"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.
07-02-2016, 08:43 AM (This post was last modified: 07-06-2016, 09:54 AM by Albrecht.
Edit Reason: Burp.
)
Everything hurts, a lot. The old stallion grunts through clenched teeth, moving in an unnatural mix of hobbling in the front and shambling in the rear, trying to avoid placing too much weight on his left front leg while also trying to step as gingerly as possible with his hind end. He compromises with the two halves of his body by taking several shortened steps with his hind feet before hopping forward onto his right front, left forehoof touching the ground but non-weight bearing, creating an odd and obviously painful gait. He’s also forced to halt after every few minutes of movement to catch his breath in shallow gasps, the bruising across his left ribcage limiting his air intake with sudden jabs of pain any time he attempts to inhale fully.
Sweat glosses his dull coat like a lacquer, catching the evening light and emphasizing the already angular planes and points of his malnourished body. Glazed eyes stare down at the valley of the Basin, wheezing breaths invisible for once in the mild temperatures of birdsong. It’s getting late, and he’s only just reached the territory’s threshold, falsely guarded by the shadows of their decrepit sentinels. Head low, he calculates the remaining distance to the hot springs, to his personal cubby hole in the foot of the mountains, and knows that it’s too far. Just getting here was trial enough. His flanks quiver with exhaustion and a dangerous light headedness is beginning to dim his awareness of the world around him. Did the ground used to sway so much? He’s sure that he’s standing still, but the sensation of movement slips across his sides as if he were staggering… or maybe he is. He isn’t sure, but at least the entrance to the valley is downhill.
He stumbles a few hundred feet forward, then ducks to the west of the main path and into a copse of trees. The ground is soft and springy beneath his brittle hooves, something his aching joints would appreciate if it wasn’t amplifying his already comically diminished sense of balance and body control. He lists heavily to one side, eyes widening in panic as his body refuses to right itself, and crumples to the ground in a barely controlled fall. The layered litter of moss and pine needles softens his landing, so it’s with a relieved sigh and not the high pitched whimper that’s been trapped in his throat for the last several hours, that he comes to rest among the trees, broken, but blessedly whole.
Eyes closing, he makes an effort to slowly relax each painfully bunched muscle until he’s lying flat out on his right side, the flap of almost disconnected hide that should have hidden the battered, naked flesh of his left shoulder folded back against the base of his neck to leave the wound open and gaping wide to the canopy of branches above. He reaches down to smooth the flap back to its intended place, smearing a fresh band of red across his muzzle as he does, then rests his cheek against the solid comfort of the earth.
His thoughts quiet, overwhelmed by the urge to sleep and let all the unpleasant sensations of the day just slip away. The last semi-coherant thought to claw its way out of his mind before it shuts down is the need for a healer, but he’s only met one of them that he knows of - the salt water and seaweed mare, Tiamat - and he has no idea where she lives or any means of getting there, to even get out of this small depression in the ground between two trees. A low rumble of a nicker crosses his lips, slurred and wordless, barely audible. To who it’s addressed he doesn’t know, and doesn’t care anymore, as the darkness rises up and over his consciousness.
OOC // Just got his ass beat by Rikyn. Injuries: Severe muscle cramping in his hind end, an open wound to the point of his left shoulder with a hair-line fracture to the head of his left humerus bone, swelling and bruising across his left ribcage. @Johnny first please and then a healer would be niiiiiiice. <3
So I thought my day was improving when I wandered through the trees and spotted a familiar face. And not just a familiar one - but one I rather enjoyed the company of. “Albrecht!!!” I call out cheerfully toward our resident grump, assuming that he was just snoozing beneath the trees and with Jellybean straddling my back we come tromping noisily through the brush to get to him. Only, as we get closer we realize with a shuddering thought that this wasn’t just a peaceful little nap beneath the trees. I thought he was dead at first glance, the blood and wounds absolutely bleaching all of the happiness and joy right out of me and leaving me cold. “AL!” This never-spoken-before nickname rips out of me just as I notice that he was indeed breathing.
Well that’s good, but just how long he’s going to stay like that seems to be anybody’s guess.
