"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 princess paused on her trail, her familiar amber gaze lingering upon the unfamiliar mountains placed squarely in her path. Somewhere within the vast range lay the Aurora Basin, or so they said - but the further north she found herself, the more she began to feel like she belonged, and so here she was, still searching. She had turned back once, afraid of what she might find - but she was almost a yearling now, and fear was not an emotion that Mother would have allowed. The DarkEmpress may have died in the scourge of the moon, but that did not mean that the girl's goals had changed. If anything, the news of her mother's demise had made her nothing if not more determined to find the truth.
That and her half-sister's recommendation that she run back to where she came from. There was that, too.
She was no quitter, though, and the very idea of turning away from her mother's land, from her own birthright, left a sour taste in her mouth. If Snö had not been able to understand that, then it would seem that they had little in common save their lineage. The girl snorted, shaking the memory away. The meeting had left her burning with rejection and betrayal, and despite the fact that Snö owed her nothing, the girl could not help but feel that the mare should have offered something. But she knew that she was deluding herself if she thought she could expect anything from that bitch. Maybe there was more of Psyche in Snö than the princess had originally thought.
Her eyes trailed down the mountain and into a clump of pines at the base. If she were a secret entrance, she would think that concealment would be fairly important. Of course, from all she had heard, the Aurora Basin hardly needed to be secretive - she had heard nothing but praise for their forces, and perhaps a bit of wariness. No wonder this was where they had suggested she look for information on her mother. Secretive, strong, and intimidating were certainly words that could be used to describe Psyche in her prime, if her mother was to be believed. The princess took another step forward, aiming for the pines. If nothing else, she would wander until she found what she was looking for.
Talk.
Pixel by Reli <3
Please tag Själ in all replies.
Use of force and/or magic (with the exception of death) is allowed at all times.
Havoc and glee wrapped their veils, their shrouds, their cloak and daggers around the child’s mind and corrupted his movements; all exuberance, all swift, sinuous motions, like rapid heartbeats, like blistering, barbaric stones raining down upon an enemy. He drove through thickets and glades as a surreptitious serpent, unwinding his maelstroms amidst laughter and fervency, zealousness and audacity, barely tripping over roots and alleys, sailing past vantage points and boulders that had once caused him to stumble, caused him to halt. Too fleeting, too breathtaking, a blue prince ducking and darting through the horizon, either the forest finally acquiesced its threshold to their mighty, up-and-coming stalwart, or his growth had somehow materialized through his movements and gestures. Birdsong grew ever closer as Orangemoon touched and tangled over the fragments of his earthen youth, pressing and testing his might amidst the wayward adventures and the searing sport of miniature demons; he’d lost, he’d won, and he’d whittled away at the fringes of nothingness too – all balancing nicely upon a tumultuous precipice, and he never dared look down at the vestiges below. Instead, the tiny titan, with his eyes drenched in aspirations and his heart encased in too many different lacquers and absorptions (the price of triumph, the weight of dominance, the touch, the ferocity, of power and supremacy), carried his head as if it were outfitted with a noble crown, a winter shield, a serpentine circlet. The child balanced on the seams of greatness and decadence, crossing over vicious, seething wires, wandering into hot, scorching anarchies, watching, witnessing, at the way the worlds, the realms, machinated mayhem. The boy pressed his potential into the fountains of carnivorous opulence, witnessed cracks and slivers splinter its way through the foundation of his friends, his brethren: Rikyn, disappeared, Aithniel, staking a home elsewhere, Arwen, murdered. Were there always presages of glory after despondency? Were there messages in the cruelty? Were there stark reminders of determination, littered and glimmering amongst the rubble, the ruin, of his beloved companions?
But there were constants too: stalwart Adelric, with his penchant for finding grand objects, Orsino, new and wonderful and bonded, never too far away, fulfilling pledges and dedication, his family (the Reaper, strong and enduring, potent and wonderful), and the Basin itself, towering, majestic, enduring, and tenacious. In some ways, he was blessed, consecrated, and sanctified, hardly deserving of all the treasures he’d managed to garner, and in others, he was damned right from the beginning, bystander to loss (too young to go after the beast who’d felled the golden child, too young to do anything more than sneer at Essetia and her dog Romul, too young to brandish his fire at enemies, too young to wield the distinct, pummeling tainted sentiments staining his core).
