"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.
05-20-2015, 11:53 PM (This post was last modified: 05-20-2015, 11:57 PM by NPC.)
...
She lay with a practiced graceful elegance. Though small her long gray coat was full and beautiful. A large tail curls about, as she took a moment to wash a silver paw. Her delicate perky ears and whiskers rolling about, till at last she stops, looks out, and grins.
“In ev'ry job that must be done
There is an element of fun
You find the fun and snap!
The job's a game”
Her fine feline voice echos in the caves about her much to her pleasure, but her mind is deep in thought it seems. She was here for a job afterall, but why couldn’t see make it a game too? Her words slip into song next, though slowing, with minor notes dropping in like shivers.
“And ev'ry task you undertake
Becomes a piece of cake
A lark! A spree! It's very clear to see….”
Her small feline body stands as she sings and walks back from her perch above to the center of a wall. It is not a plain wall though. Against it rests a sheet of glass. It is thin at the edges of the wall, but at the center it seems thicker and thicker till it looks exactly like a mirror. It is above this she places herself. Looking out a time or two, she lays down, with paws and tail casually draped over, and the ever present wide grin.
“That a spoonful of….”
She trails off, grinning all the same. It echos along these walls, and to any passing by it might spark a curiosity. Her cat eyes see beyond the walls the one she seeks and she calls out in a purring tone, more seductive now than playful.
“This thing all things devours;
Birds, beasts, trees, flowers;
Gnaws iron, bites steel;
Grinds hard stones to meal;
Slays king, ruins town,
And beats mountain down.”
Then her voice whispers, and it could not be heard by any near. Only in the minds of the two she sought did it echo.
“Clever as they come, clever as they be, solve my riddle please, and you shall find the keys.”
OOC :: @[Roland], you may choose who to invite.
"Speech"
Magic, it turned out, was not that difficult to find. Rather, it seemed to have sought the Thief out of its own accord, a lilting, rhythmic voice seeping out of the seething coils of darkness, a disembodied rant proposing enigmas and conundrums, billowing forth from the shadowed mouth of a cave. It rattled through the catacombs as if waiting, expecting his arrival, as if it knew of his intentions. It seemed far too easy; but then, he supposed magic was not predictable, it was nonsensical, it had a will of its own in an unsettling sort of way, and if it had sensed within him any desire for its abilities of persuasion and two-faced intrigue, then it was only natural that it would manifest where he would stumble upon it, fall into its clutches. Roland knew of only one other kind that would prey upon the intentions of others, that would twist their determinations into a device of its own, luring in with false, sweet promises, visions of grandeur and power, indulge upon ambitions and aspirations. He knew the lifestyle of chicanery, lived and breathed the practice; it had once been his driving force, the very blood that ran within his veins, and he would not be swayed, he would not, like some impressionable, naive child, be lulled into a false sense of security, be dazzled by its impossible and impractical promises.
He was wary, as he had been before when faced with magic, cautious and guarded, doubtful and mistrusting, unflinching and unbending to the sway of its honeyed words. He followed the sound of its voice through the darkened halls, but his gaze was hard when he at last looked upon the creature that had voiced a haunting summons, his jaw tense and his brow dipped, as if expecting to leap straight into the arms of a fight. Its voice echoed along the ribs of stone, through the throat of the Basin's tunnels, a silver coated predator with keen eyes, and that, Roland thought, was the very face of duplicity. He knew the kind well, and was impervious to the shark-sharp grins, the song that was not so much pleasant as it was grating upon his bones like the blade of a knife against a whetstone. He flinched away from the sight of a sheet of glass set into the stone, startled to see his own face reflected upon its surface. It was all too hauntingly familiar. The Thief felt the faint scar on his throat throb at the memory, a sense of dread flooding his chest with ice until his limbs felt numb, his head felt light. He knew how this would end, could almost envision the serpents winding their way around his limbs, venom pulsing through his bloodstream. Was she taunting him?
The Thief drew to an uneasy halt, his gaze wavering from the feline, reluctant to draw his attention from her. His head turned to seek out Lena, a warning in his eyes, but he was pulled away by the sound of the creature's voice, striking up amidst the silence like flint against stone, sparking to life a purpose, an intent in the rhythmic tone of her voice. Roland listened, watching her with an unwavering intensity as he soaked in the twisted vernacular. A request, a proposition, echoed then throughout the walls of his mind, and he flattened his ears against his skull as if hoping to block it out, to escape from her poking around in his head.
He took a wary step forwards, hooves striking against the ground. There was no turning back now, after having come so far, regardless of what might come of it. He had to grasp at fragments of hope, of confidence, and maybe the circlet that Lena had placed upon his brow would give him luck, deliver him unharmed from the riddles spun throughout the hollowed stone. His mind turned over the words, the destruction implied within them, of reaching ends, perishing, diminishing, aging and withering, and with it came the one answer that provided reason, explanation, for every verse. The Thief tilted his chin up, meeting the feline's eyes with an almost questioning gaze. "Time."
@[Lena]
Push your luck if it makes you a promise that turns con men honest.
