"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.
My escape to discover my magic had gotten me a good thrashing— and I held my tongue and let Mother's hooves strike solid against my ribs (that's what being a good child is all about). It became a grueling process to endure, a pitiful sight with my knees wobbling under the pressure of her weight against me. I had felt my body beginning to crumble as she screamed, spit stringing from her maw and splattering against the ground, stained red with me. All along the forest floor there had been my blood— my source of life— the divine liquid that kept me alive. Somewhere under the pounding of my ears I heard Mother's praises, her recognition of my taking of her abuse. I held fast to the panic as I watched crimson stain the earth, flattening my ears as she switched to insults and discipline at the sight of my unstable body. She forcefully brought me to the ground, screaming wretched things in my ears, weak, intolerable, insufferable, bastard— mistake. It all clung to me, shook me to the very core of my feeble existence. I felt as she had listed, weak, a mistake. I wanted comfort and promise of safety, I wanted Sabre to be safe too. I took her beatings, took her punishments— praying that one of us could achieve greatness in the eyes of our mother.
My disobedience brought an onslaught of disaster, my skin bruising and caked in my own blood— I was brought down to petty levels I had never thought of existing on. I did exactly what I'd been punished for— I ran.
I seem to be running more and more despite Mother's best efforts to keep me contained, panting and gasping I'd waited until the promise of a dark night to flee— waited until Mother's eyes closed and she fell into whatever cruel dreams she dreamed. I kissed Sabre's head gingerly, some brilliant show of affection in a time of great despair. Although our adventures lay scattered in ruins among our solo runs, we were still held strong together with a bond bound by blood. I turned towards the lip of the forest, where snow covered plains met frost kissed trees. I fled, frantic and vigorous— my mission was clear.
I ran through the snow with the bitter cold piercing my lungs and my steamy breathe curling from expanding nostrils. I'd never been out alone after dark, and no longer did I fear the things that went bump in the night— I had magic to wield that would keep me safe. Besides, whatever dared to threaten a king like me was stupid and stood no chance. I was a child born of gunslingers and warlords, bred for my battle prowess and agility I would be known across the land as something dangerous— a weapon to be feared, a master of pillage. I would spread fear like a plague, a destroyer of hope and bearer of misfortune, people would bow before me.
Mother could not tame me, she could try with all her might but never would she dim my high spirits, never would she deflate my titan ego. I was unrestrained disaster in the body of a boy, a wild storm of bullets and chaos harnessed under hide and flesh. As I grow, so does the destruction I bring. I am no good luck charm, no rabbit's foot or gold coin— I am the black cats you see streaking across your path, the broken mirrors and the ravens dancing over graves.
I'LL BE YOUR DAYDREAM, I'LL WEAR YOUR FAVOURITE THINGS
Get drunk on the good life, I'll take you to paradise
They were following Nymeria's face-thief.
It was self-absorbed—no, petty—of her to view the colt in such a way. Her brother had no control over the inheritance of his genetics when he fucked someone. She wouldn't have that sort of control either, if she ever chose to bear a foal... but the lack of control didn't change the resentment that coiled and seethed in her chest, the resentment that begged, demanded for release. She held it in; she swallowed it back; but whenever she saw those pink eyes and that mirror face she wanted to strip the skin from Kid's very bones.
He doesn't deserve my face, she'd complain to Lil. He'd grunt in noncommittal response. Sometimes she'd daydream out violent ideas, the sort her mother would be proud of.
Except she wouldn't act on her impulses. Not because she didn't want to—but because Kid (and Sabre) were family, despite her brother's shitty choices and the raging mother Colt always watching, always waiting. Nymeria would take care of her family. Under her guardianship, they would come to no harm.
As the saying went, blood ran thicker than water... although that only reminded her Volterra didn't know this part of his family existed. (She should probably tell Volterra. And yet for some reason she couldn't quite bring herself to actually ask him if he knew his one night stand resulted in twins and her being a fucking aunt with altogether more responsibility than she had asked for.)
The moon glowed on the snow, illuminating deep crescents left behind by Nymeria's nephew. Even if he hadn't been on a path which led to only one destination, it would've been easy to follow him.
Why are you following?
He's my nephew. It wasn't the answer her black was looking for (he wanted to know why she cared when she despised Kid and all he represented) but it was the only answer she bothered to give. In all honesty, Nymeria didn't quite know what drew her out on a night she could've easily let Kid run by. Family was important—that was true—but there was also something more to her nephew she couldn't quite describe. Maybe it was this vague recognition, or this understanding, that the bruises he'd wear on his skin she'd worn on hers too; and maybe she wanted to give him something other than what she suspected he might receive with Colt.
(Something she'd never really gotten herself.)
"Kid," Nymeria called, Lilómiel a fleeting shadow overhead. Red eyes lock down on pink (his face, his face, look at his ugly fucking face): "Why are you running away?"
I'd skidded to a halt at the eerie feeling of my hair standing on end— spine tingling and brain whirling as I comprehend the feeling of being watched. It's strange, a knotting of my gut and overdrive of my senses, I feel it before I can begin to understand it. Eyes, red and dangerous, watching, waiting. There's something familiar, yet so foreign to me, the way these eyes bore into me like I'm something infectious. I can almost feel the negativity oozing from my watcher, spilling from their pores like sweat (not a pleasant thought), it was something that tainted even I.
