"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.
Cera I'm an angel with a shotgun, fighting till the war's won, and I don't care if heaven won't take me back
Frail figure moved forth with predatory grace unfitting its stature, accompanied only by the click of hooves on natural stone. Long, angelic wings were held in tight, militaristic formation against pale sides. It was warm, for all that winter attempted to rob that from him, too. Cera had felt as if something inside of him had broken with the news of Midas' death. He wished to claim there was no love lost there, but it was too great a magnitude to ignore, a pain too sharp to deal with. He walked around as if razor blades were settled in his skin, shredding him further apart with every step he tried to take forward into the future. But in the desolation of this new world where he could not forgive and forget the sins of his father, Cera had found purpose.
It was a flimsy sort of purpose. A meager replacement for the soul he used to harbor. Once more his budding fire had been doused by fate, turned to a mere steaming coal, an ember at best. But he still moved onward, relying on the jobs he had as Forger and Throat denizen. There was not much else he could do but continue on. Each breath that kept him alive seemed harder to draw in, but he'd lived through everything the world had ever thrown at him. He would overcome this as well, though likely not nearly the same as he'd started. He'd started life already damaged, unwanted and cast away from a figure he had no recollection of. Each piece of his being was further shattered into slivers, and soon he would run out of substance to be broken apart. He'd simply be little grains of nothingness, incapable of being repaired one last time.
"Do you think they'll actually show up this time?" he murmured, stoic except for the undercurrent of bitterness and exasperation. Though he'd come into contact with Spice - a Dragon's Throat member - on his last patrol, the dames that had actually needed to be there had never shown. He was tired of their slacking, exhausted by how often he took up the mantle of their efforts in the herd. There was a set amount for him to fulfill, and yet Cera's plate often ended up far fuller than it was supposed to be. An unfair but undeniable fate.
Ilaria stirred from between his shoulder blades, a disgruntled noise emitting from her maw. Hopefully. If not, we can visit the Sun God alone. It was a promise that she knew would hit her darling where it mattered, get his mind out of the darkness eternally brewing inside his mind as of late. Though she suspected any normal soul would have lost faith in their gods by this time around, it seemed Cera had devoted himself even more to the Lord of Light. Perhaps it was a coping mechanism, or something deeper?
The cadence of hooves on stone slowed before the shattered, desolate shrine of his God. The militaristic form dissolved into a slumped figure, and he knelt gracelessly before the crumbled stones. A heaving sigh shook his frail frame, and he pressed his bare forehead to the ground in a moment of grief and solidarity. "Please give me strength, my Lord." It was all he could ask, drowned in the darkness as he was. For light, for sun. For guidance.
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Patrol thread but open to everyone! I'd love some drama
Curiosity was a slate: endless and untamed, wild and fluid, vacant and eager. He’d never managed to undo its hold over him, and craved the press, the indulgence, the whims, and the exploits of inquisition. When he shifted towards other lands, he wondered about their hopes and dreams (how easily they could be destroyed), when he wandered into other facets, into other species, into other shells and shackles, he wondered about their power (if he could defeat it one day). When he met cretins and sinners, paragons and angels, he watched, listened, and waited for what took shape, with folded over them, brutal and tender, bestial and warm – because what made one long for absolution, and another crave dissolution? As more queries built, as more crescendos ached, as more pendulums swung, he was amiss, gallivanting away from the voids and down into deeper gulleys, pondering the art of vengeance, the schemes of abhorrence, the layers of hate and the torrent of malice. The prince was never quite sure where he fit in the schemes, in the mischief, in the winsome, charitable sanctums, clawing his way through enigmas, mysteries, and generosity, feeding flames, fueling instigations, and piecing his way amidst the cool, empty embrace of Helovia. He searched for others, for friends, and rarely found one (did they look for him too? Were they in different directions? Did they scale different heights, circumvent other pathways, always parallel but never intersecting?), he fought and tore