She followed this time, didn’t lead, didn’t court, didn’t stray. She tied her misgivings, her doubts, her hollowed sentiments to the dying leaves and the echoing throngs, tethered them in quiet, little knots, sewn them over and over again so they were silent, so they were speechless and muffled. Then, she leaned into the precarious void, staring over the open, gaping threshold as one more brave, stalwart mistress of the ice and mountains, pieced and mottled together by experience, by persistence, by perseverance (and hopes and dreams and ambitions, the tiny, inspiring ones who hadn’t died on the path or hadn’t been smothered, strangled, and suffocated on the endless plains). If she was wary, if she was apprehensive, if she was nervous, the naiad’s features didn’t display any of the despairing trepidations, chiseled in distinct, dulcet brushstrokes and refined elegance, a virtuous goddess with no means or measures bestowed in her eyes. But beyond the gentle clarity, the amber shades, rested so many transgressions begging to be righted, fixed, and she gave into the Thief’s request without hesitation – seeking approval, seeking absolution, seeking deliverance. A careful dance, a potent sway, a perilous twirl, ignorant as to which step to compose or choreograph next, despairing over wrong striding, reveling in a perfected arch, a lilt, a song, casting her gaze to the shape and lines of the golden stallion’s shoulders, to the rigid stance bellowing in all its gravity, in all its taut diligence. Careful and cautious, blending and merging with coiled exteriors and curled feelings, poignant, haunting reminds of her attempts to grasp hold of magic fettered into place, into images (the searing fire drawn, vivid and brewing, across her tongue, the dangerous ecstasy smoldering and simmering upon her lips, the sketched bits of treachery laced and courted within), burning and smoldering and falling to ashes upon a bed of sand. What could have been (death), what wasn’t said (I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry), what nestled and distorted and contorted the fabric of their meetings (nervousness, guilt, trials and tribulations, promises heaped and sworn and then so bitterly misguided) hastened her down the rubble, the ruin, the pathways Roland had chosen: because he too wanted magic, he too wanted the experience, the prowess, the tenacity.
She didn’t know why, and she didn’t ask. The nymph left him in his secrets like he allowed hers to simmer, seethe, and brim, neither inquiring, neither seeking, the true rhyme or reason for their actions, for their motivations. The femme just trusted, holstered faith and credence, prospered devotion and benevolence in the wake of his liberation, and tried not to take his away.
Her eyes narrowed, watching the gilded stag unfold between the siren sonnets of the feline and the glassy mirror, wondering over which to fixate, where to stare, where to ponder and wonder. Riddles haunted and taunted, a bolero of the specious, of the duplicitous, and she soaked in the weight of its ardor, in the speculative scheme of the sphinx’s torrents – never quite staring into the reflecting glass, afraid of what she might see, afraid of what she’d find. The sylph’s head twisted from side to side, curious, tracing and outlining various queries, permitting them to dazzle and ignite and bewilder her senses, entirely unsure; no role for her completely mapped out, no area for her to fit within. So she leant herself to support, played the dove in the background, fluttering and flittering with the breeze, awaiting a chance to provide guidance, to bestow wisdom, sagacity, strength, conviction and compassion, or simply observe Roland take his place amongst the anointed and consecrated.
her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love
They come like mice, trapped in their curiosities, driven to the edge of their hole. Her small satisfied grin lifts, and curls, twisting wickedly. Her eyes, wide and round glitter to see the male coming. Looking so timid but bold, of what a curious site. Mortals were such funny things. They liked to pretend, to feel empowered. To see him come and look upon her fine coat, and the curious reflecting ice, lead her to purr and tail to twitch.
Of course he was not alone, and that made it all the more fun. Bright eyes snap to see the filly at his side, trolling about with him like a puppy. A lost puppy. It makes her chuckle. The sound echoing off the walls distant and unsettling.
Oh but he was a clever man wasn’t he. The big strapping horses always thought they knew best. The feline’s eyes narrow and her whiskers twitch as he answer. Her large plumed tail thumbs against the icey glass.
“Oh very clever you are….”
But then her mood breaks and she’s back to grinning. After all he was supposed to know the answer wasn’t he? And now she could have her fun.
“As clever as they be.”
Her small head tilts looking down upon them (a most suitable vantage point). Her fur fluffing out with the excitement to come. For as disappointed as she was to have been outdone, it was the goal after all.
“Roland will answer for he will know, but the prize he seeks is in the mirror wall.
In there you must step with bird in toe, and there it waits to answer his call.”
Her tail lifts, as if by example, and flutters inside the mirror, and then back out. Her grin is just as big now but she lays her head upon her paws that hang over the ledge, watching them. She watches on with eyes large and dark, waiting to see how they would step.
A wind began to stir about the place, it swirls about the creature, getting to know them, before moving on, and urging them into their reflections. Around the cat above it swirls as well, but she pays it no mind, her eyes set upon the two.