“Jellybean has gone to find some help!” She looks at me, appalled at the suggestion of moving, but my tone seemed to have at least sort of gotten through to her and I bombard her with images of who to get - one of the healers, it didn’t matter which one. Whoever she could find first. So my pink and white fuzzball of a companion flutters down to the ground and half hops, half runs, half flies on her way to find someone. She’s already forgotten who I tell her to get, but she’ll pester the first one she sees until she gets the help she needs. Already I can hear her screeching as she moves, demanding that everyone pay attention to her.
Meanwhile, I’m at an absolute loss as to what to do. I don’t have healing powers. I’m made of candy and I can chill the air and make cloth and stuff but that’s about it. Well, maybe the cloth would help? I dig around in my bag to hastily grab out some wool and fluff. It’s not super clean but I don’t know it’s something? That wound on his shoulder makes me want to vomit and I can’t even physically do that. With a mouthful of the stuff I move so that I’m standing near Albrecht’s back and neck - out of striking distance of his hooves if he doesn’t appreciate my help - and I gingerly reach out to place the wad of soft material on that nasty looking wound.
I don’t know anything about needing pressure even though when I step back I realize that piling wool on top of a wound probably isn’t going to help at all. It looks like a blood-soaked topping to a sundae instead but, as I've said before, I don't know.
07-06-2016, 12:53 PM (This post was last modified: 07-06-2016, 12:54 PM by Zyanya.)
TO LET MY HEART BE MOVED, TO LAUGH FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY HEART, TO FIND MEANING IN EVERYDAY LIFE...
AL!
The call echoes, and Zyanya fumbles forward, her lavender eyes looking for the source of yelling in what would have been a very calm day in the Basin. Her eyes catch on the short, full body of a stallion painted white and red. From this distance, it is impossible to tell, but Zyanya could swear he is shorter than she is. The concern billows from his body, attracting her to move forward and find out what he was so upset about.
A blur of movement rushes by her head, a flash of white and feathers, but the griffin does not stop. After all, she is not a healer, and the pale colors of her coat often blend in with the surroundings of the Basin. Cool and crisp on the bottom with glimmers of sunlight on the snow.
Trotting easily over to a copse of trees, the pale eyes catch on the crumpled figure of a stallion amid the pine needles and trunks. He looks dead, at first glance, covered in blood and dirt and wounds and laced with age. The stallion (who is the first one Zya has met that is actually shorter than her) pulls out fabric from his satchel and places it over the open wound, easing the visual appearance of the broken stallion. "Are you a healer like Lena?" her voice timidly asks of him, calling out from the entrance of the groves, hoping that the frightened expression on his face is just because the patient is a friend.
Might as well jump in the deep end, doll.
Stepping forward, Zya reaches a place of mental calm, eyes scouring the figure on the ground and surveying injuries. Unfortunately, without formal training, there is not much she knows. However, being a victim of younger siblings and youthful abandonment, she does know how to handle the swelling and bruises with something cold. In her homeland, her mother would have dunked her in the northern springs for a while, but here in the Aurora Basin, they have the luxury of something even better - ice. "I'll be back," her voice is hurried, but her pace even more so, as she rushes out of the trees in search of hard-packed snow. "I think I know what to do, at least until someone better equipped shows up..." her voice trailing into the distance as she moves.
The motion used when said snow is quite comical, forming the small pieces of the snow into a ball and rolling it forward, the shape becoming larger and larger. Iktan showed her the secret to packing snow together so he might play "snowball" with her, one of the few games the serious boy enjoyed. Her lips tug into a smile, wanting to thank her lost brother for everything now.
A large snowball, about a foot in diameter, rolls into the trees carefully followed by Zya's nose. She notices how the pine needles begin to cling before she even arrives at the side of the injured old man, but decides it's better than nothing. Halting the comical snowball next to his chocolate and bearded frame, Zyanya takes to cutting chunks from the edge carefully with her horn. Delicately, she removes the pieces by picking them up gently in her mouth and attempting to place them softly on the battered ribcage. "This might sting at first, but it will start to numb and feel better," she reassures the stallion, remembering quite clearly the rush and sting of the clear crisp waters over her own bruises being more brutal than the initial hit, but feeling much better after.
