"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.
A loosened stone slips suddenly out from beneath my right hind-hoof which causes a chain reaction that sends my bony back-end sliding uncontrollably down the way I’d come. The lean muscles in my front-end stiffen to act as a counterbalance and my lungs wheeze with breathless rasps in the fight against gravity. Even as this throat swells with fresh horror that sits mutely on my tongue…there is nothing to magically permit me to cry out for help should I fall. More stones follow in the mad scramble to follow, they dance merrily over the brim. Far below, the ridge is rabid with needles and cloaked in mist – there is little doubt that a tumble would hurt. The fear of dying…the revulsion of falling…terror herself digs those talons deep; she sings in my blood and quickens my breath to pant dryly. I strain for balance, the effort is a fervent bowstring pulled taunt.
Not like this!
These flanks are knotted, the violet flesh is sleek with sweat and mud; my perspiration is a mirror of the walkway which is coated with treacherous sludge from recent landslides. Baited seconds pass before some semblance of balance is restored and these numb, twig legs finally thaw enough to tremble in the absence of adrenaline. I-I’m still…alive. Minutes later, these clinched jaws unhitch and ears cautiously slip from their fixed position against my crown. Eventually, with something bordering insane determination, I press forward -- one slow step at a time.
The welcome warmth of an early morning sun burns my path into view and those low hanging clouds melt away as rays of sunlight filter through a grey, overcast sky. The sun is hot against my steaming, quivering side. When at last the path ends into a leveled section of land, putting more than a few feet of distance between myself and certain death… I find myself lacking the energy to continue, so I stop moving entirely to marvel at the miracle that I’d not broken a bone in the climb. My head drops wearily and frantic exhales slow. New scents curl across my flared nostrils, seemingly stronger now that my focus is shifted from that precarious ledge. Did I make it? Shivering (though not from the cold) -- hollowed, mismatched pools glance up; they note first the presence of a usual figure that took the shape of a horse, yet it appeared a lifeless monument, as cold as the stone I trod upon.
OC: Health isn’t great; she is malnourished and dirty.
They basked under the boughs of a thousand spring blossoms for a time, the fox and the nymph, breathing in the heady scent of Birdsong and its illustrious wake. Their eyes glanced back and forth beneath the heavenly fronds and the whimsical bouts of nature, dreaming in color and hindsight, in hues and foreshadowing, pressing down on the weight of burdens and cumbersome moments. The days were meant to be full of hopes and aspirations, but there had been too many ghosts, too many specters, too many wraiths filling up the blackened void; ash in their mouths, thieves in shadows. The Time Mender’s pools closed for the briefest of moments, imagining a world with no violence, no disaster, no ruin, imploring and beseeching providence and guidance, sagacity and wisdom, instead of endless tirades and crossing over thresholds of war. But she knew the depths of dreams; how easily they were skewered, harpooned, and destroyed – so before they scattered into a million pieces, she drew her gaze open again, gazing at the waxing sun and the gentle earth. Today shall be grand, she thought, because the push, the pull, the toils of her might, of her determination, deemed it so – and Imogen responded with a generous chirp, with a swelling, harpsichord venture lined in her chest. Together, they maneuvered off soil and wandered into winter’s greatest absence.
Her mind was immediately rendered into different segments – pondering over the nearing grandeur of Tallsun, herbs and supplies they’d need to pluck and gather before the incoming heat, the lush, tranquil embodiment of the lake glittering and glowing beside them…and before she could muster or descend to any of these tasks, a whirl of noise disturbed her movements. They both stopped, though the ivory kitsune ventured closer and closer to the sounds of ricocheting rocks, nearer and nearer towards the borders, where the menacing outline of the Sentinels breathed barbarity but couldn’t muster the ability. The Songbird collected herself – for a whole volley of thoughts poured through her mind, like a sieve, like a torrent, like a deluge. Was it a threat, tumbling down the mountainside? Was it a monster, come to prey upon their weak defenses? Was it a demon, eager to wreak havoc and consume them all? She followed her companion, because the vixen was still composed and she should’ve been too (strong, stalwart, valiant despite everything that had happened to her, determined to save her herd until the very last), and when Imogen poked her head over the archaic boulders, she knew the world was still safe.