The cave seemed to be wrapped in a cloak of silence, held within a death grip. It was as if time itself had stopped beyond the walls of stone, leaving nothing but the darkness, suppressing and stifling beneath all the rock, an impossible quiet that had the Thief wondering just what consequences came with giving the wrong answer. He did not expect to feel relief when icy, grating laughter reverberated along the stone, across the ice, up the stallion's spine until it seized at the back of his neck. He flinched, watching the shift of the creature's sterling coat, the narrowing of her steel gaze, keen and sharp as if she were preparing an ambush. Was she really some simple mountain dweller that had come in search of some early morning entertainment, or was she more, divine, celestial, magic singing through her veins? Why had she sought him? He could not shake the sense that it might be a trap, that he had stumbled his way into the darkness from the comfort of home, led his closest companion into the wide open jaws of treachery, and now prepared to forge further down its throat.
The feline's invitation set him on edge, and Roland fought back the urge to shake his head, to protest, to retreat entirely from her presence and usher Lena from the tunnels, free them of the perilous halls and the watchful gaze of the strange silver beast, to clamber back into the sure and stalwart arms of safety before it was too late.
He frowned, looking to the mirror and away from the coiled form of the cat. His own face gazed back at him, the blade of his horn glinting in what little watery light could find its way through the cracks and crevices of the underground.
Every nerve within him shouted in one collective, determined voice that he was not to step forwards, not to fall victim to her cunning, not to give himself over and pass through the veil and beyond. And still, his feet moved forwards, his eyes flicked restlessly between the silhouette of the creature and the mirror before him. A cool wind swept across his back, as if nudging him, pushing him towards the speculum, forcing his limbs forwards whenever his gait threatened to slow. When he was close enough to reach out and touch it he drew to a halt, took in a deep breath of the cool air, the scent of ice and stagnant water, and turned to lock gazes with Lena once again. The drip of snow-melt stirred the quiet, as erratic as his heartbeat. He would never forgive himself if this was to be her downfall. He could cope with the idea of sacrificing himself for some foolish conquest of his own orchestration, but to play a part in her demise, to have led her here by his own will...
He would have liked to ask her to remain behind, to let him pass through alone, to leave him to face his own folly, but the creature demanded she accompany him through; and so, with a final glance thrown the way of the silver feline, infused with all the suspicion and discontent that he could muster, he stepped forwards and through to meet his fate.
@[Lena]
Push your luck if it makes you a promise that turns con men honest.
The unknown stretched from cat claws to the sheen of glass, and she stared amidst the preambles, the barbs, the nettles clustering and coiling around her mind, and wished her intrepid fears could be laid to rest. Like a strange role reversal, she was now the apprehensive one, waiting for something to happen, waiting for a dragon to descend, waiting for the cavern to swallow them whole: when she’d been the one destined, written into the stars, she’d ignited every fiber of her being and tried to throw away the empty shells of terror and fright. She could do the same thing for him. Her gaze, wide and all encompassing, rapidly attempted to piece together every nuance, every constellation, every metallic, glittering surface and render it hospitable, eventually diverted back to Roland again; the roll of his shoulders, the movement of his mass, the locked, intertwining machinations of his foreboding silence draining, dwindling, waning upon their shared glimpse. Was he unsettled too, grinding away at the strange warren, at the odd anomalies, at all the sinuous, torturous tidings biding and binding their time (and what had happened to their peaceful days, waltzing and talking, laughing and mocking, jeering and jaunting? When had they become warning glances and perils of the heart? When had they morphed from amusements and diversions to dangerous missions?)?
He wanted something – an essence, a touch, an invocation of potential, of prowess, and she wouldn’t flutter away in the wind at the hint of his one avaricious plea, cloaked ambition. She refused to be the trembling opus, the tremulous oeuvre, and proffered him the grandest, strongest smile she had – granting courage, bestowing determination, ensuring him not to worry about her (because she had just as much fortitude as the mountains, as the ice, as the sky). Her head was raised, proud, eager, fervent, and ready, even as her insides congealed and her soul twisted in a pervading sense of foreshadowing.
If he bothered to ask her to stray, she would’ve ignored him. She would’ve disregarded it altogether. Too much tenacity, too much will, too much stubbornness and zeal made up her core, forged and sculpted her very being, her very essence, and he wouldn’t be rid of her so easily. The nymph’s ears flicked once or twice, listening to the beckoning, siren sway of the sphinx, of the registering abyss, of the everlasting trial and tribulation of enigmas, mysteries, and consuming fathoms – and an overwhelming sense of valor and boldness locked over her grace, her finery, a moment where she yearned for truth to spring from her mouth and glide over the cavern, so he’d know, if anything happened…
It sparked across her tongue, rippled along her lips, nearly there, nearly ready, “Roland, I-,” but then it segmented off as he turned away, into the glass, into the sheen, and she was too late. The Songbird winced, lowered her cranium, narrowed her gaze, and looked away as Imogen shook her head in disappointment. She couldn’t even meet the kitsune’s eyes, instead, glaring into the void, into the abyss, and processing the conclusion of their fates.
Stay was her only command to the ivory vixen before she followed the Thief down into the rabbit hole.
her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love
06-05-2015, 11:32 AM (This post was last modified: 06-05-2015, 11:35 AM by NPC.)
...
