"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.
baby, I'm a sociopath / sweet serial killer / on the warpath / 'cause I love you / just a little too much.
Pale quicksilver flexed, cavorted over a statuesque anatomy, a raiment of iron painted over a bronzed heart and ivory bones; ruby eyes, glistening orbs of piercing, haughty red, glanced caustically over the cartilage of the unknown.
Golden-framed architecture pierced upwards, burnished copper glittering in the hazy light of a noonday sun, sparkling with a thousand minuscule dashes of color indescribable and wholly pure. Spun glass, precious and gleaming, stretched between limbs of metal, turned silver with clinging cobwebs and the undignified white netting of tiny arachnids long past and thriving. It was not enough to hide the opulence below, the savagely bright prism of ostentatious origin, the tapestries worked into windows. Colors, like iridescent emerald, beryl, jade, came to be outlining scenes of forestry; azure, cerulean, and sky, painting images tantalizing out of reach of reality; plum, periwinkle, and saturated lavender, burning crimson, scarlet, ruby, old orange and apricot and peach, cheery jaune dancing between. Beautiful. A perfect place for the likes of her, ornate and flushed with juvenile pride.
The egg quivers, perched delicately between determined ivories, tucked and pressed between red tongue and plush roof-of-mouth. Delicate nostrils quiver, full of desirous uncertainty, a tremble working down from her shoulders to hips. Excitement. Toxic, pernicious, violent elation stirred into being by thought of what was to come, of the precious connection spun between girl and child, master and slave.
Easy. Hooves thump down, quiet, on soil dampened from last night's rain, fetlocks brushing by dewy strands of emerald grass piercing up like little soldiers from blackened earth. Hips sway, a gentle rocking emulating the suave curves of her mother's even in her childhood. She plucks her way through budding wildflowers and growing shrubbery, diligent in her care and yet eloquently casual (discreet, perhaps.) On occasion a dark hoof rubs along a spiky tendril of particularly long grass, causing a cascade of water droplets to run up along her legs, beads of cool liquids capering over her neck and shoulders without ever settling into her skin.
Eventually she, dark daughter of sacred bone and ash, drifts to an idle halt. Then, with an industrious informality, she steps through the stream, letting it run and tumble around her legs, soaking knee-downward to the very bone. It hums, sings, burbles to her—child, adult, parent, old mother, dead mother. As she pulls free of it's lecherous embrace, it cries to her, moans to her, and she affords it a second glance, pity gleaming in her eyes as if the quiet, lazy creek was something more sentient than another horse.
Nymeria stands on stone now, pale curtains drifting in the breeze around her. Color glistens on her skin, until she shines as does a butterfly's wings, empyrean and heavenly, utterly alien to the regularity and drabness of the mortal world.
Low is her hum, a gentle murmur pitched from ashen lungs, following a beat inexplicable.
Down she lets her head, and with a tedious care, jaws pry back to deposit a small egg on the hard marble. Minutes trickle by, painfully slow, the tiny sphere rocking back and forth all the while. Cracks, fracture lines, appear, a web of silver marring ebony, splintering through uniform obsidian.
Then it hatches. Reddish, thick fluids pool out from around a spiny body painted in the darkest of blacks, embryonic moisture and vitamins rendered unnecessary by the spawning of the beast. It drips out onto the floor, macabre mess spooling thickly around a woefully fragile, vaguely felidae figurine. Black. What had mother told her? Black, blue, and bronze for the boys; glistening white, green, gold, for the pretty girls; silver, brown, and red for all those who don't give a particular care. A boy then. Her boy. A smile spins into glittering being on her ashen lips, a grin of sheer folly.
Even mother didn't have a dragon, but she did!
For a name. A name. Names were important, precious things. Long and hard she thought, watching over the mess of black coils and ivory fangs that was hers, treasuring the private, deliciously quiet moment, examining every inch of his lissome body and every curve of his soft wings. And then at last she came to conclusion: Lilómiel. The old blood-sucker mother had told her about, the god of war and battle in a land far, far away, he who sat in a throne melted down from the metal of his enemies (she didn't understand swords) and ate any who dare oppose him.
YOU'VE GOT THE WORLD ON ITS KNEES, YOU'RE TAKING ALL THAT YOU PLEASE
The day is here.