Drawn to the flames, to the sounds, to the sights, the fairy ventured below the monolith’s wake, peeking over the ridge and path, until her gaze pinpointed solely on another figure (a strange bout of memories fixated on her then, like she’d seen this child, this femme, of such vivid hues before, mixed by smoke and flame and violets, lavenders, honeysuckles, and ice). Too malnourished, too weak, too fumbling and faltering to be a monster, the other femme seemed lost, shivering, begging for assistance in the midst of silence. Perhaps she required healing? Assuaging? A vigilant, bright, merry chirp flowed through her mouth, a brief melody, a sauntering, beatific ease. "Hello!" Then she began to make her way down to the other, eager to help, to defend, to trace and erase the armaments, the devastation, of ruin and abomination, tipping her way into malice and contortion, bravely proffering her only armor and shield. A graceful smile curled around her lips while Imogen watched from the embankment, extending one more barrage of geniality and guidance into the world. "Are you well? Would you like to come in?"
TO LET MY HEART BE MOVED, TO LAUGH FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY HEART, TO FIND MEANING IN EVERYDAY LIFE...
Zyanya quite liked to be near the Sentinel she named Milo. The massive metal statue presented a physical image of the safety she desperately wanted. The faint aureate and blue coat blends almost perfectly into the background of the snowdusted peaks. However, if one looked closely they might see the dainty figure of the girl laying quietly underneath the Sentinel, watching the world go by. Underneath the limbs of the giant, the pale mare rests. Her adventure to the outer lands drained her energy greatly, yet the girl couldn't say the travel was a waste. Having seen the Heavenly Fields, she carried a perfect imagine in her mind's eye. The green grass, the delicate petals of thousands of flowers. She smiles to herself.
When she first arrived in the forests here, Zya dreaded the sensation of being alone. Now, lazing underneath in the cool air of the Basin, the fragile girl is totally alone, yet the crippling sensation of loneliness does not set in. At some point in these past days, Zyanya found an inner peace with herself. Although the arduous journey pushed her out of the comforts of her home, separated her from her family, and nearly cost her head, the transformation undeniably began to take hold. A weak, spoilt girl cast into the world by herself grew... with a surprising pace. Now, at least alone with Milo, she is contented. As is typical of "content", it did not last.
The fumbling figure of a girl appears around the bend of the mountains. At first, Zyanya believed it to be nothing more than a trick of the mind. An emaciated figure, covered in dirt, dragged herself forward without recognition. Suddenly, she halts, as though the invisible force driving her forward lost all power. Dimly, the girls eyes peer straight up at Milo's face, likely not noticing the tiny bird of a unicorn perched underneath. Lilac eyes quietly observe this newcomer, who, were she not filthy and starved, would have been an image of beauty. The pelt below the grime held bright hues of violet, with tresses an electric blue. Zyanya finds jealousy while looking at the bright coat, having an understated pelt herself. The stranger appears docile and, more importantly, exhausted.
Perhaps, she needed help.
Zya glances from left to right, looking for the image of an adult - someone like Rexanna, with cunning eyes and children. When no such figure magically fabricates, the pallid girl realizes... she could help. Slowly, not wanting to frighten to poor girl, she lifts herself from the ground. As she begins stepping quietly from under the metal machine, another mare arrives on the scene.
Halting immediately, she takes in the new mare, obviously one of Zya's herdmates from the direction of her arrival. With her, a strange creature similar to a fox but with many tails. After meeting many different animals, the appearance of this creature no longer shocks her senses. Instead, the lilac hued eyes follow the gentle steps of the lady, whose voice rushes forward - more lovely than any spring day. Although not addressed by the greeting, the pale mare cannot help but forge a smile upon her lips, delighted at the sound of the femme's voice. The natural kindness of this chocolate lady emanated from every movement, every syllable, and Zyanya found herself approaching the pair.