The grin never falls as sharp eyes watch the two go against their instincts. Silly horses, she thought, you would think they would know by now that was a foolish mistake. As they approach the mirror its surface begins to shiver and ripple. As their flesh touches where the cold ice reflection, they find not but air. A low chuckle can be heard echoing in the halls as they at last step through.
The feline above gives another twisted chuckle as they leave. Her long silver plume of a tail swaying about her body. Her job was done. Her task complete. Now to gain a prize of her own to keep. Leaping down from the top of the class she lands softly on the rock, the long fur about her ruffling. Smiling she looks behind, into the mirror, and see those inside. Her short laugh echoes, but rolls into a hum. Light and gay she hums as she works. With a feline sway the comes to the right of the mirror, where it reflects no but a vision of ice sheet on rock. With care she comes to it, sitting and settling herself, humming all the while till she speaks.
“That will do for the second answer is long,
Give what you took so I can be gone.”
A silver paw places itself against the ice. A sigh rolls out like a purr as the hairs about her sink back in, and shorten, darkening as they go till she is back to a sleek black cat. The ever present grin never fades as she stands and enjoys her black coat again.
The inside of the mirror feels like an amusement park. Though the floor and ceiling are stone, every other surface is a mirror. At least twenty circle the center. In the center itself is a triangle of mirrors reflecting out. The mirror the pair face as they enter shows themselves, plain and unamusing. But looking around to the rest they will find a different tale.
Each mirror shows the coat of them another color. One shows them tall. One shows them short. One has wings. One has horn. One is black. One is blue. Each mirror shows another creature where they stand, that is all but the bay. The little brown dove is the same in every mirror. Only her plain brown coat and straight horn. What does it mean? Does it frighten you? Do you feel spun or sick? Where have you gone? What have you become?
Only the mirror you entered shows no reflection. Like icy glass it shows the blurred visions of the past world. Dare you leave? Look there is a black cat sitting nearby. Singing again, her voice murmuring but still carrying though the glass.
“And ev'ry task you undertake
Becomes a piece of cake
A lark! A spree! It's very clear to see….”
There is only room to go one by one. The glass opens for the copper man rippling into nothing. As the plain brown dove approaches it ripples and seals. Caught.
OOC :: @[Roland] @[Lena]
Roland is able to pass through the mirror, but it seals shut when Lena tries to leave!
He expected to notice something, the sensation of ice crawling across his skin where there was naught but air, no friction, no viscosity. Roland didn't feel the same dread that might have plagued him before, that numbing uneasiness that so often threatened to overcome him. He didn't feel much of anything, truth be told, save for the wash of cool damp air over his skin like a cascade of water, a vague reminder of what had just occurred, shedding those fragments of reality that still clung to him, the familiar, the easy, the forgiving, trading it for hostile spikes and spires, the unwelcoming and unkind. A shiver took hold of him as he stepped through the mirror, and for a brief moment he thought the world was dropping out from beneath his feet, certainty and solidity crumbling, tearing. He could have sworn he heard his own name echo across the veil, and there was a noise rising in his throat, a reply of sorts, ripples of broken notes wheezing past his lips. He winced. It was as if he had stepped into the thrall, the ugly midst of a nightmare. The mirror, or rather the portal had swept him up, carrying, towing him with the force of a current, sweeping him forwards as if he had surfed the waves onto rubble and dark stone, into a realm that was as unsettling as it was undeniably alien.
Images leapt back at him from panels of glass, dark, grotesque, colossal. The spectacle seeped through his bones, a mass of confusion he no longer felt. It was odd, disconcerting and terrifying to be in the grasp of something so unknown, to feel that wrongness creep across his skin. He didn't move. The muscles of his lower body felt numb, but he sensed the frown on his face, the pressure crowding his chest, and a strange absence of fear. Only a distant nagging irritation lingered, as if he had decided the time for such things- ostentatious acts and trivial pursuits- had long since passed. He wanted what he came for.
Roland wondered, hazily, if playing the hero never particularly suited him after all. All those years of pretending he was something he was not, that he was brave, confident and self assured. Now there was no lingering hiss of fear deep within the pit of his stomach, singing through his nerves and ringing in the back of his skull; it was odd, peculiar. He would like to think it boded well. He did not know the gravity of his wounds, if there were any- didn't know much of anything there, wherever he was- but still there was something clawing at his senses, one certainty that seemed to alleviate his confusion. But where-?
There was a swoop of relief in his chest, a fluttering of the pulse at his throat as he felt the warmth of a presence at his side, heard the gentle footfalls and looked back to Lena following after him, unscathed. And he heard its voice again, everywhere, distant and all too close at once, loud and guttural. He knew its glare, expected it before he even found the mocking pair of eyes resting upon his own, vile, satisfied, goading him to bow before it. The reflections turned with him, moved as he did, and uneasiness flooded Roland like a bad taste in his mouth. At one glance he was tall and stately, thick limbs and chiseled musculature; in another his ribs cut through his hide like the sharp edges of a blade, his eyes sunken, the shine to his golden coat rusted over into something ugly and derelict, but the mare at his side remained the same in every mirror. "Why are you showing me this?" He questioned, looking back to the shadowed cat. Its rhymes echoed in his head, grating upon his nerves.