Finally the presence is known, voice a hushed but firm tone, feminine and chilling— yet I recognize it. In a hazy mash of reds, golds, greens and black— of blood and displacement, I recall this voice. And along with it glaring red eyes and a face like mine. Aunt Nymeria. My eyes shift to the moon soaked figure of the taller woman, face to face (haha) with the woman who shares blood with Volterra. She was lithe, tall and less compact than Mother. She is agility, delicacy and fragility with poisonous words and a shadow in the night. A whisper carried on a summer day, an unnoticed specter in the crowd— she was nothing like Mother.
Mother was a rampant tornado, taking up everything and anything. She was grey storm clouds and bellowing thunder— the lioness who prowled among the men like she'd always belonged. She was the simmering smoke of an overheated gun, a deadly explosive impatiently awaiting its turn to go off. She was dangerous in all the physical ways (as I've come to learn), in all the brutish ways that made her a well muscled emperor of a pitiful empire.
Why am I running? That's— that's a good question. I don't know. I just wantedneeded to get away from Mother for awhile— from the forest. It was dark and isolating, filled with too many memories and too many battles. From the sparkling ruby pool and its strange fruit tree, to the endless winding paths that crisscrossed and overlapped, that ended abruptly or didn't at all. In each tree there's some story, some scratch along the bark— some animal tracks wandering aimlessly through the shadows. There was no thrill, no mystery behind the tall pines or the wispy bushes, nothing at all. Once you'd been there long enough, you found that there was little entertainment provided among the undergrowth. Where Mother had been keeping us was stained red at her hands, tainted with harsh memories I had every intention of forgetting.
"I'm not running away— I'm just— running. Do I have to be running from something?" In truth perhaps I was running away, but that didn't mean I was going to immediately admit to it (really I don't think I ever will). It felt shameful, like I shouldn't be. Maybe my gut was right, maybe it was cowardly to flee for all but a fleeting moment from the nightmare that is my reality. But I needed this— this time to breathe in a place where Mother will not punish me for merely breathing without purpose, without reason.
I'LL BE YOUR DAYDREAM, I'LL WEAR YOUR FAVOURITE THINGS
Get drunk on the good life, I'll take you to paradise
The moon glowed off of the white of Kid’s face, the skull marking glowing brighter and brighter until it was the only thing left of him she could see. The rest of him was cast in shadow and dipped in darkness. Nymeria looked at him (carefully, almost enviously) seeing for what felt like the first time his bright pink eyes and his cold little face; how he’s grown, she thought, with a wretched sadness that didn’t belong alongside her disgust.
Then her gaze flicked down and away from his eyes to his body. It was not without some degree of malice that she examined the lines of his ribs and the sweat that glistened on his neck; but it was not a malice made for him. No, it was for whomever left those bruises, whomever left those cuts (she knew who did it, of course.) (She’d had her fair share of violence in her youth, and knew the sort who chose to do that to their children.)
If she could take the twins away—save them the pain she’d grown up with—would she?
You would, Lilómiel said with more than a hint of pride—but he, he was overestimating her. If she cared that much, she’d do something, instead of standing here in the dark and swallowing her disgust, both loving and hating her nephews so, so much.
None of it showed on her face (of course it didn’t); instead she tilted her head and swiveled her ears forward. I’m just—running, he said to her, his voice still shrill with his youth. Running? Of course he was running—running away, despite what he said. She wondered if he was afraid, like she had been (surely he was); or if he just wanted to dream of a different life for awhile, away from those who would consider dreaming a fool’s errand.
Nymeria felt as if she should offer Kid some form of comfort, but she wasn’t quite certain she knew how.
(Fuck Volterra! If only he hadn’t been laying about…)
The grullo shifted her weight, propping up a hind hoof and lowering her head, embodying casualness. “You know, Kid, if you ever need something… I’m here for you. Family first.” The words felt strange—wrong—given to someone other than Argen or Volterra, but she’d always been a good actor. They sounded as genuine, as honest, as they possibly could.
She hesitated; blinked; let her gaze dance away for a moment. Then she returned her red eyes to him, a faint smile quirking up the corners of her lips. He needs this. “And it’s okay to... run sometimes, Kid. I’ve done it before, and it doesn’t make me any weaker.”
I watched her closely, her status of the distant aunt not saving her from my hungry mind, itching to observe. Her eyes asses my face (face stealer), taking it all in as though just by looking she might be able to get her marking back. I almost want to grin at the fact that no longer is she an individual, that instead of I it is we. I assess her own appearance while she looked over mine, over the shadow dipped grullo figure she wore over a thickly built stature. She was nothing short of graceful, crafted with a brutish elegance I'd never before seen in anyone but her. She wore her cunning mind set like an accessory, tainting the air with it. I felt it, sinking under my skin and driving into my bones with eager force. It was vaguely familiar, similar in the way I'd felt the last time I'd encountered her. The same intelligent patience, waiting for an opening to slither into to bring forth absolute destruction.
We were silence, all eyes and consumption, taking in our shared appearances in quiet distaste. I felt compelled to giggle, to poke fun at her because she was going to be overthrown by this new generation, the generation I belonged to, the generation that would topple this world's peace and balance without hesitance. I wanted to parade about her hooves, to summon forth Sabre to join in our celebration of victory. We'd won the moment we were created, the moment the higher power granted us with the gift of existence.