against sanctuaries and spells, and he sought out the true nature of potency, of power, and how far he could take it, how barbaric he could become. He had his mother’s stories and his father’s legends, scholar’s illuminations and his own observations: where it would all go, where it would all fall, where it would all take shape was too far into the unknown, but he searched for the answers anyway, beckoning closer and closer to woven threads and foreboding rituals. Erebos, shadow and might, devilry and chicanery, molded into the tides of the Gods with nothing in mind but inquiry and steel. He’d been here before, younger and foolish, dancing about the pools, staring into their bubbling, brewing convictions, watching a blind man guard and the faces of so many strangers beckon, chase, and deceive. Now, he hastened over the rime, along the bridge, across ancient stones and rubble with a stronger build, with growth and tenacity, with a certain defiance possessed by many in their juvenile years – soaked and doused by the devil, by the mischief of Mephistopheles, by the arch of his companion’s sway and the diabolical tilt to the earth. Where long, lanky limbs had lost control, his body now honored his years of chasing across meadows and maneuvering along fields, a coil of muscle, a spring and sprig of power, an immoral beginning to a childhood ending. But along the abyss, he was just as confused, weary, and shackled as he’d been prior; uncertain about what to say to those hailing from the heavens, from those who were truly otherworldly, from those who possessed every arch and lilt of power and domination. He couldn’t tell them he wanted and coveted for the way they moved, the way they commanded, influenced, and controlled. His eyes and ears flickered to another being, for he wasn’t alone in the art of prayer, a winged beast slumped towards a disheveled shrine – and something struck him as familiar. The infidel crossed over, closer and closer, slow and intricate, until his gaze connected with a fateful memory (wandering over the dunes, the sand, laughing with friends, lying through his teeth about callings and names and prospering duplicity over faithfulness) – and he was Ignatius again, a smile curling over his lips and a herald upon his tongue. Orsino laughed, pulsing by his heels, eyeing the other’s companion as Erebos fit himself with a keen mask and a wicked ploy. “Cera!” A whisper, sly and wily, broke over the reveries and the rapture. He hadn’t heard his gospel, his mutterings, and carved his way through the murk. “What are you praying for?”
This was the first time I had traveled to these lands, the Veins of the Gods, but I had heard that this was where the dedicated shrines were located. Truth be told, I had never sought a reason to go to the shrines, praying to a deity had never seemed to help me in my youth. Why should it make any difference now? I suppose I didn't have any room to judge my fate, nor could I possibly judge the Gods. I had been happily living within the Dragon's Throat for quite some time now, graced with the rank and purpose of a healer, and blessed by the fact that none had shunned me as in my youth. There really was nothing left for me to complain about in regards to my current life, despite how my emotions often found themselves spiraling out of control.
Perhaps I simply wasn't particularly religious? I was thankful for all the Sun god had done, but I usually spent my time trying to mind my own business without asking for interference. Yes, perhaps that was it. Or could it have been that I simply felt my problems, my desires, my hopes and dreams were far too minuscule, impressively pathetic, undoubtedly worthless to even consider speaking with the Lords and Lady of the Heavens in hopes of receiving some sort of consolation? What was I, but a mere speck, a singular grain in the sands of time? I had no business even being here, aside from my patrol orders given to me.
When the shrines began to form in the distance, I could just barely make out two figures. I wondered if these were the equines that I was required to continue my patrol with? Closing in the distance, one stallion of night towered over the slouched body of another, a stallion of the sun. My crown tilted to the side as I noticed the golden's body language, cautiously wandering past the dark unicorn to approach the pegasus and lowering my crown to his level. It was always a shame to see a stallion looking so...broken. Especially one that so fittingly looked like he would be an excellent representative for what a proper follower of the Sun should be. A rather adorable looking companion was with him, and I nodded respectively to the strange creature just in case she was protective over her slumped bonded. "Forgive my intrusion, but are you alright? Are you who I am supposed to patrol with? I am Morrigan..."