"I've no time for your games, and I have taken nothing from you." His voice was hard as he turned back the way he came, approaching the rippling glass. Unlike the others it did not show his face, did not twist him into some distorted, false depiction of himself. His gaze softened as it fell upon Lena, urging her to follow him the way they came. The glass liquefied, slid over his shoulders as easily as it had done before, and he was free once again without struggle. But time passed and the Mender did not follow through, did not join him on the other side, and panic began to rise in his throat.
"Lena?" He had asked her to help him, he had begged for her company and now he had lost her to the trickery of some wicked creature, fallen prey to its game just as he had promised himself he would not do. He would never live down the guilt, the grief of losing her to a sacrifice that was not hers to make. He would not abandon her if he could fight his way back through. "What have you done?" He sought out the shadowed form of the black cat, voice quaking with anger, an icy hardness to his gaze. Her words were repeated in his mind, searching for a purpose, an answer, a key. "You took from me. Bring her back."
@[Lena]
Push your luck if it makes you a promise that turns con men honest.
The world was eerie, poignant, haunting and looming; a beckoning hand from the folds of glass, from the veneer of nothingness. She stepped and glided, dared and conquered, courted and lilted, stared and witnessed, bearing silence in the finite traces of anarchy. She could feel it bellowing deep inside her, a massive squall of deliverance and apprehension, praying, begging, hoping for absolution – and taking it within her teeth, gnawing against the grain, gnashing upon cold ghosts and chilling phantoms. The fairy paid diligence for her quiet platitudes, wove determination through each and every one of her veins, carved strength, concentration, and confidence in the yearning pulls and tugs of acrimony: following Roland down the halls, searching and seeking out the riddles of the corridors. None were provided to her but the constant slam of queries, of images, building a flaring crescendo behind her eyes as she watched the gilded’s frame twist and turn into a variety of pictures: drenched in sable, cloaked in cerulean, chiseled in so many altering facets (wings, stone, marble, plain, crisp), she was unsure where to look, which to believe, hers never losing its quality, singular, same. Were they different identities, stories lost in the rime, in the mist, in the abyss? Were they part of puzzles and venues? Were they secrets and confessions, daggers and scythes, times and throngs of a thief predisposed to duplicity, to conniving, to furtive, specious ramparts? Were they mythos she’d never heard? Were they all Roland, all fixtures, all dynamics, she’d never seen, never known? And how much did she know of him beyond their adventures together: the one who’d granted her freedom and liberation, but may have never had his own? And why was hers nothing else: plain and unassuming, never flagged, never wavering, from its identical position (because surely she had many parts and pasts as well, all hidden beneath the smiles, the grins, the dances)? Her gaze simply locked back onto him, the golden frame she knew, following faithfully, pushing down all the questions, pulsing and racing and forgoing all the intrigue floating across her tongue. When they returned, back from this world of magic and mystery, perhaps then she could ask, she could inquire –
But then he disappeared, and she strived to enter the same mirror, flinching back as her maw struck solid glass.
Confusion and bewilderment ran rampant down her spine, and she tried again and again to release herself from the sprawl of uncertainty. Seized and possessed by the flurry of dread, agitation, and hysteria, the nymph thrust her frame towards the glass, rammed her shoulder into the corporeal force, and thrust her forelegs, her hooves, her strength into the void, shuddered when naught happened, when none of the walls came crashing down, when no one came and she was left with just mirrors, endless mirrors, shining their same, plain, brown vision (and to see her eyes, to see her features, were a cast, a silhouette, a portrait of utter terror – widened eyes, flared nostrils, no grin, no smile; only fear, only pandemonium). Why? Why can’t I go?
Had she erred somehow? Had she made another mistake? Was Roland safe? Panic crawled down her spine, harsh and vibrant, blistering and scorching, and she could feel her heart beat rapidly in her chest, scald her innards, barrel through her throat until all she wanted to do was let loose a rapid, dying scream – admitting she was scared, she was terrified, of being caught, of being trapped, of being left alone. She couldn’t hear anything, anyone, not the feline’s Cheshire paradoxes and tunes, not the stallion’s demands behind the crystal, not the promises left unsaid. But she wouldn’t call for Roland, uncertain of what happened to him beyond the reflective door (locked for her, another framework of uselessness, of worthlessness). Why couldn’t she do anything correctly? Why did she always fail to help? Why did all her assurances, her guidance, her creeds, always go awry?
Her thoughts flagged, images procured, anger rising, frustration brewing and brimming a cauldron of rancorous incantations. Canopies and leaves and trunks bruised by the pelting rain; a nest of shackles, a grove of chains - like she was back in the Falls, listless and drained, tied and tethered to imprisonment; and the Mender had no intention of letting that happen to her ever again. Alarm and anxiety gave way to absolute rage, burning and stoking the fibers of her being, lacing and lancing over the wayward cries of determination, forging and incensing until all of her essence, her entity, was a coiled spring of animosity, of wrath, of contempt, for the days, for the hours, for the minutes she’d wasted away in the ardent halls of consternation. A plaguing growl slipped past her lips, flared and unleashed, and she tried again to ram into the outer walls, battering her shoulder, twisting her body, desperate for annihilation, for deliverance, for freedom (what she’d always had until it was snatched, until it was stolen, and she wasn’t going to wait for it to swing around again for her; she’d clamber for it all on her own). When it still didn’t grant her entry, when it still didn’t give way, her face contorted and distorted away from any heavenly bounty, any virtuous depth.
