"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.
Find Oizys, guide her here. Ka’Ora had left some time ago, for master’s command had been clear.
He waits now, where moonlight bathes the purple thistles swathed before him, a sea of beautiful, prickling things. The chill is gone, mostly, and the sun had been bleeding a balmy light, a healing light, that soothed the aches and pains of the earth, allowing her to grow. Ka’Mate thrives; he is gone from master for now, gorging himself stupidly upon the endless litters of rodents, the armies of pink babes powerless against his onslaught. He has been feasting for days; he is growing fat, and sluggish. Master will have to fix that soon, this hedonistic lifestyle that stales the grand harpy’s potential; Ka’Mate is too much like Reginald in this instance, and Reginald hates him for it, for being a perfect representation of his soul.
He does not care now, however; the shadows are a deep, regal blue, the moonlight friendly and pristine, and the night calm velvet as he waits for the firstborn of his First Born. It does amaze him, thinking of his daughters and how angry he had been at the audacity of their birth, their daring to be born with a vagina (as though they had had a choice in the womb). He had spent his days as both a child and an adult daydreaming of greatness, planning and scheming for the day when they will now him as K I N G--and yet, somehow, it is a careless mistake that focuses him towards greater climbs, a whole new method, a possibility that is no longer a dream. His daughters. He had wanted them dead so quickly, so badly, and yet, as he stands there in the moonlit field, he realizes they could very well be his greatest accomplishment. If he remains focused, and all things go according to plan.
Oizys is his firstborn; he will call her first. He had never believed in the power or greatness of a twin’s bond, not really; he and Abraham are great only because they are great, and never, in all of Reginald’s life, has he felt himself so much more powerful, capable, with Abraham’s ivory shoulder by his side. Oizys and Enyo—yes, they were born together, and he can tell they shall complement each other greatly (he must plan). He does care for their bond as wombmates, however; they will be great on their own merits, and not by the shadow of the sister by their side. He will see them individually. They will receive their own lessons, their own assignments.
It is Ker who alerts her to the presence of a harpy.
The eaglet begins an ungodly cacophony of screams and squawks, staring up at the heavens with an expression of abject horror on her beaked face. She is still young and pathetic, small enough to be picked up and eaten by a larger, stronger bird, small enough to not yet be worthy of the term raptor. Although her grey downy feathers have given way to be replaced by adult brown ones, and although she is now capable of rudimentary flight, she is still a weak, weak little thing compared to the adult she will become. She is prey, because she has not yet earnt the right to be a predator.
With her mind full of "!!!!!" from Ker, Oizys lifts her head to the black heavens. Her scars ache and twitch at the sight of a harpy, but it does not take her long to realise that this is Good Harpy. This is not the one who ruined her face - this is the one who saved her. With a sharp stab of her mind, she quells her companion's protestations and bellows a greeting towards Ka'Ora. She follows the eagle gratefully, with half a mind to wait for Enyo first - but no, the harpy seems to have come for her and her alone.
Ker makes a valiant attempt to fly behind her, but her young wings aren't yet up for the challenge, so she nestles down on the gargoyle's broad hindquarters instead. The headlong running makes the Cough roar in the child's chest, and it pounds against the bars of the cage Oizys keeps it in. Never has it been more important for her to keep it down. She will not show her Weakness in front of Father. He would slay her for it.
Or so she believes. She cannot possibly know that it is probably him she inherited it from in the first place.
Finally, she sees him. There he is, in all his massive glory, and she is somewhat relieved to see that Bad Harpy is not with him. Oh, it makes her squirm to think that she feels fear, but she still has a soul, try as she might to smother it. She still has a heart, weak as it may be. And, thus, she still has real, equine feelings like fear, fear at the thought of the creature who caused her such agony.
She does not show her relief at Ka'Mate's absence, however. She does not dare.
Ker has never met Father before. She quivers slightly on her bonded's quarters, looking warily upwards at the harpy she will one day soar alongside, then towards the creature who sired her mind-partner. Unlike Oizys, Ker has not yet learnt to hide her fear, or any of her emotions for that matter. She shows everything the filly cannot, and she does it openly, brazenly. But at Oizys' forceful command, she ceases her quivering and tries to stand tall and strong, to demonstrate that she is worthy of being bonded to a child of the Basilisk.
Oizys looks at Father, and lowers her head in a nod of greeting. Respect is etched into every line of her body, but there's defiance, too. She gives him deference, but not outright submission. Respect, but not grovelling. There is a subtle, but important, difference. "Father." Is she allowed to call him that? She'll soon find out. "You sent for me." She tilts her tri-horned head in infantile curiosity, careful not to bend it in such a way that it may entice the Cough to rear its ugly head.