The day he has been dreading; the day his sister is no longer his. Oh, the sweet irony of a dragon, the creature he admires above all others, being the subject of so much jealousy from the little warmonger! He loves his twin unconditionally, but today is the day she is pure no more, the day she loses that part of her heart that should have been forever Volterra's. He envies her, of course. Envies the bond she is about to gain, a bond with a creature he idolises - but, most of all, he envies the dragon, because it is about to meld its mind with the greatest woman ever to be born. He, on the other hand, will be left alone, to rue his hateful normality while she swans off into the sunset with her little firebringer.
It is the sound of an egg cracking that draws him, and he knows the taking of Nymeria is but moments away. Stone heart sinks, ears flop miserably to each side of his head as he approaches at a sorrowful meander, practically a funeral march. She will not be his for much longer. Oh, the young titan is such a selfish bastard - he craves a dragon above all else, needs it like the air he breathes, but he does not want his precious sister to have one for fear it will take her away from him. She is the light in his darkness, but soon she will want nothing to do with black brother when she has black dragon to occupy all her time. It is woefully, horribly unfair, and Volterra cannot disguise the hunger in his eyes as he watches the egg quake and crumble. He dares to imagine it is him that the creature is hatching for, he that is about to embark upon the greatest relationship known to horsekind. He dares to believe that one day, he will have something to fill the void his sister is about to leave. The hole in his heart, the gaping abyss in his life, the rotting scar where she used to be.
The black is beautiful. Newborn, untainted; sister is lucky indeed. He remembers the teachings about gender-colours, how the fact the beast is black means it is a he. As if it isn't bad enough she is about to abandon him, she is doing it for another boy! "He is beautiful," he says, the words tasting like ash and bitterness in his mouth. "You...you will still love me, even now you have him?" A rare vulnerability is evident in the colt now; bloody gaze wide open, dejected body language fighting to hold onto some shred of hope.
@[Nymeria]
[ you can't stray from what you are, you're the closest thing to hell i've seen so far ] [ use of force/magic on him is permitted aside from death/maiming ]
baby, I'm a sociopath / sweet serial killer / on the warpath / 'cause I love you / just a little too much.
She is virginal to the process of bonding, a lover waiting in only the thinnest of slips for what is to come; her dowry is only her soul, a precious and yet to be nurtured thing. Back and forth she rocks, flight-like, on the very tips of her charcoal toes, a slight and darling movement betraying the anticipation, the nerves, coiled in her sinewy breast. For all her lessons on bonding and the connection of twin souls, responsibilities to be uplifted upon shoulders and slung over her spine ('til she is loaded in the likeness of a metaphorical pack mule), she did not know what to expect. And this unknowing, this blindness to the first touch of her pledged and unwarranted draconian friend, shook her to the very fibers of her indelicate being.
Will it hurt? What will it feel like, to rub spirits with this floppy little being sprawled across marbled floors, with those eyes which match hers? Would she be able to understand it, like she does Volterra? Would it be knowingness? Maybe it wouldn't take hold to her; maybe it would reject her. Fear taps away at her heart, and adrenaline flushes beneath gray, circumnavigating veins all too familiar with the embrace of terror.
Jitters play across silvered skin.
"Lilómiel," the arachnid equine coos to him, ivory lashes flexing down across carmine retinas. Weight pitches forth, shabby and short mane spilling out across a slim neck. The wolf lets bend her long neck, bringing her muzzle close to the dragon. Over she roams his damp body, muzzle quick and deft and cautious, letting his scent permeate deep in her nasal passages and (as she so imagines it) settle into the cautious places of her heart. His skin is warm; it smells like iron and rust, feels like damp leather, and his claws, tiny and wicked like barbed thorns, puncture through the tender flesh of her right nostril, leaving behind four nicks in the curving flesh. It stings, but her smile only grows. Hers. All of this tangly slate and sloe, hers and none other, and it is in this moment that she feels it.
Haunting. Peculiar. Alien.
The brushing of minds, a whisper of the intimacy to soon be shared. To explain it would be impossible; to put words to this weaving and fabricating out of nothingness even more so. It's a sensation abhorrent and appealing in equal nature, and she is greedy for it even as she is scared for her individuality. Mother said it would not affect her so much as it would the dragon; but she, at the height of youth, was still impressionable, still vulnerable to the clever guileless of an older mind.
And her thoughts are thus shaken by the familiar, the homey and cozy, the slovenly slump of massive black shoulders. Up her head snaps, with the slender waif of a girl arcing her neck to peer back at him, coy grin nestled upon egocentric features.