Monstrous and savage, she stilled, a haunting, visual, vigilant piece of her past, a scarred spirit, building a mighty crescendo, a dangerous, agonizing soliloquy, harmonizing with brutal rhapsodies, with feverish, ferocious reveries, with paralyzing animosities, giving life to flame, giving life to infernos. The fairy, the fey, refusing to be the damsel in distress, opened her mouth to unleash vicious, vehement havoc, bearing embers and flames throughout the glass fortress, singing a song of wickedness, a song of desperation, a song of bedlam; threatening to burn down the entire abyss in one contemptuous shade if she wasn’t released from the hellbound kingdom.
She didn’t know how long she sang. She didn’t know how long the wrathful aria went on. Only when she finally crumbled to her knees, exhausted, enervated, drained, did the bestial march, did the flames, finally flicker and cease.
her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love
Oh what a lovely coat. Sitting upon a ledge she had jumped on the feline practiced her acrobatics in giving it a thorough, well enjoyed cleaning. Its black silk so dearly missed compared to that god awful long flutter.
A voice breaks her happiness, like shattering glass. And she gives a little start. Body twists around to look back at the mirror with a perk in her eyes, but an everlasting grin on his lips. The feline, growing more curious as the unicorn steps out, lets her tail twitch against the rock.
When it locks the bay bird in the night cat’s grin curls and twists back up on her lips. The poor horse’s anger to free her gain nothing but a laugh.
Oh but they like to play rough those devils with horns do and as the girl begins to bath in fire about her within the ice, the clever man turns on her. How hilarious! So clever was he to slow her riddle, her trick to think the mirror a prize! A shrill rolling laughter leaves her. The night cat twists on her back looking up at him.
“Clever is as dumb they say,
Of course you did not steal today,
Do you think horses are the only ones who take?
Clear is glass and ice and in it something stirs awake.”
He comes at her anger pouring forth, and she can only laugh at him. Look how powerless he was the giant oaf. So tall and fair with blades upon their heads, not so useful now against these things. How hilararious!
Oh but he wasn’t laughing and having been given something so quickly the feline was loath to part with one hair. So she stands up grinning as always, and leaps from her perch and with tail twisting about the unicorn’s leg in a tease she comes to the mirror where the girl inside wails. Her head twists, and turns. Then she looks back to the giant.
“Tisk tisk now let’s not brawl.
I can guess what it is you both saw.
I have nine and you a plenty,
But her poor form there wasn’t any.
Tis a blessing, a gift, from the ice has given,
Changes within, if clever only begins feelin’”
Sashaying about the beast’s great legs her rhymes roll and echo on the walls.
“The price is paid, the deal done,
Do you morn the cost of a little fun?”
Perked ears look to the mirror again and twist, then back to him, waiting for a test, some show, or elemental flare. Still she prized her black coat above all. So she stops and pauses, smiling up at him. Then in she’s gone. No not gone, there she is, there upon your back, though you feel not claws or signal of attack.
“Very well if we must you silly beast,
A blessing seems to give you grief.
Another key does unlock your bird,
Only I can’t seem to remember the words….”
She floats, yes floats along his back as she walks, her weight not felt, though her paws touch. Sitting on his hips she waits, her tail drumming on his copper coat.
“Just a spoonful of….
Dear me what is that last silly word,
Ah yes, the old wive’s purrs.”
Her feline eyes go sharp, and her smile for the first time falls a little.
“Creating mountains but through paw its slipping
Burning, Freezing, and Dehydrating
Nasty is its windy bite,
Gentle for the resting tide,
What can melt the cold ice glass,
And gain back what was lost last
Far in another land,
A spoonful of-“
The feline breaks and her smile returns.
“I never cared much for those wives,
They never could truly rhyme.
Come now let us go,
For the surely the clever man knows?”
The feline curls up on his back and waits no bothering with the mirror’s bait. The fun was beginning, a trip and a lark, plus, her pride was much soothed to be this high up.
OOC :: @[Roland] @[Lena] Answer the riddle with just a spoonful and you shall find the key that unlocks the love just in time. <-- The night cat is too rude to not tell you. =] SO MUCH TALKING Also Roland now possesses his magic!
"Speech"
All his desperation, all his fury, was met with nothing but the callous sound of laughter. The creature's taunting filled the cavern and set Roland's blood boiling as he tried in vain to return through the mirror, faced only with a solid and unforgiving pane of ice. He was goaded on with more rhymes and riddles, the feline leaving her perch upon the rocks like a small and flitting shadow. She stepped towards him on light feet and wound her way around his limbs like a serpent, and Roland's thoughts stirred at unpleasant memories; he recoiled, curled his lip and glared down at the small feline, withdrawing from her touch as quickly as if he had been burned. His eyes followed her spectral form as she padded to the mirror, looked upon the glass and continued in her hauntingly melodic voice, and he struggled to parse substance in her words. A gift?
