"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 creature had golden eyes and was shrouded in a coat composed of time. All along its cloak memories flashed and faded, time spun and churned with all the infinitesimal possibilities.
Choice and chance became one, melding together to create something unique. Something impossible. Yet it was. He was.
The creature had hands - paws more aptly - which were long and dexterous. On each was a sharp claw that hooked outwards, but which was filed with perfect accuracy. It held a pocket watch that had far too many dials, spinning both backwards and forwards. Some even appeared to simply vibrate, but not make substantial movements at all. It turned over the watch several times, clearly pondering whatever value it was indicating before snapping it shut and tucking it into some unseen pocket. Its face was shrouded in darkness as it leaned casually against a tree. From the darkness came a single stock of some sort of wheat plant that it was casually nibbling on.
"Come-commala-" It muttered to itself, though its voice seemed to hold a life of its own. It was ancient and too modern. It was smooth but sounded prickly. Old and simultaneously young - impossible to place or discern any one accent, and yet it sounded impossibly familiar. It would draw the chosen one to it - pulling her across all points of time simultaneously, weaving itself into her life history as if she had always heard this call. As if she had always been seeking it even though the words had only just left its lips.
Time was funny that way. And this creature was drowning in it.
It dips and dives and explodes like I do; it’s furious and bright and exciting to unleash and disastrous to turn loose upon the world, in the sky, on your best friend’s body. It’s a storm and the hot kiss of electricity in the air (down my spine), the smell of petrichor on the leaves (in my heart), the light that guides the way through a dark thundercloud (in his eyes). No, I don’t think I’m that bright. But I do know Spark.
Time comes naturally to me, too.
But it scared the shit out of me.
It’s a thing and it’s nothing all at once. It’s always there and never there, always shifting and stuck in one place, one place, one place, going back over itself and leaping forward, because time happens all the time and sometimes the time can’t keep its own time even though it arrives on time all the time. And all of that made fucking sense. And doesn’t.
At the same time.
I was a child of Spark.
My Pa was a god of Time.
(And maybe that’s why it scared me.)
I still felt it though, like clockwork gears just ready to buzz in alarm at just the right moment (and a little too late, and a little too early). It didn’t matter that my insides were still hurting with things, with memories (nothing but life shifted by time) and Jiji’s tears and Leos’…stuff and Ma’s eyes darting away from me, into blinding sunlight—and Toto’s last breaths, his lifeless body, his disappearance from this plane. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t even a decision to come here: it was the time, the hour, the idea in place long before my birth, because even though that was some time ago (and a long time ago, a short time too) it didn’t matter.
Fuck my head hurts.
When I looked at…hmm…let’s call the bastard Roland for now. I ‘unno why man, just roll with it. When I came upon Roland and his-her-its shifting shit and the things he-she-it was chittering underneath his-her-its beak-mouth-teeth-fangs, my mind snapped and I closed my eyes because I was seeing too many things and not enough stuff in the cloak he-she-it wore and it was blinding and leaving me craving more all at the same time. I stumbled backward one single step (or maybe I stepped forward?) and when I heard what the thing was saying, I had an answer ready that I didn’t even know I had for words I didn't even understand.
“….That’s nasty, man,” I said, rough and blunt.
[I hope it's not metaplaying for her to respond to the meaning of the words! If it is, I'll gladly edit!]
[You're fine! Although maybe you should have called him Walter instead of Roland. :O ]
You hear it. You do, don't you? They can't hear it - those around you - who experience time like some abstract entity that simply reveals their lives to them. But you hear it. You feel it. It's tangible to you just as it is tangible now.
The beat. The rhythm of the passing seconds as they slowly count down to the death of all that is around you. The beat heralds the fate of all you hold dear, it sings out their death anthems in a key that they can't quite hear, but even they know that it's there. Somewhere. It's their favourite song even though they've never heard it, played so softly in the background as to be completely indiscernible from the wind. But every now and then they hear it - just a note or if they're lucky, an entire phrase - and it reminds them. It reminds them how powerless they are to resist the pulse of time.
But you don't need reminding, do you green commala?
….That’s nasty, man
It doesn't move, but you can tell that behind the impenetrable blackness that hides its face, it's smiling, smirking, glaring, yawning, seething, laughing, fuming, devouring-- waiting.
"Stay a while. We'll stand commala just you'n me. Whatd'yasay" Its voice seemed to mock speech while simultaneously mastering it. As if each word - each letter - was its own thing that your Roland [HAH] could twist, meld, warp, and imbue with meaning. The words seem abstract like you can't quite remember them even now, and yet they've branded the space between your eyes. Invisible ink, bled into your soul. His words are stern, full of jest, a haunting threat and an innocent invitation.
He has something up his sleeve. He always does. But have you paid his price? Was you birth alone to offer in compensation, or are the scales still tipped? And if they are, are you willing to pay?