It fades and melts into sincerity, a softening of her tender brows at his insecurity. "Brother," she laughs, a piteous chuckle—even knowing he cannot abide by her sympathy. "Nothing could replace you. Nobody could come close to being as ugly as you." Nym can't really explain the emotions nestled away for him; love and adoration and admiration, faith and confidence and tender conviction in his strength. There weren't enough words. It was like trying to drink the ocean, or dig to the center of the earth—simply impossible. Nobody could replace him. He was Volterra, and she Nymeria. They were twins, hatchmates, flowers sprung from the same seed; he was everything, her everything. If he wanted to, she would strike this companion out from being, tear her own soul in two—just to make him happy. Just to make him believe in her (even if it meant risking the wrath of Confutatis.)
Volterra and Nymeria. Rulers together.
YOU'VE GOT THE WORLD ON ITS KNEES, YOU'RE TAKING ALL THAT YOU PLEASE
She greets him, but he finds himself unable to look her in the eye. It will be easier for her to tell him the truth if he isn't staring at her like a hopeless lost puppy, and when she speaks again he winces in anticipation of words that will hurt. Of course I don't, brother. He is power; you are safety. He is more than you could ever be. They are close, the twins, of course, but the young titan thinks it is only he who is so obsessed by her, that the feeling is not mutual and she sees him as naught more than an irritance. But she reassures him, and he allows himself to hope, to believe. "Oi," he says to her jibe, but it's half-hearted. She still loves him. That is all that matters.
He never should have doubted her. They are one.
He looks back to the dragon, haggard breath returning to normal now he feels somewhat safe in the knowledge that his sweet sister has the ability to share herself between the black beasts in her life. The limp obsidian rag doesn't look much like the fire-breathing deathbringer that it will become, but there's no doubting it is still rather magnificent. He, he scolds himself, not it. "What have you named him?" Delicately, tenderly, he leans down towards the hatchling - having not seen him shred Nymeria's nare with his prickly young claws - and flares his nostrils to inhale the scent of him, scale and iron and birth and sister. The same air leaves his nose in a gentle huff, a greeting to the little creature that he is going to force himself to love because he is family now. He is part of Nymeria's mind, part of her being. He has been introduced to their own little herd, the herd ruled by Confutatis and populated by Volterra, Nymeria and, of course, Mongrel. He wonders how the black will get along with mother's mutt, wonders how mother will take to the creature so embedded in her daughter's mind. Will she see Volterra as a failure for not having yet obtained an egg for himself?
He looks over to his sister, eyes narrowed to scrutinise her as though he can see the barbs of a bond forming inside her mind. "Is he inside your head yet?"Forcing his way in like a rough lover, paying no heed to the barriers that stand in the way. He hopes it doesn't hurt - he would hate to have to stomp on the dragon for harming his sibling, however unintentionally.
@[Nymeria]
[ you can't stray from what you are, you're the closest thing to hell i've seen so far ] [ use of force/magic on him is permitted aside from death/maiming ]
01-22-2015, 12:32 AM (This post was last modified: 01-22-2015, 09:47 AM by Nymeria.)
Nymeria & Lilómiel
baby, I'm a sociopath / sweet serial killer / on the warpath / 'cause I love you / just a little too much.
The fond smile flickers, fades, guttering (candle in the wind!) as his gaze—made to meet hers, twin pools of melted cherry and cerise—does not grace her statuesque features. Oh, but Volterra! Does he not realize her heart is meant for him, a treasure trove of affection and tender predilection directed only to his divine touch, promise, and casual company? No companion, even in the throes of it's influence, could change her unchanging faith, her utter and oblivious devotion to her wombmate, bonded, cherished brother. Russet and vermilion is obscured by gray shade, lids sweeping together, lips twisting in part scowl, part ferocious admonishment: stupid Volterra!
She should comfort him, extend a coy invitation for him to step close to her silvered hips, press against him and let the heat of her intoxicating body spell out what words cannot [and will not] explain properly. Yet she, fierce in her absolute abhorrence for his sombre misery, does no such thing. Grow up! They were not meant to be juvenile fools forever, but to be king and queen, emperor and empress; jealousy couldn't get in the way of that. This; this Lilómiel was to be family. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less. And sooner rather than later, he must come to terms with that, acknowledge that their chemistry was to be mainly untouched by the catty and peculiar nature of her precious dark baby.