He peeled away from his normal play, listening to Orsino’s small paws ramble behind him in the falling flakes and newfound snow, tracing over the fortifications of pines and fir, bounding hither and yon, away from the sentinels’ grave, composed looks (as if they sometimes disapproved of his actions and antics, as if they knew all the wild, savage things he yearned to do). He ambled down over stony ramparts, waited for the trace of his black kitsune, when curiosity – always a distinct distraction – carved an unfamiliar niche in his senses. For a few moments, the colt was entirely still, one more beast to add to the multitude of monsters, widening his nares and embracing the snare of strangers; an instant faltered where he thought to go search for one of their soldiers, or his sire, beckon to them about something creeping and crawling amongst the glacial runes. Not an instant later, his lips curled and scorned at the rumination, and damned himself to inquiry all the more. Orsino joined him, ears pricked and raised, one small chirp to signal he was ready and eager (for what, neither could say), before the lad, dear, intrepid Erebos, brandished one forceful outcry. “Hello!” The sound ricocheted and bounded off walls, off stone, and he crept a little closer to the scent, to the frame, to the creature, surely nestled and hiding in the thicket of evergreens. His vocals came all over again, booming and insistent, vehement and outreaching. “Who are you?”
Truth be told, the filly had no earthly idea where she was going or what she might find at the end of her path. She had set out from the cavern that her mother had claimed as 'home' on a quest, a journey to find her mother and understand her heritage. The further into Helovia she ventured, the more she began to wonder if she had, perhaps, chosen the wrong expedition. She had found nothing and no one, and only the faintest traces of her deceased mother.
The revelation that Psyche the DarkEmpress had died was painful, but not surprising: when the queen had set out from the throne she had created for herself, lording over her daughter, she had not been well. The princess knew it, and she suspected that the queen knew it, too. Though Själ could not have understood entirely, as young as she was, even she knew that the Empress had been frail and fragile, lost and without direction. Her legacy preoccupied her, the memory of her failures haunted her, and her daughter was left to bear the consequences. Overbearing would have been an understatement, and yet the young girl bore it all without complaint. Somehow, she knew that the mare's days were numbered, and if nothing else, Psyche had made her believe that her day would come.
But how to get there continued to elude the yearling princess. How was she to know when she had reached the end of her journey, when her time to shine was finally upon her? How long was she to wait? Her mother was Psyche the DarkEmpress, demon-queen of the unicorns, leader of the Plague (whatever that was - the delirious mare had mentioned it only once); her legacy for her daughter had, by her imaginings, been a kingdom of loyal followers. Never had she mentioned having to earn that loyalty, and the filly had never known enough to worry.
She really had no idea how the world worked.
The princess did not bother to conceal herself as she moved, and no doubt she stood out against the light dusting of snow that covered the northlands. In any case, the pines that she trotted through did little to offer disguise, and she was startled upon exiting their cover by a loud, "Hello!" She paused for a half-second, her pace slowing and picking up again within a stride as she determined she would go to the voice. At least it was someone new.
She came upon him in the pass, a thin valley through the mountains that, she assumed, would lead her to her destination. She found her amber gaze casting about, impressed despite herself, before landing on the speaker: a colt of her own age, proudly standing in her way. She looked him upon and down critically, haughtily turning her nose up in a most unbecoming way. She was not particularly unkind, but she had learned her mannerisms from her mother. The intricacies of new meetings and first impressions were lost on her.
"My name is Själ," she informed him airily, as though he would have heard the name before. "Who are you?"
Talk.
@[Erebos]
Pixel by Reli <3
Please tag Själ in all replies.
Use of force and/or magic (with the exception of death) is allowed at all times.
Life was beginning to roll, a whole year gone by since the day I was born, and we where fast approaching Frostfall. The days where shorter, and the nights longer. The weather was colder, sometimes even raining in icy bursts... But it was a relief to the unbearable heat of Tallsun.