Nymeria and I, we are far more similar than I would have liked, her varying shades and mine— we are monochrome royalty. Even our eyes reflected a similar callous darkness, hers far more deeper than mine, reflecting far worse than I had come to face. I was still young, still untouched by terrible realities unlike she— who had lived far longer than I had. She had braved worse trials, wept more tears and brought more terror than I, and I hated it.
Her head cocks to the side— confusion. Her ears swivel, fixated on me as I told her I was simply running. I felt defensive, paralyzed under the eyes of a calculating raven. I did not want her attention— even if it is all I crave— I do not want it now. Certainly not from her, who looks at me in such a way that I feel like my skin is flaking away, my secrets (or what little I have) are bubbling to the surface and whispering to her things I would not admit myself. I curse those eyes, those eyes that burrow beneath my flesh and make my skin crawl.
I watch with unwavering attention as she cocks one hip, letting a hoof hover over the ground while her neck goes slack— she appears at ease. Her face is almost the same height as mine, my eyes assessing her features, paying close attention to every twitch of every muscle, every hair shifting out of place. Her mouth opens, and I shift my ears forward to catch the word she speaks. There's but the smallest pause between her words, a hesitance so brief I could have let it pass. I look into her eyes, a soft, grateful smile the only form of acknowledgement given to her.
She hesitated again, longer this time. I reviewed the mirrored features, watching with intrigue as she blinked and continued. I wanted to believe her, wanted to accept that running away was no sign of weakness. But as I tried, Mother's voice whispered from the back of my mind, you're a coward, you'll amount to nothing by running from your problems. I didn't respond to Nymeria, not with any words. My head bobbed as I heard her speak, but that was all I gave to show I'd heard.
I look her over once more, settling my gaze to match hers before I let my request fly. "Will you tell me about Volterra?" It was a bold request— given that if Mother caught wind of it she would have my head— but I needed to hear more about the man shrouded in just as much (if not more) mystery than Nymeria. I sought to know his faults, his weaknesses, I wished to know him from the inside-out. I would be far more than he ever has, than he ever will be. I may never once meet him— but I will become far greater than he. I will strive to conquer all the kingdoms he has overlooked, perfect my techniques in ways he has never dreamed, and I will pillage all he has built up. Where he is powerful and strong, I will be twice as such. Where he is foolish and arrogant, I will never be.
I'LL BE YOUR DAYDREAM, I'LL WEAR YOUR FAVOURITE THINGS
Get drunk on the good life, I'll take you to paradise
I’ve given him too much.
No. Not enough.
Nymeria is uneasy—almost unhinged—by her honesty. What words she let past her lips—about family, about herself—don’t belong out in the open with Kid. They belong inside her, packed away in the furrows and crooks of her mind; they belong in the dark, not in the moon-washed clearing. The truth doesn’t come to her naturally (it never has) and this time is no exception, even if it is only her nephew privy to her aberrant words of wisdom.
When she tells him about her own cowardice, it leaves a sour taste behind in her mouth, and an absence in her heart. The absence aches—cries out—demands for a return of her admissions. (Do others always feel like this, telling the truth? How do they stand it?) She shouldn’t have said anything—she should’ve kept her mouth shut, like she’d wanted to.
And the colt (little bastard) doesn’t even bother to answer her. Instead, the shyest form of a smile twitches across his lips, a hazy and unappreciated gesture of acknowledgement. She should take that gratitude as a good sign—instead she thinks fuck you too Kid, and lets a warm smile flourish across her muzzle in answer. When he dips his head, Nymeria doesn’t bob her head in turn, but instead takes his bow in stride. She wishes he’d given her something more solid in return—a thank you, a I never knew that—but she takes what she gets (albeit unhappily.)
Her nephew didn’t know her. He must not realize quite what a sacrifice the truth was for her… surely not, for otherwise, otherwise, he’d be stammering out desperate ‘thank you’s and his little pink eyes would be showing whites with astonishment.
Kid’s eyes flicker over her body, and she shifts her weight, unimpressed by his examinations. His gaze reaches for her (she gives it to him, scarlet meeting rose) and she knows without doubt he’s going to ask something, ask something brave—she inclines forward slightly, one ear flicking back in a show of uncertainty, and then he fires. Instead of answering immediately, her face goes deadpan.
Volterra, she thinks with more than a hint of tartness—Volterra, how did it go wrong?
A long sigh for Kid’s benefit (show him how much that question means) and her gaze drifts upwards thoughtfully, following Lilómiel’s wheeling through the moonlit sky. The dragon doesn’t offer her help; she fumbles on her own for a suitable response. The colt’s question was hardly surprising (even if it’d caught her off-guard); of course he’d want to know about his elusive father. Nym couldn’t claim to share his curiosity—despite never knowing her own sire, she’d never had any interest in learning more about him. Instead, she’d been too busy raising herself in her mother’s absence.
Gods above, I am bitter tonight.
She blamed Kid.
Whatever the case, even on a good day a question like this didn’t come for free. Slowly, caustically, she levels her gaze at her nephew. Her smile’s gone—she’s all glowing bone and ash. One of her perfect brow cocks upwards. “Are you sure you want to know the answer Kid?” He will. And, honestly, there was nothing about Volterra that would actually be shameful. Volterra… Volterra… he’s a good stallion.
Except for causing this disaster standing before her. Except for not telling her.
She should take Kid. Shove the product of his fucking right in his fucking face.