Ka’Ora is gentle; Ka’Ora loves. She croons to the child as her shadow guides the young thing through the night, making sure she makes it over the borders of the Edge, weaving her through the potential dangers of moonrise. She is encouraging, kind. She is reminded forcefully of the younger sister Macaria, her sweet, sweet little ‘Cari, and her breast swells proud and sad as she regards the child beneath her boldly facing the challenges of her father. Ka’Ora’s claws are sharp and ready to protect, should the occasion arise for her protection—but the trip is smooth, Ka’Mate is busy, and soon they see master himself framed by wreaths of moonlight in a familiar meadow of thistles. She alights on her master’s wither, her powerful wingbeats careful and quiet upon her master’s back. She regards Oizys with mild eyes, and awaits master’s appraisal.
Reginald turns to see his child; it is a foal he sees, of course, yet the undeniable swell of growth has graced her, giving her a chest too large, a face too heavy, hooves too wide and knees too bulbous for her frame. All of these things are good, for they are foundations of a large frame, and there must be time given for her to grow into it. She is sound.
As for her coat, it remains long and ugly with winter thickness—but she is not at fault for a course of nature. Neither is she at fault for the one white hoof that mars what would have otherwise been a perfect hide. Even and plain, her face and legs darkening into an acceptable gradient, her mane and tail appropriately dark and uniform, her eyes an interesting, welcome contrast to even out her features. He decides she is not ugly. To tar that white hoof would be an overreaction indeed; she is fine enough.
He studies the line of her back (oh yes, he does spot the eaglet on her rump, though he will get to that in due time) and the muscle there, the infantine muscle that ropes about her spine. His eyes spot her horns—growing into three wicked spears upon her brow. He notices how her tail grows, the girth that begins to swell in its growth, and he can imagine a great whip of a tail in due time. What he sees, in short, is the bud of a monster in all her glory standing before him, so short and small and helpless still before the harpy’s claws.
Father, she calls him. She presents herself.
He is pleased. So much more so after his visit up north, with his newest child, Bathsheba. He is pacified by the appearance of his eldest being so right, so according to his plot, fitting so ideally within the images of his grandest daydreams. It eases the disappointment of his northbound child; she saves the plot.
“Oizys,” he says by way of greeting. He regards her a moment longer, then turns his gaze back upon the field laid out before them, swathed in the shadow of night, in the light of the moon. He does not reveal his immense pleasure at the pitiful pile of feathers sitting across her back, something young, something familiar. He remembered how horrid and ugly his own harpies had been (Ka’Ora shifts at these thoughts), and yet look how they turned out: large, regal, vicious, obedient. He had not even commanded such a feat for his young daughters, and yet his eldest has surpassed his expectations so quickly, so young. She has found something with flight; she has found something with ferocity.
“What is its name?” he asks without turning around. Let’s see how she speaks to her Father.
She feels his gaze on her, and she knows that she must pass muster. She stands tall, careful to bulk out every muscle and display every sinew, to hold her head high and display the foundations of a strong neck, stout legs and wide, childbearing hindquarters. For a moment, she fears he will be able to see the Thing inside her; that he will sense her weakness like a snake senses fear, and that he will condemn her for it. There is nothing Father cannot do - it would not surprise the gargoyle if he could see her weak, pathetic little heart beating in an otherwise perfect chest, if he could detect that tiny, hideous flaw that plagues the young goddess.
But no, she cannot think like that. If he knew, she'd be dead already. She isn't, so he mustn't be aware - and she will do everything in her power to make sure he never is.
She shifts a fraction, to display the hideous scars that ripple across the right side of her face. They have largely healed now, but it is quite clear that hair will never grow across the ugly pink welts that run in crooked lines across her right eye. The eye itself is unhurt, but the skin around it will always be marred, imperfect. Father does not like imperfections, but surely he will allow her this, when he is the one who created it? For those agonising few minutes, he was the artist and she the canvas; his harpy was the paintbrush, engaving beautiful, deadly art onto the tender young face of his daughter. It is a sign of her strength, that she survived pain and bloodloss that would have crippled a weaker filly. Whenever she catches sight of her reflection and sees those scars, they remind her that she is only alive because he allowed it. That she was only given permission to take her first wobbling steps because Father said so, and that at any moment he might revoke her right to life and finish off what he started that day in the forest.
If that's not enough to make a daughter devoted to her father, then Oizys doesn't know what is.
He says her name back to her - thank the heavens Mother gave them good, strong names, names of goddesses, names of queens - and she dips her scarred head in acknowledgement of it. He turns away, then, and disappointment bubbles in her chest - it is quickly replaced by relief, because if he hadn't found her satisfactory, he's sure she would know by now. He asks Ker's name, then, and it is the eagle's turn to puff up importantly at being addressed by him. "Her name is Ker. It is a name out of Mother's mythology; the singular of Keres, female spirits of death." The gargoyle turns to eyeball her companion, hoping that one day she will live up to her name and be feared for the death she brings. She is not much now, but neither is Oizys - one day they will be.
"She is not a harpy, but her mother was quite magnificent." All brown and black feathers, savagely hooked beak and a delightful crest upon the head; ah, yes, the mother was beautiful, and high expectations rest upon Ker's quivering shoulders. She falls silent - she is itching to ask how old Father was when he found his harpies, but she does not want to forget herself and overstep her boundaries.