Her steps slow, quiet, and the girl makes sure to keep her posture loose to avoid startling the ill looking mare. She halts a few feet from the bay mare, gaze drifting between the two faces. One sunken from hunger, the other bright like the sun. "May I help?" timidly she asks, her voice notably small.
06-21-2016, 06:53 PM (This post was last modified: 06-21-2016, 06:56 PM by Sielu.)
While attempting to catch my breath (and summon the drive to continue living,) I busy my attention by skimming those stationery joints. Though the awe of their intricacy can’t be fully appreciated by someone who has one of four feet in the grave. Shoveled sockets absently move on, spiritless, they stream the base of said beast as an afterthought – and when my gaze artlessly locks upon that immobile mound of extra limb and obscurity, this exhausted mind assumes the spare parts to be an artistic addition to said monument. Suddenly…it (those extra bits)…begin to move! I shy back as the second horse bends it's head from left to right. Blinking rapidly, (edging on the notion I’d finally gone insane,) my next breath snags in the back of my throat in response to the sudden lurch within my breast…what?! Panic flutters these hind toes to take a step in reverse, but only one, because the trail behind me is more frightening than it.
Nares broaden warily, releasing a held breath into the atmosphere while the folds of my neck fold inward. The fragrance of a living (breathing) creature is there, chiding me for being foolish. My momentary lapse into insanity is disproven, though these legs feel as numb as the iron holding that metallic creature upright. It…she (if my nose/eyes are to be trusted)…rises from the ground before I manage to gather myself and force this mind to process a higher level of thinking. Suddenly, another distraction yanks upon my frayed nerves as a voice rises above the whistling mountain wind. These two toned optics jerk over to behold the speaker and her vixen companion; all the while watchfully tracing her outward appearance, my attention sweeps between the three of them. Soon enough, their unarming presence is enough to displace any misgivings.
These matrons of the mountain weren’t going to drive me away.
Hazy pupils settle upon the caramel unicorn, noting her attentive expression. I’m further surprised by the knot that tightens in my belly, rising uncomfortably to warm my face. There was something about the brown mare that struck me as… Her supple voice and downy, unmarred curves. That indulgent face swims in my murky subconscious, I paddle those dark waters for a memory to mark her with – but the recollection has long since sunk. It lies at the bottom, corroding beyond recognition. I adhere in denial -- familiar, she was familiar to me.
The other individual, (who’d been lurking before,) sparked no such familiarity. Her pale figure was set upon shorter limbs, but her sleek lines are no less graceful and full. After swallowing a jittery lump in the back of my throat, I reach for my magic with fading strength. Silver fingers, unseen by all except me -- stretch for both unicorns and with affable care they attempt to arouse a channel between us. In this weakened state, it was certainly possible that unbidden fatigue would splash into the link. My negativity on all fronts ran the risk of becoming shared. Even as I solidify our connection, I wonder ruefully if these proud creatures would accept damaged cargo into their home. No...don't think like that. I force myself to return a smile, but it is brittle and false upon a face that is damp with sweat and drying clay. "I've been better," (none could doubt that,) my murmur is unwavering despite the shivers that spontaneously race down my spine. "Please," one foot rises from the pebbled soil, gesturing feebly to the area beyond them, "Is this…the Basin?"
Familiarity became a trail of ghosts marched between them, a flicker of memories, a fountain of images; but the Songbird couldn’t trace their finite grace, their limited potency, and they were lost to the wiles of days and seasons. She didn’t have a name, she didn’t have a greeting, and she didn’t have a calling to mark the face with any other form of recognition (except her colors, her physique, there was something eerily poignant there, resting amidst her eyes and her frame, as if she’d seen it all before). But they tugged so forcefully, so blatantly, that the femme had to shake her head for a moment, tucked and nestled in the branches and brambles of the unknown (an enigma, she knew, but perhaps one easily rendered, uncurled, uncoiled?). She still smiled, she still proffered, she still bestowed, and the haunting air twisted amongst itself, poised and composed, waiting for a sign, a hint, of what once was.