The grullo sighs heavily, swishing her tail across her flanks. The movements are almost pitying. “I will tell you about him,” she said, “but you must know a question like that costs something in turn. So what will you tell me, nephew?”
03-16-2016, 05:22 PM (This post was last modified: 03-16-2016, 05:22 PM by Kid.
Edit Reason: forgot tag whoopsie
)
KID
She too exchanges a smile, something warm but— it feels anything but genuine. As much as I would like to (which means not much) trust that Aunt Nymeria's a fully genuine being, I feel that I cannot. She's too dark, too hidden behind her callous eyes and skull mask. My curiosity does not subside, is not fed by her presence— instead it grows and I strain to understand her inner workings. I seek every twitch of every muscle, every hesitation in her voice, the shift of her tone as she speaks. But they are a rarity that I cannot fathom, and that— that— makes me furious.
The air about her is quiet, still. Like the world holds its breath in wait for what more she will do, a walking mystery that it is eager to figure out. I too would like to solve this mystery, to unlock the key to such a reticent mind— in some ways I wished to achieve such glory as that, to be a riddle, an eternal question with no answer. A cryptic king, a ruler shrouded in secrecy.
Her weight shifts as I take another sweep over her body, our (near) identical markings catching me, halting my progress. Where the teeth of hers ran jagged all the way, I had a chance few canines protruding from the mask of white. She held age, grace and fragile silence upon her blank brow, and I— I had only arrogance and a big fat mouth (I'm in no shape to be king, not yet).
She doesn't answer right away— and when she does, it isn't the answer I'd hoped for. What I wanted was not what I got, exchanged unwillingly for a question on her behalf. Her smile has fled, replaced by a cocked brow of questioning. I straighten up, raise my chin and look at my sooty kin without fear, without regret in my tone. "Yes, I'm sure." I did not speak falsely, or with a quivering voice the way I had when I'd asked Mother about Volterra. No— I stood my ground and even as Nymeria questioned my motives and my confidence in this curiosity, I held still. I would not let anything she says deter me from learning about him, about what he's done (more like who he's done, am I right?), what he has failed to accomplish. If he is a prideful man or one who is content on staying hushed, if he is a warlord or a preacher of peace.
She sighs as her tail swipes along her flank, my eyes darting to the movement and then to the exhale of air from her lips. I swished my tail in response, my insides buzzing as I tried to maintain my stillness. I felt muscles in my shoulders twitch with unease at the lack of movement, jittery and itching for something more than this state of uncomfortable still. This is almost as bad as my meeting with that mare— the one who told me her birth was a necessary event (I didn't like her, she was full of it). "Well, what would you like to know?"
03-18-2016, 09:27 PM (This post was last modified: 03-18-2016, 09:27 PM by Nymeria.)
I'LL BE YOUR DAYDREAM, I'LL WEAR YOUR FAVOURITE THINGS
Get drunk on the good life, I'll take you to paradise
Kid watches her with a tedious scrupulousness, like a barn owl circling a field, head tilting to catch the scratchings of a mouse. What is he looking for? There was nothing for him to find—nothing for him to decipher. For her, living a life made up of lies, even the scarcest twitch of an ear was a calculated ploy—and she lived such a life among adults, among men and women, not small boys whose balls have yet to drop. To Kid she delivers a new smile, a quirk of her lips directed as his acuity, a sharp and dreadful warning where the crafted kindness of her face ebbed away. Beneath that mask (her mask) was revealed a tantalizing glint of true nature, a hardened and caustic jab at Kid's bravado. The meaning was clear: you're out of your league.
So many smiles, so many of them fake.
Lilómiel laughed, her stinginess, at her denial—the fact that she let her face drop at all spoke volumes about the nature of Kid and her. Those volumes did not indicate the hate and the rage that pulsed through her when she thought of Volterra fucking Colt transferring to the twins.
He speaks again. This time, he straightens, his little chin lifting and his ruinous eyes without fear (that'd get him killed someday); yes, I'm sure. Of course he'd be certain (otherwise he wouldn't be asking that question.) Nymeria's lips twist wryly, not into a smile but into a smirk, and she looked upwards to her dragon. The black chirped, stretching his wings and cruising out on a wider trajectory—prepared to watch for anyone who might be so rude to disrupt her and her nephew's evening. (She still hated his face, but she didn't hate his guts anymore.)
A sigh. A sweep of her tail along her flank. The snow glistening in starlight, and the starlight glistening in Kid's eyes.
(Would she be doomed to fall to him one day? Be overtaken by the younger generation?)
What would you like to know? Again one of her brows rise in a mocking arc, and she snorts, just violently enough to get the point across. “I didn't ask for you to reflect my question back at me,” she said, patient and nonchalant. "I asked you to tell me something. So tell me. A secret, a lie, a truth—whatever you want. And if it's worth Volterra, I'll tell you about Volterra. If not... you'll have to try again." She pauses, and then she chides him with a laugh (gentle and friendly and bouncing) and a wink.
I search even though there's nothing there for me, even though her face is callous and unmoving. She keeps unbelievably still, yet my eyes stay trained to her face (the face that I stole), seeking something that wasn't there— that maybe never would be. Yet I did not falter, bubblegum eyes stayed on the ivory mask even when there was nothing for her to react to, nothing for her to say or do that could appease to my need. A corner of her lip twitched, instantaneously drawing forth my attention. There I saw something, something dark and hidden— something well guarded, kept behind a red and ivory lock where no one could get it. It was dreadfully quiet and terrifying, inspiring fear in the deepest crevices of my conscious as I gazed into it. It brought hopelessness, seeded it into the roots of my pride and let it flower there.
