hadn’t seen her in so long – did she still have them? Was she still well? Was she still whole?). It flowed, rampant and rebellious, along his core and through his chest, with one singular touch of his lips upon a single blade of grass, a kiss, a caress, of the determined, of the bestial, of the wicked and depraved, he watched as it burst into flame.
Though born on the sands, her true beginning happened here among the rich grasses and luscious flowers. Here, Illynx had pulled her from the brink of death, inviting her into their fold with brothers Rikyn and Erebos. Yet her family had disappeared, lost now to whatever adventures took them hence. And she was left behind, a remnant, discarded among the rubble of Helovia. Moving on would be admitting her loss, a loss she did not want to face. Her warrior's heart was born broken, born abandoned, and compounding loss only served to fuel the fire of her anger and weaken her resolve.
Fires still burned in this world that were honest, even if they were few. Aithniel had discovered her abilities purely by accident - an accident born of childish clumsiness. Tumbling over her own hooves had produced a flame which had singed her tail, and there she had stood, striking together the cloven toes and watching sparks fly. At the time, she had thought this proved the fear that she was a freak, undeserving of love, affection or attention. Now, as bitterness, more aged than she, settled in, the fire represented power and a means to defend herself from naysayers and cruelty.
The girl shoved a rock with her toe as she shoved through tall blades, not paying a bit of attention to where she was going. Her eyes were in her mind and not on the path ahead of her - and that did make sense if you thought about it long enough. Aithniel did not see Erebos bowed in the shadows, concentrating on the small flame which erupted seductively on a single blade. Instead, she came right upon him until the heat of his body and smell of another snapped her from her thoughts. Aithniel quickly scrambled backward, apologizing profusely until she realized who she had almost just run over.
"Erebos?" she asked, confused. What was he doing all the way out here? Then, she saw the flame. "OH COOL!" she exclaimed, jumping to punctuate her excitement. "Did you make that? Can you make fire too?" The light in her bright, silver orbs was evidence as she looked at him, troubles and bitterness fading away to the innocent, soft soul inside - so rarely seen. If he could make fire, that would mean she was not alone entirely.
"Hey, look... this just started to happen to me too..." she said, opening her wings carefully and shaking the feathers. Ash like apocalyptic snow rained from them, dancing around the grass and disappearing on the wind.
Absorbed in his task, the demonic prince laid foundations to the whistling embers and the withering flames, attempting to coax it to further fruition, to damnation, to heresy, to condemnation amidst the clambering swallow songs and daffodil bulrushes. His gaze narrowed and his spine straightened, elongated the power of his neck as he measured its prowess and faculty. Too little, too mundane, not nearly potent enough to swallow and devour an army, not nearly puissant or pernicious: a minute fortification, tired and soulless, wavering and festering. He uttered an earnest sigh, as though he traveled great lengths and scoured many a countryside for the answer to life’s riddles instead of spending several moments strengthening a waning, dying coal – but he was not a creature of grand patience like his father or mother. Too frivolous, too zealous, too energetic and ebullient, bounding in deer leaps and stag crescendos with no presiding factions or fables to deliver his audacious splendor, the notion of forbearance was lost to him. While he could bear and endure the wake of perseverance, the stubborn bridges of tenacity, the harpooning lances of resolution, he was also too quick to indulge in whims and fancies. The world took its time, nurtured and developed, explored and unraveled, coaxed and enticed, and he already been tempted and allured by the gravity, by the spellbinding conventions of power and prestige to let it waste another moment wrenched away from his grasp. Unfortunately, either his young body couldn’t pour the entire livelihood of its corporeal abyss into the tiny fire, or he simply hadn’t amassed and conjured the heartless, rancorous bits of his dominion. It was another interesting puzzle to reflect upon, and he may have stayed there a few junctures more, lost in wayward trains of thought, had a familiar, albeit befuddled, voice not broken into the mind muddling and the furrowed brow.
Poseidon’s scion was very nearly run over, and he swiftly backed away from the last coils of his invocations, eyes enlarged and alarmed for a fraction; only to return to their normal composure once he realized who swiftly tore amidst his ardent rehearsal. Aithniel, still intact, still unimpaired, unscathed from the calculations of elders and machinations of otherworldly pursuits – the thought alone etched and sketched a boyish grin across his features, failed endeavors forgotten for the sight, the vision, of his untarnished friend. She even seemed excited for him, jumping and bouncing, bounding and vaulting in mid-air, and he could barely get a word in before she exalted the harmonious too and the beast realized he wasn’t alone. Prowess and abilities were nestled in both of them, alive and well, beating and fleeting, fire and ash, cinders and embers, sprinkled in idle, unknown treachery; danger not a notion, not a thought, as they increased their abilities, scaled and laced them across empires and factions. He was rendered partially speechless as she danced her volcanic solo, plumes extending an undying flourish, bits and pieces of phoenix dust and resurrected incantations, finding his voice only after she’d completed her renewal recital. “Amazing!” An understatement of the moment, perhaps, but his eyes were more enlightened, more ignited, more kindled than junctures before, staring down at the fallen ash, at the evidence of her capability, and all at once he wanted to seize and possess the extended instances for a chance, for an opportunity, to learn and be a disciple of the wicked. “How can you do that so easily?” Erebos frowned, dared to peer at the little barb of choked, stifled, smothered grass already extinguished and dead, crumbling from the unnecessary damage done to its soul. Why had it seemed so simple for her, and so difficult for him? Had she had more practice? Had she found a way to hone her skill, instead of discovering it on mere whim and circumstance?