My scarlet eyes glanced up to the unicorn from underneath all of my hair before lifting up to my full height. He was impressive in his physique, with a coat like midnight tainted only by a unique marking upon his shoulder. Onyx points complimented the spiraled horn that actually made me feel slightly uneasy, knowing exactly how dangerous such a weapon could be. A companion was with him, though I had never seen one of it's kind before either. "To whom do I owe the pleasure of meeting?" I asked, trying not to come off as rude.
Cera I'm an angel with a shotgun, fighting till the war's won, and I don't care if heaven won't take me back
Rock and silt dug into the thin lengths of his forelegs where he knelt before the crumbled shrine in deep prayer. He lost track of minutes, hours, for that was how long he lay prostrate and fervently seeking guidance. Tears came and went, smearing his cheeks and drying in cycles. There was no awareness of time, or weather, or any other physical surroundings. He was drawn into his heart and his mind, and though he didn't truly expect to be approached by his Lord, his prayers finally seemed to have meaning and purpose in the Veins. Losing his Diviner fires had been heartbreaking, for it had been one of the only places he could go to in order to pray in silence and solitude. There was too great a chance to run into those he knew, and praying in any old place worked but did not feel special to him. It was devastating, and he'd felt a distinct disconnect with his Lord over the past few moons. That he'd been assigned the Veins to patrol was not a coincidence in his mind, but an act of Fate. So he took the chance to delve into his prayers and inner searchings, submitting himself to the whims and mercies of his Lord.
He didn't know how he looked to those around him, and as he'd not been anticipating anyone - in part because his patrol partners were always suspiciously absent - he didn't care to think about it. Didn't see the matted hair of his cheeks from his tears, or the pink-tinged white of his eyes should he open them. Wings spread wide like a fallen angel's last cosmic imprint on the world, he welcomed any guidance he could glean from the shattered stones of his Lord's magnificence. But he was not alone for long, and Ilaria had to probe deep into his mind to bring his attention away from his odes and fables to the present world once more. His knees ached like a much older stallion, and he shuffled awkwardly on deadened limbs back to his hooves. It was graceless and stumbling, eyes wide and innocent for a moment as they turned to take in the world before him, as if he was lost from the hours of divine intervention.
The figure he found was familiar, if a dusted memory in his library of experiences. Ignatius, Ilaria supplied promptly. "Ignatius," he breathed on tone too weary and broken for it to be familiar in the youngling's ears. Ah, what did he pray for? "Guidance," he said at first, eyes flickering towards the shattered shrine. "He has granted me a quest, but I have many questions to ask him when I return to his fold. He is my only light of late - well, that and the magic he bids me to seek in a more physical sense." A tired twist of lips in a facsimile of a smile, and they are interrupted once more.
Ah, so one of his partners actually deigned to arrive? He is both proud and relieved, but not in great measure either way. His heart is too tired to deliver any sort of fervent emotional response any longer. "No, miss, I am not alright. But I am the one you seek." There was no need to give his name if she had already been told to look for him. Cera was like a ghost, and he'd withdraw from her memory shortly enough. The pillar of the Throat, the Golden Prince, but as forgettable as a wandering spirit. Ah except perhaps she had not been given a name. Even more befitting of that metaphor, that nobody had deigned to even tell her who it was she needed to find. "Cera, and this is Ilaria," he motioned to Ilaria, who had curled up around his foremost ankle and was staring up at Ignatius with warm, familiar eyes.