An ear flickered towards another newcomer – a stranger entirely – made of ivory, dulcet sheen and sheer, like regal swans or refined doves, proceeding with her own benedictions and alms. Lena’s grin tugged and grew, beautiful and beatific, reaching out towards the morning dew and the scattered sun, eager to have another in their midst that was willing, helpful, guiding, and kind (instead of bitter, instead of rancorous, instead of pulled into dungeons, oubliettes, and snares). "Of course!" She chirped back, a compassionate nod driven into the wind.
Then, a strange sensation trickled over her – like a connection, like a bond, forged between two minds. Her eyes immediately sought out Imogen’s, whose own brow had been arched, head tilted, confused and bewildered by a third bridging its way into their cranium. Yet, it seemed tired, lethargic, listless, struggling to leap, to bound, across the sanctions and sanctum. Instead of being afraid, for it was an odd circumstance to hear anyone else in her head except for Imogen’s quiet comments, the nymph listened, cool, composed, intrigued by the hows and whys of this magnificent transfer. Was it magic, enchanted and invoked to slide across fields and valleys, to connect without song, without sonnets, without a need for vocals? Was it a necessity? Was it a curse? The Mender didn’t ask any of these things, but the curiosity continued to grow, sparked, incensed, kindled by the strange happenings gliding and pervading through their souls. Besides, the other seemed frail, delicate, hoping to make it through their walls without falling apart at the seams; so she answered, turning her head back upon the battered femme, bestowing her mellifluous voice again, incapable of composing anything but arias and melodies. "Yes. Would you like to come inside? We could help you." She maneuvered herself to a more compliant position, rendering her left shoulder available for propping another’s frame up against it; strong and stalwart, valiant and steadfast – eyes searching, indicating, for the newcomer’s to perhaps go to the other side. Her gaze fluttered thereafter to the feeble stranger, still enshrined and anointed with a grin. "I'm Lena, a Time Mender here. Who are you?"
TO LET MY HEART BE MOVED, TO LAUGH FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY HEART, TO FIND MEANING IN EVERYDAY LIFE...
Much to the delight of Zyanya, the chocolate mare welcomes her with a bright smile. After her offer of aid is accepted, she stand a little confused on how to proceed. Never had Zya attempted to heal someone, or to shoulder their burdens. One of many experience in this new land she met with an anxious heart but honest spirit. Pastel eyes instead defer to the warm colored mare, who had seemingly taken charge with a gentle hand and soothing presence.
Then, something touches her mind. Startled, the pale mare's hoof stretches back uncertainly, never experiencing magic used upon her. For the first time in her short life, Zyanya becomes distinctly aware of her mind's presence. Almost like a living breathing creature, the essence of her becomes tied with another. The connection confuses and shocks her, leaving nothing but the timid emotions under the surface of her face from her side of the silver thread - if it received as well as sent. After a short snort escaping her delicately flared nostrils, though, her body begins to relax, getting used to the sensation of someone else sharing her mental space.
Who knew that thoughts existed in a mind with its own personal bubble? Certainly, before coming to Helovia, she never had.
The presence within her skull feels tired and worn, almost the exact image conjured by looking at the frail girl on the ground. Quizzical eyes search for the glossy, mismatched eyes of her company, silently asking - is it you who can do this? Touch the mind of others?
As if an answer to the unspoken questions, a voice small and tired in her mind rings, but the velveteen muzzle of the violet dame makes no movement. Uncertain, half doubting, but the evidence was there: a clear answer to the question posed by the russet cherub. Wonder and disbelief clearly paint the girl's dainty features, ever the open book for an observer. The stupified Zyanya is unable to formulate any coherent thoughts to be useful. This world was still so strange, so mystifying, that it left her breath caught in her chest and her eyes wide.
