"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.
Fog like this is strange to Imani, but he thinks he can get used to it. It is ethereal and eerie and he likes it. Strange for someone from the plains, used to wide open spaces. It's just after dawn and the play of the early sun's light in the silver fog has turned the Edge into an extension of the dream world.
It's beautiful. He's never seen anything so lovely, not in all his life. One day the novelty of it might wear thin but for the moment he revels in it. He picks his way carefully, nose close to the ground to watch the placement of his hooves. The rattle of bones marks every step but the sound seems oddly muffled. He is not comfortable here yet- he does not know the land well. Yet, he manages to maneuver his way into a clump of deep, dense woods where the fog takes on a darker tone, and it is here that the striped Dorobian halts.
With hard hooves he scuffs away the litter to bare a patch of dirt. With one hoof he draws a few quick lines- an arched curve like a crescent moon with rays striking inward. To one who knew the animal, they might see the great mane of a striped hyena in the simple, primitive drawing. It is a symbol, not art. It does not need to be more than that. Next he scrapes a few sinuous curves that suggest a lion in repose. Then he closes his eyes and lowers his head, ears nestled back against his skull as he tunes out the sounds of the forest and focuses inward.
He listens to his own heart beat, slow and steady. It reverberates in his chest like a drum, joined by the gentle rush of breath is it fills his lungs, pauses for a moment, then empties. It's a familiar, comforting music and some days that's all he listens to. The only outside sound that he registers is the gentle click of bones as they shift against his shoulder with every breath, and that is a sound as familiar as the beating of his heart. He pushes it aside, quiets his body and mind, and hopes as he always does that the spirit he reaches for will hear him. Sometimes, the words are silent but today with the mist pressing around he feels on the cusp of the spirit world, as though he whom he seeks could walk near and speak to him.
"Mewnye." The name is said like a word of power. "Njia ya muda mrefu kutoka Dorobo, mwalimu. Sijawahi hii mbali na nyumbani."
His voice breaks a little, cracking to show a hint of the uncertain youth that still lurks deep in him, near his bones. He is groundless. Even though he has been accepted into the World's Edge, even though he holds some small rank as a Philosopher, he does not yet know what his place truly is. No one here comes seeking his help- he is a stranger. They have not known him from birth. He has not educated their children. He has not interpreted their dreams and tended the wounds of their souls. He struggles in the silence to put together the words.
"Nifanyeje, Mwenye?" This time the name is a plea, a prayer. "Sijui kama mimi walihitaji." 'Or wanted' hangs on the end of the sentence, unsaid but palpable. His odd eyes open, peering into the grey fog around him, letting the world back in. It doesn't feel real for a moment. He can just make out the dark shapes of tree trunks looming close. The mist swirls and for a moment he can almost see the shape of a stallion, long in body and powerful but stiff with age. Then the fog changes and the image is gone. The front of his muzzle wrinkles a bit and he snorts. The spirits are quiet here. They are drowned out, perhaps, by foreign soil and foreign gods. They may not even know how to find their way.
He stamps and the bones on his shoulder jangle discordantly. It's pleasing to his ears though, and something about the rattle lessens the tension in his shoulders and along his spine. Perhaps the spirits do not know that there are Dorobians here. If he keeps trying, then perhaps they will find the way. Also, he must learn, he decides, of the nature of Helovia. He does not know it's ways, it's history, it's gods. Ignorance is not armor, it is an obstacle. He'd best remember that before he let himself wallow too much in pity.
"Change is eternal," he murmurs, the meaning of the phrase familiar even if the words in Helovia's common tongue are not.
OOC:// @Mauja I hope you can work with this XD
Translation:
I am a long way from Dorobo, teacher.
I have never been this far from home.
What do I do, Mwenye?
I do not know if I am needed.
Google translated, so if anyone reading this actually knows Swahili, I'm sorry.
but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams
Once upon a time, a tall, pearly white unicorn stallion came to the lands known as the World's Edge. His mind was a fortress, and his heart was a dark and lonely place. Ambition ran through his veins rather than blood. He dreamed, big and dark dreams, of a glorious, blood-steeped future. And one day, the God of the Moon descended from the heavens, and placed upon his brow her crown, and thus, the one known as the Frostheart became King of the World's Edge.
Parts of his life would make for good stories—but the whole of it? No. What kind of story featured a villain who turned nice all on his own? Or, if it meant that he was supposed to be a misled hero, what kind of hero just tripped facefirst into a deep, dark puddle and then stayed down? Was he just missing his sidekick, some quirky fellow who was supposed to drag him back up on his feet and then they'd go off together to save—or conquer—the world?
So—if there was one thing to be certain of, it was this: real lives in their full, unaltered truth, did not make good stories.