Soft sweet breath, ragged in the nature of a crow's primaries, smooths, straightens into the plush softness of an owl's beauteous wings, and she allows a grateful grin to fold and wrinkle up lovely features. A ripple of her tail, a flick of tufty hairs in quiet approval, and she side-steps, making room for her red-eyed twin.
"He is my Lilómiel," the daughter of Confutatis says proudly. In her enlightened opinion, it's a most fitting name. War-god! He would be flame, and she the quenching rain, balancing each other out in perfect tandem. Yin and yang. Two halves to a whole. The arachnid eyes the dragon cautiously; the delicate black thing unfolds wings and straightens out, finally exposing the downy feathers scattered out silken leather skin. Flashing draconian ivories snap towards Volterra's muzzle, pointed needles aiming to barb through flesh and fat. A ripple of contempt surges through the fragile twining of their bond, a fierce and burning derision coupled with intense hunger. Damn. Mother told her he would need to be fed.
Beneath the son of Tyradon's scrutiny she squirms, lupine muscle slithering, veiled behind a velvet coat. A crooked smirk splits her lips; her head tilts, graceful, as if she is probing outwards (mentally) for what he speaks of. Yes. It's there. The... slow... steady... coming. Like the steady enslaught of winter, or summer, burning flame and incendiary ash, blooming flowers and sweet-smelling smiles. "He's... trying to. It's more like we're reaching out for one another, fumbling together." A little stamp of her right forehoof emphasizes the point. "It's... scary. Alien. Like when we were little, and looked at our reflections for the first time."
YOU'VE GOT THE WORLD ON ITS KNEES, YOU'RE TAKING ALL THAT YOU PLEASE
It bites him.
The little shit of a dragon actually bites him. Needle-sharp teeth snap into the flesh of his nose as he pulls back the moment he sees the dangerous forwards movement, the snakelike lunge from the hatchling's rippling neck. This jerk backwards prevents the black bastard gaining a grip, however he still etches ugly and agonising cuts deep into the tender skin between the colt's flared nostrils. Blood pours down into his mouth, and he is dealt the iron tang of nature's crimson paint for the first time in his short life.
He looks down at the dragon, disgusted and horrified, then across to Nymeria, indignant and offended. Of course, he is quite the dragon groupie and ordinarily being bitten by one would be an honour, and the scars would be worn with pride. But this dragon is different. This is his sister's bonded - and O, how the thought still makes his skin crawl - and a new recruit into their herd, so the bite is less of a gift, more of a hated curse. An attempt at insubordination, in Volterra's eyes. A brazen and blatant attempt to dominate him, to let the colt know he is here, and that Nymeria is his now as much as she is Volterra's. Given the youth's fledgling grasp of male dominance, he naturally assumes this is an invitation to a stallion-esque grudge match, and takes great affront to the fact. It doesn't occur to him that he's overthinking it, that the dragon is simply hungry and his inviting black nose looked like a four-course feast. "He bit me," hisses the beastling, ears flat back as his nose pisses blood down his face and stings worse than any horse-bite he has ever known. He feels betrayed, hurt. He needs to get along with Lilómiel, and indeed he made the effort to do so, yet he gets repayed with a torn nose and bruised dignity. The shame of it, snapped at by the creature he most reveres!
Shooting the hatchling a filthy look, Volterra deliberately turns his attention to Nymeria, hooves shifting to present the dragon with his stout backside. Talk to that. His twin explains the bond, explains how their minds are reaching out to one another like two lovers in the night, and yet again the colt feels jealousy burn through him. "Is it good-scary, or bad-scary?" he questions. Good-scary being like when they raced as newborns, pushing into the unknown and testing the limits of their bodies with a healthy sense of fear, but excitement, too. Bad-scary? The sight of Nymeria when Ktulu approached them in her bear form, the idea that the grizzly beast may take her from him, the knowledge that he would do anything in his power to stop that. He hasn't known terror like it, before or since.
@[Nymeria]
[ you can't stray from what you are, you're the closest thing to hell i've seen so far ] [ use of force/magic on him is permitted aside from death/maiming ]
baby, I'm a sociopath / sweet serial killer / on the warpath / 'cause I love you / just a little too much.