I swallowed harshly while my mind recovered from the darkness that had shrouded it, eyes shifting to the world beyond Nymeria. I contemplated there what my plan was, whether I was to continue to look past her— or meet her eyes and face what I'd run from. I shifted my focus, sights set on the bloodied gaze of my aunt, wondering what she hid behind that cold gaze. What more was there to her, other than these lax features that I'd so greedily stolen? What else could I find if I prodded deeper, if I stood my ground and pushed through these walls? But no, I couldn't. I was still too weak, too feeble for this mighty task. So I wait in the quiet, I wait and wait.
I was confident in my question, so undeniably sure that it was what I desired to know. And it was, but at what cost would I find my answers? Already Nymeria tried to deter me from this knowledge, pushing me from my path in hopes I would stay off, that I would trod the route she wanted me to rather than so boldly jump right back to where I was. My confidence did not waver, even as she teased me with a smirk— a smirk that signified how much of a child I was, that I was not being taken seriously. I felt my body tense, a reaction to the anger spreading from this reaction, almost trembling with rage at Nymeria, who looked down at me.
This fury was momentarily forgotten as I watch where her eyes go, peering up at the dragon that circles over our heads, wings spread and obsidian body shimmering in an enticing way, holding my attention. I watched for as long as I could before my neck began to cry out in protest, my attention averted back to the grulla before me. "What's your dragon's name?" I ask her, genuinely curious as to what she's dubbed the winged reptile.
Repeat of the flank swish, the sigh— my eyes are caught up in watching the black tresses wrap over her flank that I almost miss her words. Cotton candy eyes get wider as my thoughts stop in their tracks, clicking and shuddering as I try to register what she'd said. I had to tell her something equal in worth to information about Volterra. Somewhere my gears started shifting, coming back to life at too fast a pace— what do I tell her?
I have little time to react to what I'm saying, letting it spew out in a river of rushed syllables, running faster than I can filter them. Perhaps I should've thought this through, rather than opening my mouth and letting go whatever came to mind. It was out of character for me to so blatantly state things without going over them first, and I knew as soon as I spoke that I would regret it all. "I met this big raven-pegasus-equine-unicorn lady and she seemed reaaallly interested in Volterra's relationship with my mother—" I was of course referring to the girl who preached her necessary existence and was subtly infatuated with Volterra and his status, which seemed so strange. My little brain can't fit all the pieces together yet (because let's face it, I'm an idiot), but I knew there must be some reason she had been so surprised to know I was his bastard child (that I don't even think he knows about). "And I met this pretty boy that I wanted to impress— but I think he was a unicorn and mother hates them and I'm supposed to too— but he was very pretty!" I'm panicking, spilling information, venting and overflowing with all these things I've kept in over the past few weeks. "Mother likes Sabre better than she does me, because I'm smaller, weaker and I like to explore." I feel the sting of all her strikes against my back and ribs, shuddering at the memories of steel grey hooves bluntly thrumming against my sides.
I look up at Nymeria, suddenly concerned what she'll think about all that I'd said, whether she'll register my panic or assume I'm simply a tattle tale. I'd spoken all secrets, all truths about things that have occurred. I only hope she won't spread these words, that she won't find Mother or Volterra and tattle on me.
03-24-2016, 04:16 PM (This post was last modified: 03-24-2016, 05:38 PM by Nymeria.)
I'LL BE YOUR DAYDREAM, I'LL WEAR YOUR FAVOURITE THINGS
Get drunk on the good life, I'll take you to paradise
It was satisfying to see her nephew's fear, even more satisfying to see his eyes flee from hers—she was both surprised and disgusted at her own ecstatic joy, a nebulous happiness that sought escape from the cathedral of her skin. If this is what Confutatis felt, Nymeria thought, her heartstrings strained with guilt, it is not so surprising she lived for carnage. Seeing Kid's eyes dart to and fro, watching the bob of his throat; it ignited a primal, awful part of her, a part her mother had worked hard to impart on her. She should stifle her inheritance, nip it in the bud (where was the guilt she'd felt in her heart again?) Instead she revelled, luxuriated, in being able to strike fear into someone (anyone) even if he was only a colt.
Just wait until the day I can do that to full-grown stallions and mares.
She attempted to ride out the highs of her own sadistic pleasure, but clearly she did not do so well—it was this joy was that caused the quirk of her smirk, which carried with it a hint of misplaced glee. It was this reckless urge to manipulate and control and twist Kid's every thought, every feeling, that brought her gaze towards her dragon and made her carry out their silence to the fullest extent.
His name. Nymeria lowered her head, nostrils flaring as she heaved a deep sigh. She didn't remember why she'd chosen Lilómiel for Lilómiel anymore; the purpose to his name had failed as he aged and took on his own story. But Kid had not asked for a story, for an explanation, and so she shared openly: “Lilómiel.”
Once Lil had wanted his name to be known by everybody; now, he never objected to a lack of introduction (for that she was thankful. It was easier for him to go unnoticed.)
When she reprimanded Colt for his openness, she hadn't expected him to panic. There was a glint of white to his eyes—and what a beautiful color his irises were, come to think of it, the color of a summer sunset—and then his words began spilling out like the floodgates to the sea had been opened. Nymeria watched him, her features at first sharp and unreadable, and then a faint incredulousness washed over her fair white bones.