Speaking of the heat... Someone I had met briefly during a hot spell was at our gates. Someone had already beat me to the meeting the girl... A boy around the same age as both of us. In fact he resembled The Lord Deimos. For a moment I watch the interaction, for a moment considering letting him handle it... But why not go see what the girl wanted... What could it hurt? After all, I had met her already.
Well, seen her really. On the Steppes. So I move forward, slightly feathered legs carrying me with power and grace of my parents bloodlines. I lift my head high, looking proud of my home. Might as well. It was, after all beautiful. Upon approaching I come to a graceful halt next to the boy. My head dips slightly, only just catching the other girls name. Själ was the girls calling, and it seems to be The boys turn to give his name. Slowly my icy eyes slide to look at him, because to be frank I wanted to know as well. My ears slowly prick forward at him, waiting to catch the words that would float out of his mouth. I look carefully to Själ again, smiling ever so slightly at the girl. When The boy spoke his piece then I would speak. But, I was going to be polite first.
"Speech goes here."
@[Själ]
I figured I would throw Glacia in here since our thread is so old :)
The mystery unraveled as quickly as it’d appeared, morphing from potential threats, misty, murky shadows, to another child enveloped in black; and contorted into audacity. He knew the sentiments well, eternally wore them across his features or tucked them neatly into his heart, where the gallant shield and the emboldened arts lay finessed and foreboding. Curiosity stoked a finer kindling in the grasp of his membrane, in the elongated, Cheshire grin folding across his lips – because he wanted to know what caused her nerve, what invoked her intrepidity. He’d been far too immersed in the schisms of defiance, courage, and bravery since the day he’d been born, striking out amidst glaciers and precipices, tangling himself in the foils of adventure and wild, heathen antics, branching out closer and closer to treachery, to deceit, to columns of immorality, skimming over the edges and fringes of licentiousness. Was she one more of his ilk, fearless, reckless, presumptuous, and maligned, waiting for the day their tainted filaments scattered across the stars? Had she earned her crown of confidence, her tiara of temerity, scorched and laid out patterns of sin and action, eloquence and satisfaction? Or had she yielded the sizzle of impertinence, the wandering, the vagabond art, by simple survival, reaching for the borders of a world that could content her alms and arms? The prince’s head tilted a fraction, not giving in to her brandished bravado, but quietly indulging in his own: neither pressing, smoldering, or composing an overbearing presence of gall; only the notion, the ruminations, the speculations, of his ensnaring potential, of his vagabond insurrection. He liked the brazen, the brutal, the barbaric, yearned for eventual glory days where all his bestial brethren were tied and anointed together in one callous entity, gnawing on triumph and feasting on conquest. Wouldn’t she be a delightful candidate for the foreshadowed crowd (and when she looked at him, what did she see – a foretold blackguard, a mutinous wretch, a conspiring heathen, or one of the great many mass, unknown, unclaimed, never marked into legends or tales)? The lad pretended not to hear her bite, the flippant twist to her words, nonchalant in his own right, conducting himself as if he were his sire, indifferent and composed, and leaning towards his dam’s social indulgences, continuing to hold his broadened, impish smile. Erebos opened his mouth to speak, to satisfy the wicked ties of his intrigue, when one more broke into the open, and they were treated to more ice.
The other filly’s eyes were like the glaciers of their home, and he remembered her only from passing moments, the strangled bits and pieces of meetings, the dashing across meadows and valleys, and he welcomed her in the same way he’d acknowledged the other: grinning, still assured, still confident, shifting his cranium towards the incoming femme in a show of camaraderie. Orsino attempted the same, but fettered quickly beneath his bonded’s limbs, eyeing the true stranger from the forest of dark legs. Intertwined with the marks of the devil, in the wayward signs of a Machiavellian mind, the scion finally indulged his voice, prospering it to both ladies of the mist and mire, of the pines and rime, fastened to the prior query. “Erebos.” His gaze narrowed, a brief bout of ruthlessness, before it sparked and incensed back into his striking, spirited control, a little wolf begging to howl at the threshold of his den. “Why are you at the Basin?”