He snorted, white breath mingling with the fog. Getting old certainly had its downsides, and among them was the sheer amount of things you had gone through. He could probably spend hours just thinking back on his life, reflecting on useless shit, having some revelations and connecting events in a way which had previously eluded him, but.. why? He could get lost in his own past, and thinking about it—how he had changed, how far he had come—made him uncomfortable at times. The difference in him now, to when he was three, five, six.. it was stark. It was almost like he had become someone else, time and time again, yet they all wore the same black-spotted skin. And all those Maujas which had been before, where had they gone? And the Mauja he was now, where would it go?
Who would he become?
Like shedding skins, but he shed values, morals, beliefs. And what made up a person, anyway? Their mannerisms, traits, creed..? But all of those could be changed—was there anything within which would not change? Which couldn't be changed?
What made him Mauja? Was it just the spots on his white coat, the frost on his horn, the blue of his eyes?
He didn't know. He didn't have the single, slightest clue what made him, him, or who he even was. He was a blizzard, a gentle snowfall, sunlight and blood—a storm, ever-changing, a river, ever-flowing. He was going too fast, too fast, thundering past without being able to stop, or even notice what was going on around him.
A sigh drifted lazily from his dark nostrils, and his lips twitched as the fog made his whiskers heavy with droplets. It was the kind of stupid thing he could think about for forever, and sadly, he had forever to think about it, too. Maybe that was what he would do when he grew tired of being alive? Go into stasis, and meditate on his past life and all the philosophical questions of the world. Stay like that for a few centuries. Perhaps some kindly God (hah) could freeze him over, so he'd be nothing but an oddity, a landmark, a statue of unmelting ice?
The fog swirled about his legs as he moved, ghosting deeper into the darkest parts of the land. He had walked these paths so many times, drifted between the ancient trunks, gone where his feet had taken him—ran into a future in which so few of his past had made it.
And then—the outline of a horse in the fog caught his attention. Without noticing it he had drifted closer, a pale wraith there in the shadows, blue eyes focusing on the stranger. He was short, sturdy, fuzzy, striped in a way Mauja had never really seen before. Pausing, still half-concealed by fog, he simply stood there and watched, wondering who the bone-clad stranger was.
(Wondering, when his herd had become strangers.)
[ @Imani | I asked Sarah "how do I start this post?" and she said "Once upon a time", so.. :P ]
He shakes his head so the thick, striped mess of his mane flops about and cool air can slip beneath the strands to play along his neck. Then it settles again, except for the bones warmed to the temperature of his body. He hardly feels them anymore. They're him. He scuffs a hoof over the symbols in the dirt- they've given him no guidance today. Perhaps he will try again on a clear day, or at night beneath the full moon. A sacrifice of blood might suffice to lure them out.
His mind is caught up in planning, resting on the familiar rituals in such an unfamiliar place despite his resolution to seek knowledge. He catches an equine shape out of the corner of his blue eye and his head turns a little, expecting it to disappear into the mist the moment he tries to focus on it.
It doesn't.
He stops then, odd eyes focused on the spotted stranger. At first he isn't sure what to do. How long has he been there?. At first he feels as though his privacy has been invaded in a way he is distinctly not used to. He is used to being avoided unless someone is in need. Still, that's no reason to stand here like a startled gazelle. He gathers his composure and offers the ghost-stallion a small smile, intimidated by his size. After all, Imani is used to being smaller than his fellows.
"Hello there, I don't think we've met?" His voice makes it a question, coaxing. He knows they haven't met (he's good at remembering faces and he certainly hasn't seen anyone spotted like that yet). It's more of an excuse, trying to draw him out. If he is not a new member of the herd than perhaps Imani can learn from him. It would be good to find out something of the history of this place. Or really, anything that he would be willing to share.
Watching him, Imani starts to wonder if perhaps he isn't really after all. There's something almost unreal about the white stallion, like he's practically fading into the mist already. Strangely enough it's the things he carries that seem to solidify the fact that he is an earthly being.
OOC:// @Mauja ^.^ No table, short, blah. Trying to get this out quick while I have time. Sorry!
but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams
The reason he hadn't called out, or otherwise made himself known, was simple: he had no idea what to say. 'Hello'? Maybe. Could work. But then what? Besides, the stranger had seemed busy with something, like he wasn't just drifting along, but actively doing something, thinking about something, and Mauja knew how unpleasant it was to be interrupted in your work.
He also knew how unpleasant it was to be doing something and then realize someone had been watching you, but he began to remember that only too late, as the stranger's expression shifted into one of startled surprise. Mauja blinked, slowly, seemingly merging with the fog for a moment as his clear blue eyes were hidden by white lids. Just because he felt like a wraith, a slip of history walking, it didn't mean that he was. To everyone else, this herd, the other herds, everyone, he was real. Solid. A living, thinking, breathing, bleeding creature.
But what did they know? his heart whispered in despair, frustration, hopelessness. What did they know of growing old? Of existing without purpose?
