"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.
The spell of a new sister wears off; the curse of his deceased mother wanes. A moon hangs absent above a blackened sky, and shadows lay heavy over the sand dunes, the heatwaves of this place. It is scent that guides him across those borders; it is hatred that propels his feet.
He stops amongst the sand and the deadened grasses. He dips his head; his body grows still. Skin trembles.
He feels the bubble and boiling of it in his stomach; a roiling mass of something he has carried ever since his beloved mother threw him from her in a mess of fluid and placenta. It burned him even then, as he breathed new life--seared its mark into his skin and blood. It bubbled and curdled into jagged edges, poisoning him with its tip, even as he took a branch and lit it with the fire of the heavens, killing a babe in the inferno he invoked. It had pitched against his soul even as he had pitched an intruder into a wild, frothing river, aided by the brawn of his brother. It had seathed within at the taunts of a black spider whore; it had simmered as she bowed to him, bubbling and boiling as she continued to challenge, lipping the edge of the cauldron in his breast even as he fucked her in a mess of rushing hormones and rage. It had blackened into coal, a lodestone as he gazed upon the corpse of his mother, the Shadowmere; it had been caressed into something smooth just as one licks the hot glass, as he had gazed into the amber eyes of an angel with a ruined hoof and his mother’s face.
It unravels within him; an old friend and enemy, the blossom of something that unfurls its petals, with every petal laced with burning, blazing pain.
It crescendos, loudly in the silence of a moonless night.
He gasps--but, no, it is not a gasp. He hisses.
It is released, finally, after years of a threat of explosion. It courses through his neck, twisting it from its sockets, pulling a grunt and a cry of agony and ecstacy from the rough, stony lips. It wracks his spine; it crushes legs, hooves, feathers of a man, shedding his hide, sprouting obsidian scales as his lips peel back and expose poison-tipped daggers emergant from his skull. The shadows are thick, this night; there are none to see him writhe in his misery, in his exuberance; there are none to see the monster birthed in a mess of hatred and something sinister. He is unleashed.
She still fumed over the waste of energy, over the loss of the meal that the skinny little filly had been. Not a feast, certainly, but when she had first taken notice of the creature surrounded by all the taller horses it had seemed like an easy meal. Things had not turned out that way, not at all.
The harpy had flown all that way for nothing and had returned to her nest empty handed. She would not be able to get away with such pointless trips for long - soon there would be two extra mouths to feed in addition to her own and they would not be used to going hungry as she was. Not at first, but the brutal heat of Tallsun limited her hunting. During the day most creatures were in hiding and without the moon, her human eyes were poor in the night. She needed to plump up so the little creatures could feed from her, so she could see them grow fat and strong in turn. And she was running out of time, they'd hatch any day now.
Circling low above the sand and rock, she completed another turn above the Throat - keeping a special eye out for any sickly horses - before returning to her nest. From yesterday, a half-devoured carcass of a hare lay limp and bloody.
Hardly ideal, but it would do for now. It was something.
The large nest weighed down the scraggly desert tree that it had been made in using grasses and mud to keep it together, pieces of palm used to shelter the eggs from the sun. With her added weight, the nest sunk down another foot or so until it was only four feet above the earth. It hardly mattered, there weren’t any predators that the Harpy feared - not here.
Diligently, she settled herself down to cover the eggs from the chill of the night before choking down sinew from the hare.
For now, it was time to rest until the dawn came and she might hunt again in those early hours before the sun scorched everything once more. Time to dream of feasting on the flesh of the horses that believed themselves the masters of this land.
@[Reginald]
pictured the tree like this so low but not on-the-ground. Hit me up if you want anything changed! <3
He glides across sand and dunes, his muscles rippling and perfect, constricting, undulating in the darkness; synchronized and splendid--silent. He breathes a rattler’s breath, and before him scents throb hotly in his vision, for sight and smell and taste have been destroyed, pulverized, only to be rebuilt again into something far more efficient, and exciting. The world is a changed thing to him now, a new sort of playground that is open to his gambol—but no, he is on a mission tonight. Tonight, he looks for scents that he feels against the tongue that slithers from his maw, tentative and calculating, for even in this broken, altered, perfect body of his—his mind remains intact, his memories persistent, his fury a serpent’s wrath now; just as volatile, three times as venomous.
It is faint when he catches it, but he latches on swiftly, pulled by the trail of a whore’s feathers. He feels the warmth pulsing in the sand, the aftermath of sunlight; he also feels the drain of a chilled desert’s night upon his back and how it claws at the energy radiating in his muscles. He learns, once and for all, that cold is his enemy. His skepticism of his unicorn brethren and their peculiar preference for northern climes has always, always been right. He must not linger here, in the desert cold.