Ivory fangs, tusks of which would one day tear into delicious flesh and exhale ruin upon her foes, snip down on pale flesh, leaving twin marks of claim upon the face of Volterra. Dissatisfaction, tumultuous, surges through their decidedly new bond, the tendrils hesitating in their weaving at the wave of powerful adolescent emotion. Ears twist, a shift of uncertainty mirrored in the slight paling of her gaze. Tail flicks, snapping over cinereal flanks.
Her head turns to her brother, amusement marring the indecisive preparation for justice adorning her countenance. The boy looks furious, with ears sewn back to his scalp and nostrils quivering—prone to savagery; she wonders if he would take his revenge, just... stamp down his hoof on the prone obsidian figure. It would be easy, dreadfully easy, to snap Lilómiel's spine beneath an angry toe, trample him beneath a tirade of ferocious furor, beat him out of life. Heart trills at the thought, a sudden and vicious terror splitting her features, writhing across a pretty young face; forward she steps, angling her body towards Volterra and just close enough to Lilómiel to provide cover for him. It is a composed but cutting reprimand—he is ours, not just mine!
"Stop that," she commands of him sharply, barging brutally in after the end of his surprised exclaim. Now, perhaps, that her face is turned towards him in full he might see the twin scars upon her muzzle. Brows sharpen, thicken judiciously over luminous irises, a sternness swarthy over elegant features. "Stop being so... angry. He's just a baby! He doesn't know any better." Satisfaction pulses through their bond, dull vagrant joy at putting them to odds; no, she wills to her companion.
They will not be torn apart by jealousy.
The spider's brother turns away. A low snort of disgust thrusts it's way from her nares as she reaches down to the small dragon, examining him for a single wry moment. Then up he comes, equine jaws closed down awkwardly over his nape, neck curving and depositing him neatly on her shoulders. Dark claws clutch, sheer, into charcoal flesh.
A moment's hesitation from the daughter of Confutatis at her twin's askance, as she retreats into the arachnid cords knitting between her and her companion. Examine. Poke and prod, touch around with the gentle fingers of her swift and clever mind, observe the delicate cables being made, a thrilling and terrifying thing. With each passing moment the fibers thicken, turning to wire and twisted metal, conduits of electrical impulses and wild, fiercely tangible emotion. She feels his hunger, feels his wanting to break fast; and she feels seeds of herself planted in him, bizarre little nodules of Nymeria lost in Lilómiel, just as Lilómiel is in her. Wonder, fleeting, plays across her pale face. "Good-scary," she announces, skull moving back to face her brother with a delicious smile turning up her lips. "It's just... I wish you could know how I feel too. I promise I'll find a dragon for you, bro. I swear."
Promises made on a whim— true in heart, but they never seemed to work out.
YOU'VE GOT THE WORLD ON ITS KNEES, YOU'RE TAKING ALL THAT YOU PLEASE
The fresh air bids his nose to scab, but still it pours blood out of the gash and sends spasms of pain through his face. To compound his shame, Nymeria shifts to protect the black bundle, making clear in no uncertain terms that Volterra is not to harm him. He wouldn't have, not really. It was but a momentary stab of temptation, not something he would actually carry out. To kill a dragon would be akin to blasphemy, and to crush a part of his sister's soul...it would be wrong. But that doesn't make him any happier about what he sees as Nymeria choosing the dragon over him, and his ears lace further into the fledgling tufts of his mane as his crimson eyes flash with wounded displeasure. It is just a momentary lapse, though, his ears flicking back upwards and his face untwisting back into its usual serenity, not wanting to tar this day with his foul mood. Today is Nymeria's, the day she gains a mind-partner, and he knows he has to respect that.
Inside he still aches, though.
This close, the young warmonger can see that his twin, too, bears the mark of Lilómiel's infantile fangs. The damage he can cause at just a few minutes old - think of the glory he will bring his bonded when he is fully-grown! Again, a powerful stab of envy renders the colt momentarily still and silent, before a small sigh leaves him. "It is up to you to teach him to know better, Nym. You are his mother now - he needs to know his boundaries. Like how Mother taught us not to pull too hard on her teat, or pester her as she grazed." Like any child the dragon will need educating, will need teaching the difference between right and wrong, learn etiquette, lest he surely become unmanageable.