"I agreed to pay no cost. I did not consent to sacrifice," he argued, voice low and calm, though there was the dangerous notes of a building tidal wave beneath it. He drew a step closer to her, head lowered. "If you must take anyone, let it be me." He might have been provoked into violence had she not immediately disappeared into thin air, as if she had never existed to begin with. And then the shadow, the shade, reappeared upon his back, her voice ringing in his ears, her presence noticed and yet not felt; Roland expected, anticipated the bite of claws upon his flesh, the weight of her frame against his back, and yet there was no sensation but the glide of torpid air as it circulated throughout the cavern, brushing against his damp skin. The feline's tail swept like the fingers of a ghost against his hip. He waited for the phantom touch to seize him, to feel pain or fear, but it would not come.
She chattered on, as if they had all the time in the world to entertain her wicked sport. Roland turned his head to watch her, his frame still and solid as stone, as if he suspected moving might motivate her to attack. He wanted to upset her balance and cast her as far away from him as possible, but he assumed his efforts would have little effect on one with such a keen hold on magic. Her words lead him on, drew his interest with suggestions of a possible solution, a key with which he could retrieve his companion, and he ceased his glaring to listen, gaze meeting with the sharpness of her own.
The taunting smile returned to the cat's features once she had finished reciting her riddle, and Roland turned away from her as the cave descended into silence, and he descended similarly, a cascade, a collapse, into frantic thought. His gaze roamed the slick walls, the spikes of ice forming along the cracks and crevices in the rock, the corners of shadow, searching as if the answer might be hidden just within his reach. Meanwhile his heart thudded loudly in his chest, as if reminding him of the passing of time. He turned restlessly to the mirror, wondering if he might have strength enough to simply break through it, but it was an instrument of magic, and blunt force was unlikely to be enough to shatter the barrier between them. The feline expected a game, a challenge, and he would have to rise to the occasion or suffer the consequences.
The answer, however, did not lie itself before his feet, nor did it come easily and willingly to his mind. As time passed he grew increasingly more anxious, more frantic, believing he might fail to solve the puzzle and save Lena from her quandary. He could not bear to think how she might have felt, trapped and isolated on the other side, and so he turned his focus once again to the riddle.
It seemed an age passed within mere seconds, but at long last he was finally able to put to test an answer that had crept warily into his thoughts. Roland had never ventured into dry, arid deserts or felt the keen bite of it against his skin, had not seen dunes of it sculpted by the wind, towering as high as the foothills, but he had known the shift of it beneath his feet when visiting the sea, pouring through his grip like water. He turned back to the creature curled upon his spine, summoned all his hope and courage, and took a daring guess. "Sand?"
@[Lena]
Push your luck if it makes you a promise that turns con men honest.
Imogen sat, diligently, on the other side of the mirror. She allowed Roland to pass her by. She listened to the garbled words of the feline. She stayed as she’d been commanded, waiting, beside the reflecting glass. She didn’t stray. She didn’t move. Her eyes were completely fixated on the veneer, presuming her bonded would step through at any moment. But the minutes ticked by, slow, tedious, monotonous and maniacal, and still, no Lena. Her mind swam over their connection, pulsed queries, questions, inquisitions, because maybe the curious Songbird had remained there out of curiosity (she was prone to doing that), had found something of worth or value, had chosen a different path from the gilded stag, and was just taking her time. But there was no answer, no strain, no aria, and no fold of gentle murmurs. Several of her tails twitched, fur bristled, hair rising at the sudden sensation of dread, of panic, of emboldened rage. Where was the Mender with her bright smiles and delicate heart? Where was the nymph who gallivanted with grins and who thought of everyone before herself? Had she been taken? Had she been stolen all over again? Had she been a sacrifice -
She stilled, drew in a heathen, molten breath, and narrowed her vulpine eyes, crafty, cunning, and sinister, towards the remaining members of the party. Her savage gaze landed upon Roland first, and though she could tell he was angry as he fired his words back towards the ridiculous riddlemaster, Imogen couldn’t help but be vexed and irritated at him. Who was supposed to protect Lena while they were wandering inside a mirror? Who was supposed to be watching over her? A harsh, loathing outcry drove from the kitsune’s lips, piercing and puncturing like a feral roar, and if she didn’t know the beast so well, she may have unleashed a torrent of fire over his feet; but her stare continued elsewhere, swept over the stupid sphinx with its stupid smiles and its stupid rhymes and its stupid, insipid smirks, simpering and gesturing and cleaning as if nothing had been unsettled and torn apart. A sinuous, serpentine movement followed and flickered, watching, witnessing, where the cretin went (and damn her, landing upon the Impersonator’s back so Imogen couldn’t fan all of her contempt, all of her loathing, upon the witch: demand and command that she release Lena from this glass prison), following with her rigid stares, with her unpleasant motions, with her vicious, ferocious growls.