Nudging the ice block off to the side, Zyanya looks around the copse of trees, hoping that Lena - or someone just as calm as she, would appear to take care of the wound which continues to bleed under the cotton. "Are you cold?" she asks the stallion on the forest floor, pale eyes tinged with worry.
""
ooc -- Hope you don't mind Zya rolling up! She maked this for you, Al.
The darkness is comfort, soothing in its undemanding quiet, its loss of place and time and feeling, but something strained and anxious pushes through the fog, calling him back. ‘Albrecht!’ He turns his mind away from the voice, loath to abandon this moment of peace. Just let me be, his consciousness rumbles, but the voice insists, pouring an unexpected fear and concern into the final syllable. ‘AL!’ His ears twitch, brow furrowing. Who…? He silently wonders, but there’s no response from the void and his features fall slack again as he lets himself be pulled back into the dark.
The touch of cotton to his wounded shoulder doesn’t even register, so light are the lips that place it there. It’s not until a second sensation comes barging into his consciousness that he’s spurred back to awareness, this one cold and suddenly wet where it meets the heat of his swollen rib cage. He jerks awake, head rising and tilting his body onto his sternum with a breathy grunt. “What the fuck are you-“ He starts, the words out of his mouth before his eyes can even take in his surroundings and cutting off abruptly when they do. He blinks up at the Weaver and unknown cream colored mare, confused, then turns to look at himself, the wad of blood soaked cotton still clinging to his shoulder and half melted snow now dripping down his ribs.
“You’re not healers.” He states more than asks, already knowing Johnny is not and judging the cream by her lack of herbs and flowers and other pungent things, the usual accoutrements of the medically inclined. “I guess I’m not worth a real one.”
He means it self-depreciatingly, but he can hear the insult in his words and knows the comment will be understood that way. It’s how he usually means things after all. It's how he’s trained everyone to hear him, but looking up at the Weavers familiar face and recognizing by the distress there that it was his voice that called so anxiously from the darkness, his cotton flimsily staunching the blood of his wounds, his scarf still wrapped around the black's thin, maneless neck, the elders armor of hate and resentment quivers, ashamed of itself for the first time since being erected all those months ago in the wind and the snow.
“I’m sorry.” He whispers, staring down at his dirty, folded knees. He hadn't thought he'd ever say those two words in conjunction again, but who else in all of Helovia ever gave him something for nothing, ever gave him a second chance, ever showed concern instead of disgust or morbid humor? None but the Weaver. He begrudgingly acknowledges that the cream colored mare is here to help him as well, but she's a stranger in his eyes, still susceptible to his hostile temperament and ultimately untrusted, though the ice on his side is having a desirable effect on the painful swelling, just barely suppressing his conditioned hatred of the substance.
Embarrassed, confused, lost in a way that he's never truly been lost before, he avoids meeting the others eyes. He'd thought deserving the hatred and cruelty pointed at him would make it feel right, make the world right. He'd thought, when everyone around him responded as expected, that he'd found a new rule to live by, a new identity, a new way to make sense of the world. If he was wrongfully hated for being good, then he'd be crass and unfeeling and rightfully hated instead, but little Johnny-two-shoes doesn't hate him. The Candy-corn doesn't cringe and pin his ears and snap his teeth at the elders barbed words or rude behavior and his refusal to do so breathes life back into the painful truth: that he doesn't want to be hated, deserved or not.
Maybe it's just that he's feeling sorry for himself, maybe it's that he's so recently been knocked down to nothing for a second time in his life, a fall made more painful by the haunting memories of his former heights, or maybe it's just a matter of the effect of blood loss on the brain, but he's not sure who he is anymore, who he should be, who he wants to be. He only knows who he's not and that he's not any of the things he's been trying to be lately. “Guess I'm not much of a spy."
OOC // This went everywhere, I don't even know. @Johnny @Zyanya
The air sizzled with strife, with gloom, with a sinister nature, and the fairy couldn’t fathom why. She stood at the threshold of their cave, staring out into the twilight, melding and molding her amber eyes to the crescent waves of distress and alarm; listening to the beat of her heart as it pulsed a mighty, stalwart crescendo. Imogen nestled beside her, listening to the void, to the wrath, to the chill simmering along the edges of their walls, and both beings seemed to nearly bristle at the restless winds and the immoral catacombs.