He watches as Nymeria lifts the hatchling, placing him on her shoulders. Shoulders her brother will no longer be able to groom without risking a snap to the lip, shoulders he will not be able to rest his chin on as he stands huddled close beside her against the elements. Her shoulders are his, but no longer. Yet another thing young Lilómiel has taken from him. Sister explains the bond, and the vampire's son again has to fight a tide of jealousy, craving a similar sensation to the one his wombmate cannot put into words. The journey Nymeria is about to embark on is exciting, is new, and Volterra prays to all the spirits that he will one day be blessed with the same. As his twin vows to help him get his wish, the jealousy is replaced by self-loathing, hating his own emotions, hating that his sister can be so selfless whilst he is so selfish. In her place would he vow the same, or take pride in the fact he has a dragon whilst she only has him? It just shows that she is too good for him, that she deserves better than a beast of a brother like him.
Muzzle extends, hoping to softly snort against her own, placing dragon-wound against dragon-wound. "You are too kind, sister," he says, and he has never appreciated her more.
@[Nymeria]
[ you can't stray from what you are, you're the closest thing to hell i've seen so far ] [ use of force/magic on him is permitted aside from death/maiming ]
baby, I'm a sociopath / sweet serial killer / on the warpath / 'cause I love you / just a little too much.
His ears sew back firm, nettled and needled no doubt by her protective stance, and a flash of irritation, a cacophony of unpleasantry, chords through her sinews, sawing away at any remnants of sorrow. It doesn't matter that Lilómiel antagonized him—no, it mattered that Volterra didn't care, it mattered that he was so... why couldn't he just be happy? Why couldn't her thick-headed brother with his angry eyes and pinned audits realize this is what she didn't want? It glows in her spine, her eyes, her curling neck and demanding stance, a summoning of her mother's presence: courteous annoyance, indignation, and piqued displeasure.
Then he puts it away, his trotted-out façade annoyance, and she huffs a little, relaxing (if somewhat reluctantly.) If he was mature enough to put behind his ire, Nymeria could forgive him for it. It was the least she could do, when it came down to it—if their positions were reversed, she would be immobilized by jealousy and frustration, envious and begrudging him each moment. Even in her youth she knew that; knew that... she wasn't cut out to be selfless. Nobody was truly selfless, anyway, that's what mother said—that if anyone is giving something, they will expect something in return, even if it's something so small as friendship.
Things just don't come for free.
A deep and slow exhale overrides the smaller, more polite notion of her brother's, a profound statement all on its own. It's not meant to be communicative, to speak, and yet it does, in the rise and fall of her breast and the way it whistles out sorrowfully from between her teeth, summoning adjectives of patronizing and pretentious, pretty words on paper more ugly when alive. What does he know? Volterra doesn't have a companion—Volterra couldn't know this feeling of togetherness being woven between her and Lil, this growing, encompassing sensation of being bound and glued together, all their delicate little individual pieces being put aside to make way for their bonded-ness.
One brow arches fiendishly, an arrogant rise that she foolishly lets her face get away with. Had she been a couple weeks younger, she might've even stuck her tongue from between her teeth, let a 'pfft' appropriately and neatly tear apart all his mature musings. "No," Nymeria beseeches him, letting her voice ripen with arrogance, brutishly uncaring of the results. "I'm not his mother, Volt. I'm his friend, his companion." Don't you know what that means?
It hurts. The black's talons hook into flesh without remorse, inscribing his claim unto the dark filly who he rides, causing for a strange glee to echo through their bond. She cannot quite decipher the alien creature's reason for it, not yet; but when she is older, more experienced with his ways, she would realize this pivotal point was where Lilómiel took her hand in his, clutched at her fingers and held her tight.
Nym is quiet—she doesn't let the pain get the better of her perfectly saucy expression, but the clutch of his claws is distracting nonetheless, needle-points of agony shrieking and sliding across shadowy flesh. As Volterra approaches, her cheeky countenance softens to a naïve fondness, a hum of adoration reverbrating through her lungs. Eyelids slide shut, a cherished smile twining across her lips, as she leans forwards to embrace him in a press of blood to seal their bond.
YOU'VE GOT THE WORLD ON ITS KNEES, YOU'RE TAKING ALL THAT YOU PLEASE
She sighs, her expression shifting, and he senses displeasure towards what he had said. He does not truly see the bond between dragon and horse to be one of parent and child - he is observant enough to know it is so much more than that. Yet his point still stands. Nymeria is the elder, and her black beast is a newborn babe, unmoulded and untaught in the ways of the world. He needs educating, sculpting, teaching, and it is up to the girl to do that. "And it's your duty as his companion and friend to teach him what's right and what's wrong," he says firmly. He hates speaking back to her, his entire body shifting and tensing with disgust at his own backtalk, yet his tongue gets away from him. He and his sister are not meant to argue, because they are one, and part of him wants to simply nod numbly and agree with her. But that isn't in his nature. Insolent, argumentative - he will not back down when he thinks he's right, even if he has to steel his heart to do it against his sister.