But most of all, the vixen was frustrated with herself. She couldn’t do anything because Lena had commanded her to remain. She couldn’t do anything because Lena hadn’t wanted her hurt, because Lena was sometimes just as numb as the rest of them, putting herself before everyone and everything.
She snarled, and waited, because that’s all she was permitted.
- - - - - -
On the other side, the captured nymph, bottled and enclosed and locked amongst her mirror prison, stared resolutely at the glass. Regaining her feet, stumbling, listless, languid, exhausted, she arrived upon the portal’s fringe and rested her brow on its cool sanction, on its cold, raw, unrelenting power. Still enticed by rage, still glorified and haunted by the pressing bellows of abhorrence, she angled her horn, and slid it downwards, listening to the scrape, the hollow, hallowed sound, of breaking, splintering, crystal.
her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love
06-22-2015, 08:33 AM (This post was last modified: 06-22-2015, 08:38 AM by NPC.)
...
Another shrill laugh rolls out of the shadow cat as the stallion protests. Her body twists and falls, rolling over to look at him upside down, though never does his body feel the weight or threat of her fall. She might have been little but she was incredibly capable to taking care of herself now that her own business with that damn mirror was ended.
“Clever now you must use your brain,
Be glad you now have a gift without pain.”
Honestly the silly creature’s insistence that she was responsible was absolutely contemptable. In fact the feline smiled with the thought, she had every reason to leave. She certainly could and had not a interest invested in clever’s poor pathetic issues. Again her black body vanishes from the top of the creature.
She reappears though beside the curious little wolf. In the end, even this entertainment was better than lying about alone all day. Her gaze smiles at the fax like creature, boldly looking upon its snarling features with no fear. A laugh rises on her lips, but it interrupted by the clever. Her attention snaps to him.
“Why is an answer a question when you speak?
It is not with me the answer keeps.”
She looks to the fire fox, her smile broad and devious. A black tail slips over and brushes the creatures nose. Laughter echoes the halls as she disappears again. The black feline reappears on his back once more. She had forgotten how much fun it was to shift from place to place. Honestly why had she enver thought of this before.
“If your gift is not enough,
And you require that other fluff
I suppose you get to going,
Where that answer is flowing.
Though it will not like it from where the ocean throws,
To Dragon's Throat you'll have to go.
Travel by foot is not required,
Remember new looks have you acquired.”
A loud purr can be heard on the creature’s back as the cat settles down, tucking her paws in, but balanced all the same. Her aid was done for this part, it was time to get going, and she was most excited to see this venture. Whether she was invited or not.
OOC :: @[Roland] @[Lena] On you go, you're on your way, (try out your gift), and post where you know, the answer lays.
"Speech"
She had escaped his notice in the midst of all the commotion, the white figure that still remained in the shadows, watching in barely contained silence as the exchange took place between stallion and feline. Roland's head whipped away from the creature upon his back at the sharp echo of Imogen's sudden outcry, wide gaze landing upon her quaking form. The anger that had barely been kept in check abated somewhat, giving way to guilt. No doubt she placed much of the blame on him, and she was not wrong to think so. He had asked for Lena's help, she had followed him into a strange abyss, and only he had returned. There was no one else to point fingers at besides himself, and no way to communicate that he would do anything to get her back, even if that meant taking her place in the mirror-prison.
He startled when the dark furred creature appeared at Imogen's side, her weightless form having left his back while he took no notice. She inked devious lines towards the kitsune, curling and coiling like a living shadow, a duplicitous serpent, and reached out to poke at the small fox as if she had every right to do so. Roland took a step forwards, anger rising in his throat once again. Before he could reach the pair of them the feline withdrew and turned to smoke, empty space where her tangible form had once been, and her voice resonated once again from behind his head. He turned a glowering eye upon her form.
The gift she spoke of, he supposed, was magic. Roland had always expected he would know immediately when he had earned it, that he would feel something change within him, some altering of his psyche, some sense that something within him vibrated with a newfound power. There was no rush of enlightenment, no sudden heightened awareness to assure him of its presence. Instead, there was nothing; nothing out of the ordinary, nothing out of place, and yet she insisted that she had given him something, a reward, a favour, for all his troubles.
Panic closed its hand around his throat, his lungs tightening as her words sunk in and he cast a look back to the mirror, as solid and still, as fortified as it had been when he'd last glanced its way. Lena would not be released until he ventured south- a few days' journey at the least- and found sand? Such a worthless, common commodity in exchange for something so valuable... And meanwhile she would be left without a hope, wondering or perhaps even believing that he had abandoned her, while he was sent on some fool's errand halfway across the realm.
If there was to be no other way out of it, then he would waste no time in departing. Roland glanced back to Imogen, his gaze full of concern, and distress. "I'm sorry," he murmured, regardless of whether she would understand his words or not. With one last glance towards the mirror, he turned away and to the mouth of the cave, paying no mind to the dark shape upon his back. With impatience guiding his steps, he quitted the darkness of the cave and emerged into the sunlight, breaking out into a canter as he made for the mountain pass, mentions of his newly bestowed gift still lingering in his mind.
@[Lena]
Push your luck if it makes you a promise that turns con men honest.
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