A girl appeared, black splashed with a speckle of white, curiosity in her icy gaze. The princess remembered, albeit vaguely, a meeting on a muddy plain, reduced in Tallsun to a fly's paradise. The girl had offered advice to avoid the nuisances, advice that Själ had taken. She wondered if the other girl remembered, or if the princess had been nothing more than one of a sea of passing faces, not important enough to remember nor care about.
Her thoughts drifted, suddenly, back to the lightning boy she had met at the base of Heavenly Fields. Her friendship with him had blossomed suddenly and easily, with none of the bravado she felt forced to display before these two. A small part of her wanted to run, to find the boy and ask if he knew where she could go, where she could find herself instead of searching for a long-dead mother. I'm sorry, she could say to the pair of guards before her. There's been a mistake. I don't belong here. But she had come too far to turn back now, and she had never belonged anywhere anyway.
Erebos was this boy's name. The girl had yet to offer hers. Själ softened slightly; her horn pointed, still, to the sky, an unearned crown upon her brow, but her eyes offered the promise of a truce. She was tired: tired of fighting and tired of searching. She was tired of running, no longer sure what she was running from or to or what, no longer sure what she was looking for at the end of her great journey. Once, she had wanted her mother's legacy - now, she wanted only knowledge, though she hardly even knew what that meant.
"My mother lived here, long ago."
My mother ruled here, long ago.
"She's dead now. I wanted to see where she came from."
I wanted to see who she really was.
"Can you help?"
Please, let me in.
Talk.
@[Glacia], @[Erebos] - I'm so sorry for the wait. Life ate me and I've been struggling to get back to a place where I have the time and energy to post.
Pixel by Reli <3
Please tag Själ in all replies.
Use of force and/or magic (with the exception of death) is allowed at all times.
He stared amidst the silence, another sentinel against the chilling, frigid sky, waiting for an answer, a sign, an acknowledgement of something, anything, from the filly dressed, veiled, and cloaked in black. But she seemed to dim, seemed to fade, and the colt wanted to shake, throttle, or pull her from whatever malice suddenly plagued her, because anyone with gall, anyone with mettle, anyone with spirit should be allowed to maintain their brilliance. A beast with nerve, a cretin with audacity, with boldness segmented into their sinew, could be an essence of the future, a notch of the effervescent, a keen, sharpened blade augured to their tongues, to their goals, to their ambitions. All he could do was watch and witness, remain and press, be vigilant and wary, wonder and speculate as the girl withered before his eyes – as if she’d been weary too, and finally lost the crisp, daring, intrepid motions spurring her here in the first place. On a note of dauntlessness, he stepped closer, provided her with endless smiles and impish grins and devilment promised; if she wanted mischief, he could hand it over to her, and if she wanted amusement, he could speak of eternal diversions. But the smirk grew faint too, wandering away from his lips, from his mouth, as she began to speak, as she told a brief tale of her mother, of her dam who’d lived amongst the north, who’d died and left her alone – to meander across plains and valleys, along legends and creeds, and something stirred within him, as if the filly had more to tell, and she kept it from him. Within their tiny space, he coerced and dragooned, arching one brow, narrowing his eyes in the dust, in the delusion, of machinations. His voice came on a blunt, coarse, decisive note, a little cold, a little calculating, registering mythos and particles of his scholarly lessons, of names and titles and phrases suddenly put to good use. “Who was your mother?” Then, as if remembering his desires, his masks, the boy brought back his princely smile. “I can try. What do you need?”
07-01-2015, 11:24 AM (This post was last modified: 07-01-2015, 11:24 AM by Själ.)
Själ
Somehow, the girl's worth was measured, in her own mind, as a legacy left of her mother. Who she was, who she would become - it was all intricately tied into her family tree, the lineage that her mother had spoken so emphatically about. The DarkEmpress's shattered soul had spun tale after tale, coercing the princess into believing all manner of things about her destiny, about her birthright - but how much had been true, and how much had been a madwoman's fantasy? Her arrival in Helovia, heralded by the arrival of a half-sister, had left her disenchanted with the notion of her family: the older sister had sent her away, wanting either nothing to do with Själ, or all of the mother's legacy for herself, or both. Her trek into the northern lands had been arduous and lonely, leaving the girl discontented with her present state. Never before had she longed for companionship, but never before had she been so very alone.