"Stop," she commanded, her voice like the kiss of a seabreeze on sweaty skin. But he was very pretty, Kid interjected. Instead of interrupting again, Nym waited for him to fall silent (he was running out of air anyways.)
(Even her well-timed stop had not shaken her ear; she listened to her nephew's every word, and tucked each vowel and consonant tidily away.)
"Stop." Nymeria looked at him, and swept in close to him, disregarding his personal space, disregarding her aloofness. Her head lowered; she brushed her lips gently over his forehead, pulling teasingly at his forelock. Then she stepped back, but staying in far closer proximity. "Be careful with what you share, Kid," she chided. "I am family, but everything has a price. Everyone has a price, even your twin sister. What information you decide to give away, and what you keep, could impact your future."
There's something tender in her expression now (is it real? Is it fake?) For a long moment she watches him, hoping he'll understand, and then she feeds to him what he's been looking for. (Take a moment to digest that sentence.)
"I'll start with what you know, which is likely little. Volterra is my brother—but not just a brother. A twin. We were born together, raised together for much of our life. Whereas I have always specialized in... planning, espionage if you will, he is a warrior. He doesn't hide his emotion; he wears his heart out in the open. And he—he is like an open flame. He can ruin and burn, but when the nights are cold he is both bright and warm." (It hurts talking about Volterra. It hurts so much.) "Volterra has not one but two dragons. One, a mighty gold queen; the other, a red, no less mighty for his color or gender. He... he is loyal, protective, but prone to close-mindedness, and foolishly stubborn."
She shakes her head, sadly, mockingly. "Is that enough? Or do you need more?"
I eye the dragon in the sky, the fading figure of pitch dark slipping beyond my line of sight, blurring into nothingness as I stood by Nymeria and watched. Lilómiel. That is the flighted reptiles name, but it's a name I do not know the origins of, a language I do not know. "What does it mean?" Perhaps I should have held my tongue, silently nodding in recognition of the title rather than pushing for more answers, to which she may demand more secrets.
My words spill, my dam of secrecy cracking and crumbling beneath the pressures of my words. Even as Nymeria speaks, saying only to stop, my words do not. It's like she tried to plaster a bandaid to my overflowing dam in attempt to stop it, to keep the water and secrets from crashing over the concrete wall that has held them in for so long (really like 3 months). I ignore the first warning, but as the second comes tumbling gracefully from her lips, my lungs are already empty and my secrets are out. She steps forward, elegant and gentle— affectionate almost. Her head lowers, lips grasping my forelock, tenderly kissing my brow— I stand in stunned silence.
I'd never expected anything like this from the woman before me— the aunt whose face I wrongfully took. In fact, I wanted to apologize for doing so, even if I knew it wasn't my fault, if anything it was Volterra's. He brought such a trait to my appearance, ripping from his sister her identity— all with a quick thrust. It wasn't my place to apologize for something I couldn't control, for something a horny Volterra crafted during his fruitful release (damn the unlucky sperm).
I nod my head to Nymeria's words, swallowing the dense syllables that she brings to me, still lingering within a close proximity as she speaks. "Yes, ma'am." I take note of her sentences, her chiding lessons directed at me and my frantic inability to stay calm under pressure (there was no pressure, I say this to make myself feel better). Inside I'm scolding myself for my irrational spewing of secrets and locked up thoughts— wishing I'd been smarter and crafted a lie rather than faltering and telling three truths and no lie.
With a softer expression she grants me the information I so hastily desired, eager ears eating up each syllable and sound with controlled excitement. Volterra and Nymeria were twins, born in the same hour as Sabre and I were. He is stubborn and full of emotion (as I am), but a warrior and a loyal man, whose companions are not one but two— red and gold. I sought not to be so open, so freely expressive in the way Nymeria was not, and although I dreamed a child's dream— where I could be a powerful king, I knew well in my heart that not only did I want battles and unimaginable strength, but espionage and cunning (like Aunt Nym). So how, how do I achieve both? I'll start by asking Nymeria if it is even possible (small steps, Kid, small steps). "Can I be a warrior like Volterra, but a spy like you too?"
I'LL BE YOUR DAYDREAM, I'LL WEAR YOUR FAVOURITE THINGS
Get drunk on the good life, I'll take you to paradise
(Of course he would ask. That would be just her luck.) Nymeria let out a low, slightly pained sigh, letting her red irises settle back down on Kid’s pink ones. Why don’t you come down, Lil? The dragon flexed his primaries—and then, with a muffled whoosh, swooped down, hooked claws extended as he came in for a landing. Others (her brother included) always wanted bright, big, beautiful dragons—but she’d come to realize that even her small black was heavy enough to warrant a grunt of exertion and a shifting of her balance. A gold, weighing far more than Lilómiel, would be rather heavier than was necessary.
Claws met scarred skin and the black squirmed into place on her shoulders, wings rustling a mournful tune. “I don’t remember anymore,” she admitted. “I found him when I was only a few days old. Now… now his name is truly his own. It doesn’t mean blood or bruises, but my dragon, black and feathered.”
Her movement forward is perhaps unwarranted (what has he done to warrant her affection, after all? What has he done to squirm his way deeper into her heart?) Except she does it anyway, ignoring the obligations and symbolism behind such a gift. As she’d told him, family sticks together, especially her family. The way he’d spoken of Colt, of Sabre—it stung at her.