The screech, an alarm, heightened their senses even more so – and the nymph felt the tiniest surge of panic fly through her blood (because it could’ve been anything – monsters, demons, trespassers, interlopers, thieves hastening into the night) and seethe down into the essence of her soul. But she wouldn’t let fear rule her, she was far stronger, wiser, and determined than to allow such a foolish seed fester within her, and she bloomed into the evening’s squall, partaking in the violent storm. The caller, however, was most unexpected (but luckily familiar), as she crashed down at their feet. Johnny’s intriguing familiar hooted and hollered pieces of information and news, gesturing and flapping with wings and feathers, breathing wails and wilderness. Imogen twisted and tilted her head, interpreting the details and particulars for what they were worth, attempting to relay them through their bonds and connections.
Need healer, her blue gaze landed on Lena’s, someone hurt.
Then they were off, sparing no moments, no hours, no long-winded occasions for anything but assuaging, mending, and repairing idle, broken things.
They followed Jellybean on her wild escapade, shifting through pockets of melted snow, drifting along the lake, listening to her singsongs and sirens; Lena breathed and prayed while they hastened and galloped, prospered oaths on tides of reverence and virtue. Please, she bent her head against the wind and tempests, don’t let me be too late.
The scene was speckled in color and wonder: Johnny, illuminated by his ivory and crimson coat in the moonlight, dear, sweet Zyanya kneeling beside a fallen figure, and the grumbling, wounded veteran himself, Albrecht. She could hear them speaking, talking in quiet drones, but failed to catch the words and phrases, too far away to hear their conversation. As long as they were still expressing syllables, ditties, and strains, she presumed no one was fading into the abyss. The maiden arrived at their sides thereafter with little preamble or fanfare, kneeling and settling down next to Albrecht, gaze catching the wounds, the lacerations, the wads of cotton soaking up blood, the snowball rolled to ease another’s pain. She smiled at the lengths they’d all gone, glancing to Johnny, Zyanya, and even Jellybean, prospering her gentle, kind words, ensuing truth and regality on the eve of what could have been loss and despair. “You did well.” Then, without any questions, because she never asked, never knew, when and where the beaten had acquired their wounds (it wasn’t her place or her business, and she could wonder, speculate, all she wanted, presume it was from sparring or skirmishes, instead of threats and ultimatums, more ghastly beasts roaming halls and parlors), her stare riveted on the older stag’s eyes, and her grin widened. “Give me a moment, Albrecht.”
Her eyes closed, and she gave into the rhythm of time and hours. Gilded hands spun clocks, whittled away the bones and fragments, the scratches and abrasions, the notched bits of pelt and hair. Magic, invocations, and enchantments glistened in the silence, before her bells began to chime, before a charming melody was cast from her throat, settling into the pockets and denizens of darkness – a harpsichord thread, thriving on wonder, polishing away melancholy. The powers granted to her from gods and goddesses flowed along her chest and along the bleak darkness, swarming, swelling, and pervading into gilded restlessness, courting away ruptured sinew and branded flesh, stitching open wounds back into their proper place, caressing, stroking, revitalizing the tender shards of nestled nettles, barbs, and thorns, crashing in virtuous raptures, braving the stormy night. When it all seemed complete, the time-span faded away too, ambience flickering and fizzling away, curling and coiling back into her figure for another day, another moment, when someone was worn, chiseled, and fractured again. Her lids opened, awakened again, her song concluded, finished on a splendid, fluid note, before her grin was restored to its proper place. “Does that feel better?” She queried the beast, before embarking upon other proclamations and sagacity. “I hope you thank your friends for their assistance.”
her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love
A pretty, pale mare that I didn’t recognize was the first to show up. My hopes that she was going to be one of the healers was quickly dashed when she asked me if I was one! Well! I’ve never been mistaken for a healer before. “No, I’m one of the crafters.” Which yeah, seemed pretty lame. Like what is a crafter doing here? It’s not exactly a crafting situation! She examined the wound and then disappeared for a moment - reappearing with some snow and packing it lightly onto the wound. Oh that was smart!