Still, she pressed on, questioning with each step what she was doing here and why, and wondering if she would even like the answers she found, assuming that she found any at all. Here she was, on the doorstep of history, searching for some magical talisman of knowledge and wisdom to light her way forward. Surely, once she learned of her heritage, all would be clear: the path to success would reveal itself, beckoning her forward with only minor challenges to her valor and tenacity, and she would emerge from her blurred, smeared past victorious at last. Surely Mother had left her that much, at least. Surely it wasn't all empty promises and broken dreams.
"Who was your mother?" And with that, the mask returned, settled over stubborn amber eyes to form an air of complete control, almost disdain, for if he could not even see her mother in her, then how was he to help her at all? She regarded him, neither coolly nor with any discernible warmth, but with her head held high, refusing to bow to him even on his own soil. He smiled, and she returned it, a polite, emotionless affair that hid the turmoil and nerves seething within her very soul. "My mother was Psyche the DarkEmpress," she informed him airily, leaning ever-so-slightly forward as though her physical closeness could impress upon him the importance of the name.
She refused to admit that the pit opening in her stomach was a result of fear: a fear that her mother had not been all that she had said, that the memory of the dark queen would fail her or leave her wanting. She refused to allow the thought of hope to enter her mind, for the moment she clung to the hope that mother had not been entirely insane after all was the moment that she set herself up for bitter disappointment. It was easier this way.
Talk.
@Erebos
Pixel by Reli <3
Please tag Själ in all replies.
Use of force and/or magic (with the exception of death) is allowed at all times.
An eerie sense of familiarity bristled across the air, even as she mustered audacity all over again, even as she presided on an invisible throne, even as she wandered in between the snowy squalls of the unknown and the impudent, because her words crooned deep against his mind – like a song, like a dance, like a ghost, unwinding and unraveling truths and lies. It coaxed his blood, his veins, in a vivid, wild pursuit, trembled and touched and vibrated against his soul, until his widened eyes seemed incapable of taking any more of her in.
My mother was Psyche the DarkEmpress.
He hadn’t known the past Queen, hadn’t been born beneath her reign. He’d come after all the invasions, all the follies, all the perils and strife; a true prince, designated in a glorious state of triumph, conquest, and the strange, unnerving peace in between. But his mother had whispered stories, the grand mythos, of the Empress who’d led them from the hollowed hills of ice where they’d been banished, cast off, away, and into the region of glacial persecution that was the Basin, had christened them more than just the enduring crowd of pariahs and rebels. Psyche had been powerful, potent, a jackal, an asp, all rolled into one – and while he’d never met her – he could still revere the stories she left behind. The little beast reveled in segments of might, of strength, of enduring capabilities, and nearly ignored the way the thrones had changed after Psyche’s failure (for his father and the Engineer had been a part of it, but Huyana had never given any more details, and the enigma stuck) – and here, after the Empress had disappeared, had been polished and lacquered into death, was her daughter.
At first, the child was speechless: too many things bristled and bundled and bound through his skull. How had she come to be? Where did she come from? What did she want? How had she arrived at the Basin all by herself? What were her goals, her intentions? Would she become like her mother one day, another legend molded into the glaciers? Would she defy the words and whims of her past, and sculpt her path in a different garden? None of these notions, these queries, these questions, however, managed to make it past his lips. Instead, he bowed his head in a regretful, rueful display, his crown extended in a peace offering, an art of repose. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he mumbled into the ground, eyes peeking over the rim of his muzzle to stare the lost girl, and wondering what to do, what to say, how to commit anything to someone who’d already been scripted into a world so different from his own. His words came quieter, no longer the boisterous caprice of a boy, of a scion, of a fledgling wrapped in ebullience and devilry, but of a child brimming along the uncertainty of another – all the more unsure himself. “I didn’t know your mother, but I’ve heard of her.” Erebos nodded, granting a solemn vow of the plunging convictions, of the myths surrounding the legendary namesake. “She helped make the Basin strong.” The tiny beast paused once more, gathered his thoughts, and thrust one more inquiry into the fray, relinquishing a subtle wave into the pulsing anarchy, tending to one of his wishes, and wondering about hers. “Is that what you want to do?”