No mother should pick favorites, but thankfully she was not a mother. If she wanted Kid to be her darling, nobody would be the wiser for it.
Yes ma’am, he said to her, and a ghost of a smile plays around her mouth. How strange it feels to be called that, when in reality she hardly felt full-grown herself. She didn’t belong in that position of respect, even if she did love it—even if she wanted it with an ache that ground itself through her every bone. “No ma’am,” she scolded carefully, almost lovingly. “Aunt, if you want, or Nymeria—but I’m not a ma’am, Kid. I’m not that old.”
The conversation shifts away from Volterra and back to him, and she looks at Kid thoughtfully, head tilting as if she were sizing him up. “Of course,” she said. “It wouldn’t be easy, but it’s possible, and you wouldn’t be as good in both as a horse who specializes in one or the other… but you could do it.”
And the dragon comes, a whirl of obsidian feathers roosting upon the engraved withers of my aunt, no less intimidating even though he was certainly not the biggest of dragons. He could still do his deal his damage with slight of hand— his size did not matter for that. Lilómiel rests permanently upon my aunt's rugged shoulders, signs of his previous roosting littering her stone grey back— multitudes of scattered scarring marking the resting place of his talons.
I nod my head solemnly at the forgotten meaning of the black dragon's title, that it was no longer something she had given to him, but something he had claimed as his own— that his name meant what he so wished, and nothing in her power could change that, even if it was she who named him. And what does my name mean? Depending on the context there is a variety of things, a child, a young goat, or a joke. "Can my name be my own?" I ask, almost pleading in the sense that I do not want my name to be associated with something that I am not, that it is only a temporary state of being that I will soon abandon for adulthood (a stage I would much rather be at now than later). Never do I want for my name to mean nothing— or something I do not want. I want to make it my own as Lilómiel has, to redefine it for myself, to forget its old meaning and make it anew it with my own.
She corrects me, scolding in a not at all harsh tone— something less negative, something forgiving. She is not old enough to be called such, that Aunt or Nymeria is a better term to refer to her as, that she is too young for such titles of respect. My ivory masked head bobs in understanding, eyes flicking over her figure closely— she certainly wasn't old, not worn and hunched with age, but she wasn't Mother either. Mother was at her prime, her peak maturity in which her body was fittest, her mind sharpest, and temper worst.
"I will try my hardest to best them all— even if I have two areas of expertise this will not deter me." I speak valiantly, confidence dripping gingerly from my proclamation. This will not make me stray from these two paths, that I will manage to excel in both and prove everyone with their specific skills that I have achieved the impossible because I am willing. My determination to be better (something I was born with that my ever expanding ego only feeds into) compels me to learn carefully and devote myself to these things at an early stage— a head start."Will you teach me to be a good spy?" I ask her then, wondering if she will ask more information of me, information I do not have.
I'LL BE YOUR DAYDREAM, I'LL WEAR YOUR FAVOURITE THINGS
Get drunk on the good life, I'll take you to paradise
The boy nodded his head, his face small and serious—Nymeria watched him and bit back a laugh. When she had followed him, both scornful and self-pitying, she hadn’t expected herself to so rapidly warm to him, for her barriers to crumble and fall in a matter of minutes rather than hours. She had expected to look at him, to hate and despair and dream of easier times—but she had been wrong.
Life would only continue to get more complicated as she wove together her strands of power, a weaving that would result in a tapestry of a kingdom. Kid… he was part of this, and who was she to deny him his place in her world based on bitter judgment?
Nymeria flicked an ear, shifting her weight uncomfortably beneath the boy’s scrutiny. Looking at him, thin and delicate and bruised and battered… she didn’t know if he could or would shed the connotations of his name. Perhaps when he was older that would change; perhaps, one day, Kid would not be a nickname for nephews and nieces but a word of respect and fear. The boy’s mother, after all, was a well-oiled war machine, scarred with age and battle; she was no doubt capable of raising him as a warrior, a conqueror. And yet… looking at him… did mother ever doubt Volterra and I? Or did she always know what we would grow up to be?
How much do parents really change you anyways?
“I don’t know,” she admitted to him. “But I don’t see why not.”
Lilómiel shifted on her withers, trailing his primaries across her shoulders. She could feel his disapproval reverberating through her mind’s labyrinthine thoughts. It’s not a lie, she told the dragon. It’s not as if we guaranteed it to him.
She wondered then, the sharpness of her own thought almost painful, what she would think of Kid if she weren’t her, if she were someone—anyone—else. In the throes of her imagination it was not a pleasant idea; because he was born and bred a monster, just as she had been, and whatever he did would undoubtedly be connected back to her. Or at least to her, if not backwards. That face of his wasn’t just a reflection of her mother and herself; it was a liability that had never crossed her mind.
You’ll have to watch him. Guide him.
I don’t know Lil. Wouldn’t it be easier to just… be off with him? (She knew that was an idiotic idea. Of course she did. Mostly because he was her blood and she wasn’t that callous.) Except then she doesn’t have to bring up mentorship or apprenticeship because he does it on his own, and she decides it was meant to be. And for that she gives Kid a fond smile and hides away her laugh. “Of course I will. But first I’ll need to talk to your mom.”
For a moment longer she looks at him; and then carefully, with the caution one displays around a wild but harmless animal likely to flee, she circles around him, drawing up to his flank so her hip is by his.