Even as the sounds of another approached, the boy was Ignatius, all fine lines and strong limbs, not tucked into shadow and death and rain, but fire, granules of old coals and flashing embers, bestowing a simpler smile, a more fitting plunge into the legends of his grandfather – lying, pretending, honing a craft. He would’ve liked to ask about Cera’s companion again, filter any and all queries of how their bonds worked because his was so newfound and pristine, Orsino with the golden eyes and the manic’s grin flickering and deceitful; but only Erebos would have conjured such questions. Ignatius would’ve known anything and everything without trying, would’ve been informed and strong and determined despite any chance of ignorance, so he merely listened, pricking his ears towards Cera’s tones, towards the sway, towards the motives and ambitions of one tucked and nestled between the folds and clamors of Gods. Much like a disciple, he attempted to absorb the meanings behind the phrases, the notions of quests (he’d been given one too; so did that mean they much the same, and he was one step closer to becoming something or someone?), the gestures and pinnacles towards light. Erebos was made from darkness and water, and struggled fathoming the essence of virtue and devotion to anything but his own ambitions. Did Cera serve his deity? Or was there something more, something less, than what the lad understood? What direction or advice did he crave? Were the holy ones always eager to descend, ready to conduct instruction upon the mortals? Or was this mere preparation, a means to an end, purely purpose-driven poetics, gazing towards flowing lava and decrepit shrines, searching for comprehension and understanding when maybe there wasn’t any to be found? His gaze flicked, traced, over the foundations of rubble and ruin, over the veins that drove so many of them to harbor and harpoon these suggestions, these guidelines, and he wondered how many simply ignored them and lived their own lives, devoid of those granted gifts. He pondered over what happened to them, if they remained chiseled and firm in this life or the next, bleeding over the ramparts because they failed, because they triumphed. So he offered, moments later, slinking his head back towards the winged creature’s, drawing back over memories and poignancy, granting a warm gesture; maybe more Erebos, maybe less his grandsire. He couldn’t be certain. The matching grin, however, was all his. “I can help, if you’d like?” Then the other made their appearance, and the curious sheen of his stare had to be sliced back to a calm, regal indifference, even as he studied the unknown mare and her patchwork sheen of black and webbing, reminding him of spiders and their coveted threads. Was she a weaver, made in molds of Arachne? Were her eyes red to give warning, to give heed and credence towards her venomous gestures? But naught, even as she advanced, screamed toxins to him – no danger, no treachery, no overt potency – so he delved back into pretenses, back into masquerades, fitting his lies along his frame over and over again. “Ignatius,” he claimed with an easy smile and winsome demeanor, “and my companion, Stone.” To which he could almost feel his grandmother rolling over his temples, and Orsino hissing in scorn and distaste.
"It's a pleasure to meet all of you," I spoke calmly towards the unicorn and pegasus, though was nearly startled by a soft nudge to my back leg. How rude I had been to forget to introduce my own darling companion,and my bongo was clearly showing his displeasure as he urged me to introduce him as well. "My apologies, this is Pongo." Having finally given him his recognition, I felt the antelope's emotions begin to calm as he stepped closer to the one who had named himself Ignatius. Doe-like eyes stared up at the young stud for a moment before his attention shifted towards his companion, his large ears flopping as his head tilted to the side with curious interest. I could feel his sense of wonder, his need to know exactly what Stone was, but I had no answers for him.
My attentions returned to my herdmate, Cera, concern washing over me once more. "Is there anything I could do to help? I know I may not seem like much, but I am always willing to help out my...family." The very word almost stuttered in my mouth, having never before declared anyone of the Desert Throat as a family member before. We were a herd, yes. A protective clan, some friends and acquaintances. But this was the first time that I had accepted that any of those from the Throat, whether we were close or not, were a member of my family. It was not the same as the bond I had for my mother, nor was it the same bond that I felt for my birth herd (Sun God knows I wouldn't be here if that was the case), and it wasn't even a bond towards those like Bucephalus and Adornez. But it was a bond of sorts. On top of that unique bond was the fact that I was a healer and it was my duty to be sure that both physical and emotional health were top priority of all my Throat brothers and sisters.
10-19-2015, 12:45 AM (This post was last modified: 10-19-2015, 12:46 AM by Cera.)