Fortunately, the hunt does not last long.
There she is, the harlot of ruin—nestled stupidly amongst the brambles of a shriveled tree, puffed and fluffed and tender, ready for night. He does not see the ugliness of a soft face, the curious fascination of soft breasts; he sees her heat, pulsing and simple, fragrant with bones and blood and meat. Primal urges grip him, both serpentine and equine: a passion for her destruction, a hunger for her flesh, a need for revenge against her transgressions.
He did not have a dragon, before.
He does not have wings, now.
It does not matter--for now, he will have her beating, bloody heart in his mouth.
How dare she.
Powerful muscles bunch and bulge, and he laughs in his greatness, and it escapes from him as a hiss. Perhaps that is her only warning.
02-14-2015, 10:09 PM (This post was last modified: 02-19-2015, 05:53 PM by NPC.)
The hiss reached her, but not in enough time. Weariness had kept her eyes from opening - let the snake coil around the tree. If it climbed to the nest she would have an easy meal delivered right to her front door.
But it was no snake, at least not in the traditional sense, that made the strike. In her half-awake state the harpy had expected something smaller than her, something that she could catch in a single talon and break with little effort. Even the large pythons were no match for her when she was in a rage, when she was protecting her children.
This was not a python, not a common snake. It was huge, and its fangs struck her with more force than her hubris had allowed her to consider possible. A scream erupted from her hideous face when she felt them, those teeth, sink into the fleshy folds where her wings attached to her shoulders. Those long fangs tore at the muscles before they retracted. Snakes don't bite, they strike, and she would not allow another.
Her mind was wild with anger, it blinded her to all but one thing: she must protect her eggs. This oaf of a snake, this imbecile that dared to interrupt her, could not get them. She was the only mythical creature allowed in this part, she was the predator of rabbits and the horse-kinda like. If only the eggs had hatched already, were older, their trio would be one none could contend with. She would feast on the stringy meat of a snake while her children feasted on his eyeballs and tongue. A glorious triumph, but one she would not have today. Her children were still eggs and she was on her own, caught off guard.
Great wings beat at the air as she tried to regain control of the situation, but she could not rise more than a couple feet because of the wound. Blood was splattered across her breasts and feathers making her even more hideous than before. The tree had been strained under the added weight, the old wood threatening to break. Another scream erupted as she ignored the pain to launch herself at the offending creature, using claw and wings to ward him off. She couldn't pick this snake up as she had the last one but she could rip into his flesh, could blind him.
Her blood is foul; it is only victory that makes it sweet upon his tongue. He begins to crave that sweetness, and he is enraged that she pulls herself from him, screeching in his ears much loudly that she would have screeched into the flesh of a horse.
Wings beat; feathers dance around them. He does not notice how wood splinters beneath him as he lunges once more for the harpy flesh. Something rolls from the nest, becoming lost in sand; he does not notice. He is fixated by a bloody breast and a wing that he had had only a moment to savor, by claws that scour the air before him, catching his throat and maw. An angered hiss erupts from snake-breath, and he reaches for that breast and shoulder again now; fangs dance across her skin and feathers, pricking her hide, locking in against sweet bone and marrow.
The cold grips his scales; he feels his muscles tighten, and though the rage of domination keeps his blood pumping, he knows he runs out of time. And so he yanks his head to the right, throwing the useless, squirming body of the avian bitch; he turns away from the tree in pursuit of her form, how she flops about staining the cold sand with the blood that flows freely from her. She may try to fight him now, even though the battle is won—she is grounded—and he is hungry.
He devours.
---
It is just as painful as it was before as his body breaks itself and remakes itself in the chill of the desert night. Now there is no exuberant rage to temper the heat of pain—and so his shouts of agony are true and wrenching, and he cannot move for some seconds when he comes back to himself, his body sweating ice and his eyes no longer seeing the pulsing of heat around him.
He rolls to his feet—for he has hooves now. He shakes his mane from his eyes—for his mane has returned. He rises to his feet, aware of a certain roughness to his movements—something far removed from the graceful, elegant power of scales upon sand. He will have to fix this.
He sees the remains of the harpy—nothing but blood-spatters on the ground. He feels his stomach full of meat, warm and uncomfortable, glowing with is victory. He snorts, softly, leaving the mess behind him—approaching the ruined tree that lies broken in the sand.
He sees one of her eggs.
He takes it.
He does not know what compels him to snatch this young one--perhaps further vengeance drives his movements. The egg is collected; the harpy is dead; his revenge is satisfied; and finally he quits the cold night.
NPC--No need to reply again! Thank you for your help! "This is how I talk"
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