O, the irony - the black hatchling is tearing them apart already.
But no, Volterra will not let it be so. He will not allow his own jealousy and greed to overwhelm the most important bond of all; that he shares with his sister. She seems to share a similar thought, and he leans gratefully into her embrace with a sigh that deflates his swollen sides and loosens the tension in his muscles. "I love you, Nym," he whispers, bloodied muzzle shifting to try and instead caress against her neck, hardened gums flashing from behind black lips as he goes to groom her, a sure gesture of his adoration of her. "I will leave you to get acquainted with him. Congratulations, sister." And, despite everything, he means that. He loves her more than anything, and even his own desire for a dragon will not get the better of his happiness for her. She has got what she wants, and that is all that matters. He will intrude on their glee with his dark cloud of misery no longer.
With a final smile to her, and a lingering look to the dragon, the colt turns his hefty young frame and heads away, intending to find a water source and bathe his nose so it does not become infected. His mind is busy, but he keeps his posture neutral as he leaves so as not to give his precious sister any indication of the turmoil that burns inside.
@[Nymeria]
[ you can't stray from what you are, you're the closest thing to hell i've seen so far ] [ use of force/magic on him is permitted aside from death/maiming ]
baby, I'm a sociopath / sweet serial killer / on the warpath / 'cause I love you / just a little too much.
Nymeria eyes him, imperious, rolling dangerous words around her mouth—words that could hurt, that could splinter into shards to pierce through Volterra's heart. Their intimacy, their bond as kin, gave her knowledge of him: knowledge which could be used to malicious ends. And she wonders—hesitates, in this revelation which crawled from the back of her mind forwards, to seep into her ponderings and croons to her like a living entity, a lethal poison which could corrode and eat away at their precious love for one another.
Skin jumps over muscle, an almighty twitch fluttering through her frame, and she turns her head towards the monster: the hatchling. Eyes widen, framing her disgust, lips curling back into an unseemly grimace; she tears her ruby retinas away from the awful beast, abhorring his jealousy. Is that how Volterra feels?
No wonder he's angry; no wonder he's upset. If the emotions of her companion, the envy, the greed for Nymeria's heart, were mirrored in her twin's feelings... she couldn't blame him the slightest bit for his resentment. At the roil of his muscles, the stiff displeasure inscribed to his black frame, guilt flashes through her gaze. Her head drops ever so slightly as her scarlet eyes come to settle on the soil, hiding away the loathing—for herself, for Lilómiel—which washed through her veins. It shouldn't be like this, she berated herself; it's not about one or the other. Her love, her adoration, was not limited to Volterra and Confutatis. It was something that could grow, hold whoever she wanted.
Everything would be the same, she tells herself insistently.
But she knew it wouldn't be.
At his disagreement, at her brother's displeasure, she scuffs a hoof along the ground, nostrils flaring in distaste. There's no point in engaging with him—to some degree, he is right, however reluctantly she admits it. Letting Lil run wild with his own ideas wasn't a partnership in any sense of the word. It was allowing him to control her; and she refused that. Nobody would hold sway over her—nobody would force her into anything, not today, not tomorrow (nor for as long as she lived.)
Their embrace stings for more than one reason. The first, the wound on her muzzle, and second, the claws which dig in deeper to her skin, a physical demand on behalf of her tiny counterpart. For a long moment the daughter is distracted as she gropes for the bond [to reprimand Lilómiel]—before she is disturbed from her duty by a promise of love.
"I love you too," Nymeria murmurs, and as he reaches in to let his teeth roam across her neck, she mirrors him in kind. There is a sweet and decrepit second of togetherness, and then he pulls away from her, leaves her alone.
Ears twitch forwards, flexing to catch his final goodbye, and then she watches him retreat.
She doesn't say anything—but it's not necessary to. Even when they quarreled (albeit mildly) they were still siblings, still family. It wasn't required for her to verbalize her devotion, her fondness, not even when they were dead and buried, gone to rot in the ground.
They were twins; they were bonded.
It was as simple as that.
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