Cera I'm an angel with a shotgun, fighting till the war's won, and I don't care if heaven won't take me back
A brief smile is startled onto Cera's drawn face at Morrigan's greetings, and the introduction of her companion. They are newly bonded, he can tell, for it is second nature to always introduce Ilaria to others. Then again, he'd been but a babe when they'd bonded, and they had grown together like a tree shoving stubbornly through a crack in concrete. Not meant to thrive there, but existing nonetheless. It was enchanting to see them so newly sewn together, and it made him faintly nostalgic for the old days when he and Ilaria were still learning each other. When they didn't know each other inside and out. He couldn't help pointing it out. "You're newly bonded?" Then he turned his eyes to Pongo with a smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Pongo." Then his eyes flicked back towards Morrigan. "I pray for many happy years for the four of you," he said softly, sincerely, gaze shifting to include Ignatius and Stone. Cera despised when others did not recognize Ilaria for the individual she was, hated that while he could not hate all bonds like Ampere that others did not have respect for the sanctity of them. That they still saw companions as just animals. Happily, at least, Ignatius also introduced his companion, and Cera felt more at ease. "Greetings to you as well, Stone."
Ignatius' offer was a surprise, and Cera turned wide eyes to the youth, hope trying to crowd in around the edges of his emerald stare. He hated asking, despised it, and while he wondered if that was exactly why this type of quest had been the one he'd been given, he had never expected Ignatius to actually have the magic he sought. "I...I would be indebted to you, Ignatius. If you could, I would be more than grateful. Thank you," he said, voice a little breathy, eyes alight with wonder. Perhaps good still existed in this world, no matter how the darkness attempted to swallow it.
An idea further supplemented by Morrigan, offering herself to Cera if he ever needed her, and though his face was bewildered it also clearly displayed the trembling appreciation that they were both trying to help him. "That you are so willing to help shows that you are something far more than you give yourself credit for," he said clearly, her 'may not seem like much' resounding in his head. "Grief and loss...they are not so easily healed, but thank you for offering," and it was not dismissive at all, Cera was far too sincere and humble an individual for that. In fact his tone was rather awed. He'd spent so long alone, that he could hardly fathom anyone actually noticing him again.
Face turned towards Ignatius, pitifully hopeful, awaiting the chance to get magic to prove himself to his family.
An act and a play, draped in ruffian’s garb and provocateur bluffs, taking anything and everything warranted and granted; the nonchalant lock of his gaze performed for fiery benefits and fringed efforts. He paid credence, gentle bobs and nods towards Morrigan and her Pongo (contorting and controlling his innate desires to lunge and study it and smirk, smile, grin, laugh), and Orsino, ruffled and irked, irritated and vengeful, simply stared at the other beast – twitching an ear, a tail, and his nose. The scion listened to her offers and bestowals, the notions of family and support, and allowed the smallest of grins to slip between his lips (because he knew about comrades, companions, and the sentiments of his bonds – how far he’d go for each and every one of them). Perhaps it was the same within the wide-open sands and the desolate ice caps, each so different, but so alike in turn, sometimes rash and harsh with one another, and then in the next moment, protective and abiding; he marveled at the snippets of information for seconds and instances, before putting it aside, a lingering thought for the future. His attention pulsed and riveted back towards Cera – and he nearly laughed, wicked and debauched, at the framework of his response. I would be indebted to you…more than grateful - the rites and shackles and tethers maneuvered and contorted around such words brought a sinful leer to his skull and a scalding blade to Orsino’s. A spark of inspiration, a notion of deliverance and contemplation - here, his stage had been set – for what, he couldn’t be sure, for the impending, foreshadowing bits and pieces of destiny, fate, and fortune were so scattered, so barren – but the chance, the opportunity, brought to him was more than enough. He was bold, he was intrepid, he was ignited and adventurous and eager for something to play into his hands, for power to be riddled and snarled and snagged in his grasp; it could be kindled here, in the amiable munitions of friendships and camaraderie, and used for deceitful whims later, later, later, plunging back into anarchy and apathy. He tilted his head, a wholesome regard, a perfect picture of innocence and intrigue, of flames borne from interest and curiosity, and not the incensed, fueled, content measures of damnation, corruption, and distortion. The boy lingered in this honorable, gallant space, a little more stalwart than his grandfather, blinking and chasing after the particular runes Cera sought: capable of granting power for power, inquiry for information. “What kind of magic do you need?”
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[O] Parricidal Redemption
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