He never asks for much when he asks for everything.
My body was moving, even though I never gave it the command to move. It was…I was pacing in place, my steps soft yet persistent as I watched-not-watched Roland and his-her-its voice-not-voice ringing around me in single voice that echoed with multitudes. Dance. There was a dance with it, or a rhythm, even when there wasn’t no music to dance to. (There is always music, somewhere).
We'll stand commala just you'n me. Whatd'yasay…
(Girl n her fella)
(Lie down togetha)
“I say you nasty,” my own voice cut in, too normal, just right and loud in the din-noise-silence that had begun to spin around us. Impressions—they were just impressions behind my eyes, ideas that were spewing from the….guy, the singer, the thing from whatever dimensions were being glimpsed through his-her-its body. They weren’t that clear, either; they weren’t conscious thoughts. They just spewed from it, and then from me, and there was a squish squish squish that accompanied it and he was asking things from me that I didn’t know I had, never thought of before, didn’t want to consider then. I wrinkled my nose at him and scowled at the idea I didn’t even have.
But I was still moving, my paws (hooves, feet) softly pounding the dirt in an easy beat, my shoulders rocking slightly, my hips swaying in a breeze that didn’t exist here, maybe, but mattered to someone else. “What do you want,” I asked, as though it didn’t already tell me; and I offered a step forward (or a step back), and then a step back (or was it a step forward?), all of it easy and hesitant and bold and graceful in a graceless way. Little by little, inch by inch, (mile by mile), I edged my way closer to the thing and the things in its beak-mouth-maw, the wheaty, ricey things that it chewed on, the things that needed water. Someone’s grass needed water.
What do you want from me? I always, always asked the world.
Again it laughs, smites, threatens, cackles, rises, stays still, murders is roaringly silent. But then it does laugh, or at least you're pretty sure that it did (mostly sure? It did laugh just now, didn't it?). It's a sound that glorifies dreams and ruins chances, it is hollow and as deep as an orchestra underwater. It rings in your ears but is immediately forgotten.
That laugh man, it gets into your bones and once it does you realize that you are trapped. You could run until your lungs burst and he would always be there, just behind you leaning against that fucking tree, casual as anything. You will leave Golgotha when he decides, and not a moment (lifetime) sooner. This was his devar-tete, woven extravagantly into the fabric of time itself. But surely if that was the case your Father would have known about it? Known about it? Him that never was?
"I've been called worse." It admits after an eternity (seconds). Horrifyingly the protruding piece of wheat never once moves as the words find their way to your ears. "What do I want? Just to ... chat."
But you know its a lie. He's a lie. Nothing can be trusted, and yet ... yet you know he'll never be dishonest. The words might not be a lie but somehow they lack the right amount of truth because there's something else here as well. Something itching-scratching-burning-screaming-killing and it's a-hungry. It whispers (screams) your name silently. Does he have it? Is it behind him? Or in him, locked in his mind some like nightmare monster?
Its pulse beats with the ravenous drums of time, relentless and stoic yet somehow speeding up.
It's a hungry, hungry, hungry.
"Tell me baby god-" You can hear the un-capitalized 'g' as he mocks you. "Why do you ruin everything you touch?" So simple, so unassuming. Careless he throws daggers into your heart and scalds your eyes.
And still that fucking wheat remains completely still.
02-25-2015, 05:19 PM (This post was last modified: 02-25-2015, 05:27 PM by Roskuld.)
*”Just to ... chat."*
Dance, dance, dance. But the dance was getting erratic; I tossed my head and I began to snort and my pacing became something high-stepped and pissed because there were ghosts here, in the wood and outside too, even more ghosts than the phantoms that already haunted this wood. I could feel them lingering on my neck (my neck and my back), bursts of velvet across my spine and between my wings that was sweet and awful and terrible. Secrets. Secrets all around me and we were standing belly to belly (I was dancing, and he-she-it laughed a nightmare in my breast) and the grass was getting high-o.
*"Tell me baby god-"*
--and just like that, I was a baby again.
“--why do you ruin everything you touch?"
I was a baby and I was zap!ing in and out of the spark-plane, and I whinnied loudly, grunting with the voice of a man baby, my body short and stubby and fat like I used to be, my wings nothing more than little sparkplugs attacked to my withers---but I couldn’t stop dancing, except now I was bouncing high, striking the air in clear agitation (excitement and fear; “come come commala” stuck in my head) and I guess it wasn’t much of a dance anymore, because instead it looked like I was being tortured.
I knew the question Roland was asking me (I knew the knives he-she-it was using).