Fortunately, in her company, a presence as warming and sturdy as the sun above leads the conversation constructively. Lavender eyes are drawn to her, this angel garbed in earthen tones. Her shoulder exposes a site for support, eyes falling upon Zya's tiny frame. Despite feeling no new mental connection, the pale maiden feels the request silently held in those eyes. Half awake, dazed by the use of magic and the commanding presence of Lena, she stumbles to get in position, walking carefully next to the fatigued mare, falling into place and offering support from the opposite side. Pausing to allow the stranger to follow Lena's introduction, should she wish to give a name, a smile comes to rest on her lips.
Lena... the Time Doctor. A healer, she repeats to herself in her mind.
"I am Zyanya," the girl offers, her voice still tiny and quiet. "Are you... injured?" she asks shyly. Or just exhausted?
Crystal and dull silver irises flick cautiously between their kindly faces, searching for common signs of unease or surprise, but most importantly I’m watching for extreme displeasure. A clenched jaw here or the grinding of teeth there, shaking or trembling along a haunch and/or wither – all those little clues could mount into a dangerous situation. After living these two years in seclusion, my silent life has taught me to expect the possibility of a negative response…even to the point of sudden conflict. There are some (a rare few) who respond with anger born from the union of fear and rejection – those few didn’t appreciate having an extra voice suddenly creeping around their cranial space. Strangers could be worrisome (even angry) about things that appear to follow a different set of rules than they. From personal experience I’ve found that despite the plethora of magical creatures and oddities in Helovia – my ability is almost always greeted with shock. Luckily for me, neither of these two seem to be cut from a bad length of cloth.
The cushy brown one is the first to answer me. Yes, she readily confirms. Unlocking my optimism for that one small word which had been baiting my breath. It purchased the confirmation my ears desire and releases a tidal wave of pure delight to fly throughout my entire being. Amid my distraction the mental coupling weakens, fading from their subconscious entirely as immeasurable warmth travels the span of my breast, racing all the way down to these muddy, bone thin knees. The first small kindling of a true smile flickers amid the ash and disarray. I’ve arrived after all. This is my homeland, the northern kingdom of evergreen and snow cap mountains. A mix of awe and relief merges in rhythm with my thick pulse; a reaction so vibrant it could almost be tangible. I feel light headed and borderline giddy from it. Though fully dedicated to our conversation, my attention is momentarily stolen from them as I attempt to peer over their bodies, aspiring for a glimpse at whatever lay beyond. Quite suddenly these innards are famished…though not for food… for that whispered world living in my memories. It lay somewhere past that silent monument and twisted road behind us.
Her tender voice brings me back to our rocky path. Fatigue and a second wind has left me dazed, I glance over – noticing for the first time that the two had moved…beside me. They bravely risk coming in contact with that horrid stench of sweat and travel. Beneath this dirty shawl, I thought my trembling body feel their warmth radiating like beams of a bright summer sky, my flared nostrils widen to capture trace amounts of distant cedar and pine. I recreate a link with unsteady fingers, “I’d like that,” though my voice is steady -- these insides are quivering almost as much as my outsides and both are cracking the brittle clay that has encased me for weeks. My head shifts inward, regarding the question with gentle assurance, “Not hurt,” just tired, very tired. A jaded sigh forms in the back of my throat, releasing itself as a silent puff of air. “Lena,” I repeat, to increase the likelihood that my mind would preserve their names, “and Zyanya.” Words aren’t needed for them to feel my gratitude, my relief, “Call me, Sielu.”