The silence built between them, a weight that wanted nothing more than to crush the girl-child who had come to the gates of this icy kingdom looking for answers. She waited, and the moment seemed to become longer with each inhalation of icy air into her lungs, each puff of clouding moisture from her nostrils. It drew itself out, languidly and tempestuously all at once, until she was sure that she could no longer stand it, that she would run away or scream her frustrations and her fears or simply fade away, forever waiting for the key to unlock the secrets of her very existence. The princess didn't realize that she had begun to hold her breath until he spoke and it released in a quick, soft sigh.
Relief flooded her veins at his consolations and his acknowledgement of her mother's legacy. Again she softened to the colt, relaxing her posture and accepting his words with a quiet, "Thank you." Of the DarkEmpress, the boy offered little, but the words he did have for her were pleasant ones for the princess. Her mother's ramblings had so seldom made sense, had left her with so many questions about what was true and what was false - but in one short exchange, Erebos had left many of her qualms soothed.
And then the attention turned to Själ, to her intentions and desires, and she was plunged once more into insecurity and hesitation. Psyche had made the Basin strong - but she had also been cruel and isolated, had sentenced herself to a lonely existence outside the borders of Helovia and a presumably lonelier death within. Was that to be her daughter's destiny as well? Was she to be a bedtime story with a terrible ending, intended to teach children of the perils of becoming a hermit? Or was she destined for something greater, something more?
Was she even destined for anything at all?
She finally replied, offering as honest an answer as she could. "I want to belong somewhere, somewhere that I can contribute to and help to build up. Is the Basin that place?"
Talk.
@Erebos
Pixel by Reli <3
Please tag Själ in all replies.
Use of force and/or magic (with the exception of death) is allowed at all times.
He studied and listened, examined and pulsed, paid conviction and determination its heedless vows. The dark boy waited for the girl to do something, anything, while he wrapped his mind around every configuration and calculation, while his head drummed nothing but questions and stories, while something like destiny brewed and traced past his Machiavellian, youthful designs. They lingered in a game of the unknown, brooding, churning uncertainty, with every enigma, with every labyrinthine quality drawn past two children endowed and encrypted with tales of the past and mythos for the future. Like sheathed swords, like foreboding tyrants, like bottled flames, they held all the opportunity in the world. There were desires, longings, yearnings, stirred around his heart, some gallant, some wicked, but they all had the potential to come leaping out, to rise and race and crown. He wanted to tell her something, anything, to warrant their impending chances and expectations, to anoint and prosper what they’d do for the realm, for their empire, for the surrounding lands (exploit, damage, revere, persevere?), but Erebos had nothing to go on but the sanctity, the sanctum, the sanctuary of now. The present held an enticing glow: kingdoms aligned and peaceful, three leads orchestrating from the top, a reign of triumph glimmering, bright and luminescent, from recent battles. What had been built, fortified, and consecrated was already grand – but couldn’t they make it bigger, better, illustrious and terrifying? When the world whispered of the Basin, what did they think, what did they do? Did they shirk, did they tremble, did they admire? And as the next generation, what did they have to offer? What could they do to ensure future success and conquest? Erebos’s gaze pierced into hers, feeling a little more regal, a little more potent, a little more grand in the presence of the DarkEmpress’s daughter – as if she too held power, tenacity, and determination. “Yes.” His grin was triumphant and gleaming, an enveloping sensation of wit, of cunning, of ebullience and stalwart foundations with everything nestled and nettled between. “I think you should stay here.” He held the vicious temptation to ask, to wonder, to ponder, if her mother would have wanted it that way, if she could’ve meandered down every familiar pathway to bring her offspring to the threshold of where she’d once reigned, or if the sting of loss would’ve been too great to bother. But the child wanted her there, Sjal the princess, to revere the mountain, to glimmer amongst the ice, to embolden and prosper their fortress – so he never put his query to voice, to reality.
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