“Because he fucked my Ma,” I said, knowing the words without thinking them (They slip 'a slide-o, under 'a sky-o), “and the wrong seed mixed with the wrong egg, and I was born instead of something great.” My baby’s voice was calm (and ancient) even though my body was all over the place, unsure and proud and hesitant and confident. Sense was gone—or shoved in the back of my head, where all things go when I don’t understand them, when I’ve sabotaged it.
“What? You gonna make it right?” I spat (asked, purred, SHOUTED), a dare that made no sense, so it was perfect for now. (Gonna make me co--). Gross. The shock was brimming within me, impatient with his taunts, a truth I hated to hear— and I lunged for the wheat that stuck out of its mouth and pull the knife out of its grasp, reckless and heedless and headless with dying rice fields. (Gonna make it rai--)
Was there even a landscape around them? Surely if you looked the trees would be as they always had, but when you aren't looking, you're positively certain that no small amount of fuckery is going on. Shapes warp and twist, dancing just beyond your gaze but always racing back to their places with the utmost care when you do turn your gaze to them. The woods are melting, an acid trip gone horribly wrong. The trees have faces that are judging (weeping), reaching for your body to perhaps kill and strangle (come, commala).
What? You gonna make it right?
His laugh continued to roar, shaking the trees and reaching out towards you with teeth and spit. The depth of his cloak became suddenly flat and matte. No longer did time bleed through him. It now passed through him. The tree upon which he leaned was suddenly visible behind him, yet it looked like a sapling. Around the base, where his cloak gently touched the ground, the base of the sapling was suddenly covered in snow.
Blood covered snow.
And still his laughed roared.
Time paused and raced. Dissonance and confusion rained and reigned.
As you move, the wheat suddenly falls - as does the entirety of his cloak. A murder of crows shoot towards you, their mocking onyx gazes piercing you as his laugh continues to roar through their open beaks. The illusion of the sapling and the snow disappears as his cloak tumbles host-less to the ground, crumpling into a dark and unimpressive pile.
But it isn't just a pile. It has an egg in it, and given the sudden appearance of the birds you're tempted to think of it now as a nest.
"Try not to mess this up, hmm?" One of the crows says, his voice bleeding through the bird's beak. It has blood red eyes, and is the only bird to have remained whilst the others flew away. It casually (monstrously) looks towards the egg, and smirks in a way impossible for birds to do.
Will you prove him wrong? The bird is not optimistic. Flying away on pitch wings, the bird disappears into the sky.
Congratulations! For your dedication and activity with a demi-god, as well as being an active participant in SWP with her you have been gifted a royal electric rougarou! Additionally it will have elemental markings related to the God of the Spark.
The tempo rose, inside and out, and I didn’t know any more if it were a dance I were doing or something else entirely. The cloak fell and a suspicion that I didn’t even know I had had in my head turned to certainty, a suspicion that wasn’t even suspicious, because I know better anyway. Time comes naturally to me even if it scares me, even if it makes me dance or R O A R S in my ear or flies towards me on black, fluttering wings—
(“--give you your crows back, but you could say that I am d i s i n c l i n e d—“)
--and as they swooped above me and something evil started to cackle in my ear, I felt the world warp and I couldn’t feel my body for a few seconds and suddenly, without much pomp and circumstance, the storm of time and things just sorta…stopped
*"Try not to mess this up, hmm?"*
And I woke up.
Was I ever really asleep? Yah, maybe, or not, or whatever the hell. Time is many things and nothing at all, and when it decends on you like that, you leave the rules of the world behind you and everything and anything and nothing goes all at the same time.
But here I was, back in the rules of the world, where things make sense and I remember just how much time actually scares the everliving shit out of me.
I rose from where I had been left in the mud (thanks, asshole). I groaned, feeling sore all over, though mostly it was in my head; I blinked my sight straight and looked across from me, my eyes drawn to where the cloak had fallen and the thing had been deposited by the great black raven.
The cloak was gone, of course. But the thing was there for real, glistening in the shadows cast by the trees.
The thing.
The egg.
I got up gingerly, like an egg is something that can be startled or whatever. I crept towards it, reaching for it cautiously with my muzzle, checking it out. When I say it glistened, I’m not bullshitting you; it was smaller than I would’ve thought, spherical and faceted with lots of little edges all around its surface, white in color but all those facets glittering with different subtle hues whenever the light happened to touch it. It was a pearl—but a jewel—but an egg with the prettiest, bitchinest shell I had ever seen for an egg.
I peeked behind me, my brow arched—wondering what had happened to Roland, to the crow. The wondering didn’t last long; my head hurt too much. My teeth tender, I reached down and grasped the egg lightly between my jaws; and with one furtive gaze around me at the unassuming forest, I turned the fuck around and got the hell out of dodge.
Spark comes naturally to me, and so does Time.
That doesn’t mean I always have it on my side.
[Just wrapping this up for development! Thank you all so much once again!!]
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