His eyes opened again, and the small, scruffy-looking stallion had composed his features. Their breaths, wet white in the moist air, gave them away as alive, though it felt more like the world had fallen away and time paused. It was the fog, he decided absently. It had a way of making things seem less than real, and a way of making you feel like you were hidden when in truth, you were in plain sight. Not knowing how to interact for the sake of interaction wasn't an excuse to stare at people, and even though the stallion had clearly seen him the desire to melt back into the foggy depths was strong. To say nothing, to fade into the mist, the pale gray blurring the borders of his white body and erasing the boundaries between this world and the next as he slipped away—
"Hello there, I don't think we've met?" Spoken like someone who knew where he was, who knew the herd, as if Mauja was the cautious newcomer; as if Mauja was a shy ghost?
Long legs, ending in striped, frosted hooves, brought him closer, until he finally stood before the striped male—and, belatedly he realized that he was perhaps a tad too close. Still silent, his neck arched and his head dipped. The tip of his horn sheared through the air until it hovered somewhere above Imani's head between his own spiraled horns, and Mauja's eyes were focused, sharp even, but not unkind. Another heartbeat of silence passed as he tried to make sense of the conflict within him; part of him wanted to lower his voice to a rasping rumble, to pretend to be a fucking ghost, or some sage, or.. something equally stupid.
In the end, he sighed, but he did not move from his position. "I think you're right," he finally said, quietly, his voice its usual light and gentle self. "I don't think we have." And somehow, without meaning to, he sounded so utterly sad about it.
[ Sorry for the gross wait. Life kicked my brain pretty hard. @Imani ]
The smaller stallion's hooves stayed steadfastly rooted to the ground as the near silent wraith moved towards him and he had a belated moment to wonder if he'd made a mistake and truly invited a spirit into his company. Well, it wasn't as if he could do worse than he had up to this point. So he stays, body relaxed, poised with a confidence and stoicism that is one part performance and one part sheer bull-headed stubborness.
The glass spiral horn the most beautiful horn he's ever seen lowers and his only response is a slight curve of the neck that brings his own long, striped horns up. It's not a threat, only an instinctive posturing in response to something that feels like a show of intimidation. He will not be intimidated. He is not a warrior, but neither is he a child who flees from ghosts.
This close, he knows as certainly as he can that the other is real. He can smell him, practically feel his breath. In some ways, that almost makes the stranger more intimidating rather than less. Imani has reason to fear warriors, even if he is not inclined to show it. They learned, eventually, that he did not make good sport.
Then the stranger speaks, and any sense of caution that lingers in his bones. The spotted stallion's voice makes his chest ache and he wonders what puts the sadness there. He keeps a gentle expression in place and warns himself against pressing. It would not do to pry, not without invitation.
"It is not surprising as I'm new here. I am Imani." He gives a slightly, soft laugh, his voice low and easy. "Have you been here long? I feel as though I know so little about who is who and what is what."
A small chuckle at his own loss follows. For some reason he feels like he must be careful around this one, though he can't decide if it is because he appears like he could be dangerous or fragile. Perhaps both. There is something a little off that Imani wishes he could figure out. His muzzle tips up slightly now, so he can look the other in the face despite their height difference. His double horns arch back in graceful curves, thin and almost delicate in comparison to his stocky build. His dark tipped ears both train on this other member of his new (to him) herd in an attitude of attentive curiosity.
but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams
As always, his thoughts turned to the past—what I've been, who I was, all I had, and all I never dared. And as always, the memory is like a lash, a sting settling just beside his spine and laying into him, a sharp reminder of all he had lost. When he found no peace with himself, he always looked over his shoulder at the shadows of himself, and said, you were better then.
But for all his self-loathing, for all the barbs he whispered at himself, he still did not know any other way to be; any way out of this. No matter the way he hounded and terrorized himself with his short-comings, he still stood there, awkward but graceful, unsure of what to do.
For someone who needed purpose, he was certainly good at avoiding having one.
"It is not surprising as I'm new here. I am Imani." Slowly, Mauja rocked back, freeing the length of his frosty horn from between Imani's. His hooves shuffled on the moss before he settled again, this time at a distance he thought was more—appropriate. "I am Mauja," he replied, breath steaming into the air. The fog muffled the sounds, made it seem less-than-real, and while laughter might be considered a thing of reality and mortals, it sounded too soft somehow. He glanced away, at the sturdy pine trees, at the grayness hung between them, and the way the horizon was hazy, muddled, lost.
".. I have been here a while," he finally said, lamely, as if he could've said something else, so much more—he could've said he had been here a long, long time, and in a sense, it would've been true. Count the years and it was no more than three and a half, give or take a season, but more and more he began to suspect that his soul had belonged to the Edge from the start nearly seven years ago—and, bitterly admitted, to the Moon. No matter how he at times loathed her, how he disagreed with her, how her arrogance rankled and her self-confidence was infuriating—he was hers, for more reason than a scythe and a fragile promise of unending life.
"Where do you come from?" Black-rimmed ears flicked in the direction of the striped stallion, blue eyes returning to him, focusing upon him and only him, as if the power of his gaze could compel him to tell all his secrets and never ask for any of Mauja's.
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