“We can do that tomorrow,” she tells him, her mouth close to his ear. “Tonight… tonight why don’t you sleep? I’ll watch over you.”
Her ear flickered, catching my eyes as her weight shifts and her eyes run over my body— coasting past my bruises and bump, over the scarring tissue that blossoms over my sooty back. I blink, taking in the idea that perhaps the etching on my skin was not a normal thing, that children did not receive beatings and maternal damnation for their existences. That I was the odd one, the estranged son of a power hungry woman. I itched to ask Nymeria if the destruction and reconstruction of a child often included the demolition of their physical being— but I held this especially close. Perhaps it was a sign of inferiority, of weakness. So I kept quiet, worrying my lip and wondering if Nymeria would even have the answer to my question (she wasn't an all knowing goddess, as much as I wished she was).
I knew then from Nymeria's confirmation that I was to redefine my name, to throw away the half-assed thought Mother put behind naming me (the runt, the kid)— that I would disregard whatever meanings others thought of when they heard it (boy, child, a term for youth)— and recreate it with my own hands. I would shape it as I wished, would conquer and rule and bring about a new meaning to Kid. Others would quake and quiver at the mention, knowing well the title of their king, of the fear and respect that flourished through their bones as my name slipped between their hushed syllables.
That would be only the beginning— I would make sure my presence sent chills down my enemy's spine, that with each step the earth trembled beneath me, that I was revered as a god among men. And so it shall be. I shall become more than just a king, more than a well endowed warlord— I shall be more— with my greed I will take what power I seek and not stop there, I will take more. Nothing mortal nor immortal will stop me from fulfilled the wishes of my mother, of my grandfather— and of myself. I will surpass Volterra, Mother— I will rise above every single warlord whose blood flows through my veins. And so it shall be.
My question should have been expected, a power hungry child first needed a source of power, of knowledge and skill to be passed from mentor to apprentice. Nymeria seems amused at this request, a smile beaming from shaded lips as she looks down upon me— a fondness that perhaps had not been there at the beginning of this night. It had flourished over every passing minute she settled in my presence, soothing the wild rage and pushing aside the indictment of thievery (though it could not be settled— I cannot give her back this skull of mine, it is now ours to bear).
Ivory brows furrow as she says Mother's blessing is required before I can learn the secrets and twisted knowledge of espionage, before my lips can weave lies and my emotions can remain hidden behind my skeletal mask. I make a prolonged groan of disapproval, knowing Mother well enough that she would need serious persuading to even let Nymeria see me again. "But what will happen if she says no?" I fret, trying not to let it show. This fondness did not go just one way— it flowed two. In me, it blossomed as respect and admiration— not forced the way it was with Mother— but truly something I had willingly gotten into, for the first time realizing that maybe this is what it was like to have a normal familial bond— not fear out of respect and admiration only for the strong-willed and stubborn minded mother who raised me firmly.
But even my worry of Mother's rejection could not keep the grin off of my pointed features, hooves erratically dancing with excitement at the idea of learning by Nymeria's side— from her steady guidance I would flourish into something this world has never seen. I will become that which I dream of now, and I will become something greater than just "that king" or "that conqueror". I will be more.
She cautiously takes to my side, hip to hip with me as her words become hushed and my shoulders droop. Nymeria leans close to my wavering ear, promising that tomorrow we shall propose to Mother the idea of me becoming an apprentice beneath Nymeria— and for now sleep away what little remains of tonight. So I nod my head, looking down at the ground with half-lidded eyes and letting out a mighty yawn. "Tomorrow— okay." It wasn't until she mentioned sleep that my body began to settle, that my fatigue consumed me and my knees buckled instinctively. I set down onto the ground, trusting entirely that Nymeria would watch over me as I slept and keep me safe from anything creeping in the night.
@Nymeria, dunno if you wanna post once more or call it the end
I'LL BE YOUR DAYDREAM, I'LL WEAR YOUR FAVOURITE THINGS
Get drunk on the good life, I'll take you to paradise
The boy groans, and Nymeria laughs, a fond smile flickering across across the corners of her lips. She looked at him (her nephew, her boy) and couldn't quite believe her good fortune. Lilómiel shifted, muttered, displeased with her discourse, but Nym ignored him in favor of family. It was easier now to look past unfortunate similarities—easier to see Kid for what he was, a boy lost and alone.
“Leave that to me to worry about,” Nymeria told him, firm but gentle. It hadn't crossed her mind that Colt might say no—they were family, after all, and Nym (for all her faults) was reliable enough... but she supposed that Kid had a point. Colt had never warmed to her, which was part of the reason she hadn't spent time with her nephew and niece near as frequently as she should. It was uncomfortable, talking and playing, when Colt watched with gunpowder eyes and an angry mouth. Except here Nymeria would draw the line: because no one, not Colt, not even her own twin brother, could prevent her from doing what Kid had asked her to.
Volterra might not be take care of his "mistakes", but Nymeria would shoulder his responsibility (even if reluctantly.)
She's thinking about this as she comes around to Kid; she's still thinking about this as the boy's legs bend and he curls on the ground, beneath her feet. Looking down at him (breath rising and falling deeply as he slides into sleep) she thinks, fiercely and angrily, that her brother wasn't just doing what was wrong, but was missing out an invaluable experience that couldn't be repeated.
His loss, she tells herself (but she hates Volterra a little more for it anyway.)
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