Lena wondered if the name should have reverberated, resounded, paced all around her mind, searching and combing the webwork of memories stored there. To her disappointment, the Mender couldn’t recall the name (yet, the face…), but registered it thereafter as the girl in wispy flames and lavender plumes, who’d come to them exhausted, but not bent, not broken. A smile embarked across her lips again, tender and gentle, dulcet and kind, winking towards Zyanya (perhaps another bright star and spark resting in ivory, brought to the ice and snow to warm them all), before proceeding in bestowing her shoulder again. She pressed her strength, her broad shoulders (that held more than she could ever realize) into the girl’s tired limbs and fatigued frame, giving and granting, proffering and invoking, immersed in beatific arts and benevolent designs no matter the hour, the time, the place. And while she did so, staring out at the mountaintops and the glistening horizon, the promise of new days, the patchwork of clouds resting across pale peaks, she began to hum. It was a mellifluous tune, strung out of effortless arias and sweet sonnets, when hours weren’t lulled into savage minstrels, but cordial, beautiful strings, chords pervading with a graceful, elegant ease. The music curled, coiled, soothed as it thrummed along her throat and into the chilly air, incandescent and tranquil, a serene ditty and strain, encased in gilded bounties and vivid hallelujahs. While she lived up to her name, the Songbird, the maiden composed the hymn, the chirps, the trills, into an assuaging bliss, ensuring it fanned and floated along all three; blending healing qualities into muscles, marrow, blood, and joints, until everything moved and maneuvered seamlessly. Together, she presumed they could all arrive beneath the wake of the Sentinels and their soulless gazes, their protective stronghold (despite no enchantments, no invocations, no commands flowing through them).
While they proceeded, shifted, and progressed, her heart was a token of virtue and expression, beating ambience and compassion, flickering through the daunting haze of mysteries, enigmas, and a large, vast, desolate world opening before them. Her eyes, resting for a moment on Imogen as the white-tailed fox threaded her way in front of their forms, resided on the femme’s smoking tassels, bright, vivid hues striking out against the pale backdrop. "Is there anywhere you wish to go? Anyone you want to see?" Was there a purpose to her wandering, to her wayfaring, to embarking on a journey to end in only exhaustion? Why had she struck out whatever she’d known to become consumed amidst ice and frost, rime and glaciers? Was there family she had here, lost and forgotten, or waiting for her return? Were there pieces of memories she’d left behind, whittled and sculpted away when she’d taken her turn to disappear into another world? The fairy lifted her stare back to the wilderness spread out before them, the hills, the valleys, the dips and turns, the swells of snow and melting spheres, caverns and catacombs, secrets and daggers, slipping into silence and endless inquiries.
TO LET MY HEART BE MOVED, TO LAUGH FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY HEART, TO FIND MEANING IN EVERYDAY LIFE...
The shock and awe carries her still, unable to quite come to terms with the current reality. Zyanya's homeland existed as a land absent of magic. Unlike the exciting world of Helovia, the hills and valleys were quiet - except for the raging of the civil war currently enveloping the land. Still, the thrill of new experiences lifts the shy girl's spirit, hoping to one day learn more about the arcane arts held by so many here.
When the newcomer accepts Lena's offer to enter the Basin, the pallid maiden finds a smile on her face. Relief is evident in her posture, even as a quivering begins to loose dust and grime from her violet coat. Worry knits creases into Zya's brow, the concern for this girl overcoming the stupor of the magical grip on her mind. Leaning her body and face gently toward the mare, she begins to realize how disadvantaged she is by the height difference. The top of her shoulder barely reaching up to the bottom of the silent girl, but such is common here in Helovia. A land of giants, both in their fantastical powers and build.
Offering support but, perhaps more importantly, offering to share body warmth in the frozen land of the North, Zya keeps close. Whether the dirt sullies her pristine coat or not, she would not deny offering aid to this fragile mare. Besides, even for all her natural beauty, Zyanya had never been a vain creature.
Relief washes over the small, porcelain doll as the concern of an injury is laid to rest. Exhaustion, indeed, could be a very powerful opponent. Turning a mare of vibrancy into a dusty and dirty mongrel on a doorstep - the thought sends a small shiver down her spine. "Sielu," she repeats, a quiet voice matching her dainty appearance. Before they begin walking a sound, sublime to her senses, fills the silence in her mind. The tones are sweeter than honey, brighter than any sunshine, and create within her heart a deep peace.
Lavender eyes widen when she realizes where the chords originate from - the most lovely Lena, the Time Doctor.
The Songbird.
They walk, but Zya's head floats above in the clouds. To hold magic, she thinks, what an incredible thing it can be.
""
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