I’m just about to compliment her when Albrecht jerked into consciousness and swore at us - clearly proving that he was doing just fine. Right on the heels of that comment was an unsurprising insult. Further signs that he was doing alright, considering. “Oh stop being so dramatic, you’re only sort of dying. Proper help is coming.” Or so I hoped, at least. Who knew how fast Jellybean would actually go get someone else. They could be standing here for an entire year before it actually happened! She was part corgi after all and they weren’t exactly built for speed.
But okay, so I was feeling pretty good about this whole situation because there was hope but then the apologized and yeah - that’s when I got really worried.
“Uhh yeah right Albrecht don’t you do that.” It freaked me out WAY too much to hear the old grump apologize. Especially while he was hurt? It sounded far too “I’m seeing the light”-esque and I hated that. Albrecht wasn’t going to be dying if I had to beat up the grim reaper when he showed up myself. And by beat up I mean bribe but I’d throw in a few sugar-coated punches in there too. I don’t know what the whole spy thing was about but maybe he had been caught spying when he had been beat up? I stop my red hoof in a manner that was almost angry but I have a bright, encouraging smile on my face that is trying to mask the worry. “Yeah well maybe next time don’t go trampling through the forest swearing up a storm? Might be a bit easier.” I’m teasing to make things light.
During all of this, I’ve forgotten to keep tabs on Jellybean until I hear her squawking getting closer and closer.
She had found Lena!!
I’m so beyond delighted to see the chocolate-y mare that I almost start crying. Well okay whatever, a couple tears leak out. I step back a little bit to give her enough space to work and Jellybean awkwardly clamours up my tail to resume her perch on my back. “Thank you Lena.” I whispered quietly, even though she had not been speaking to me. But I was thankful and my bright green eyes did not leave Albrecht as I waited to see if the efforts worked.
TO LET MY HEART BE MOVED, TO LAUGH FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY HEART, TO FIND MEANING IN EVERYDAY LIFE...
No, I'm one of the crafters.
Her eyes widen for a split second at the reveal, for Zya is not a healer. He is not a healer. Yet, there is a man bleeding on the floor, old and broken. The quick actions she took of getting the snow a reflex to avoid standing around looking helpless, useless, and ultimately, the work done is sloppy at best. Most of her life spent a wallflower, what more could be expected of Zyanya?
She definitely expected nothing.
Harsh words slide from the lips of Al, and a down-turned crown immediately follows, her lilac eyes seeking the safety of the floor instead of the weathered face of the man chiding her. How foolish, how presumptuous she had been to believe she could help anyone. Much to the surprise of the girl, the tiny peppermint stallion rushes back with daring words. Her eyes sheepishly look at him, finding his expression to be more-or-less jovial, which made her believe the two to be on fairly good terms.
I guess I'm not worth a real one. Immediately, the embarrassed face of the girl melts into an expression of warm sympathy, her eyes glowing with a shared sadness. "I am sorry," she says quietly, her voice thinner than the mountain air. "You deserve better than I can offer." The unknown boy beside her also worries, by the content of his words and heaviness in his voice, but the playful charade of hostility remains. Maybe it is to assauge the fears in his ivory chest or the man laying on the ground. Zya does not know which.
It was then a familiar face appeared within their little group, introduced by the harsh squawking of a griffin. The beautiful carved face of chestnut became more like an angel every time Zyanya encountered her, for she knew based on their time spent bringing Sielu from the borders that Lena possessed... incredible powers to heal. A smile, unconscious, drifts across her lips as the tension in her heart instantly settles. How could she be afraid for Albrecht, the name being filled in by her white and ruby company, when such a lady now stood among them?
She humbly strides in, placing herself effortlessly by the side of the man on the ground, taking in the sight of it all in one brief glance before offering praise to them both. Zyanya has never been praised for anything like this before, and to say that her face beamed would be an understatement.
Then, she began, her voice like sunshine in the dim of night. Relief and joy washes over her in waves, lifting my body from the state of despair it had been a few moments ago. Without much to do or say, she simply stands, listening as the healer works her magic, watching with intent eyes.
He doesn’t want to feel the heat of embarrassment burning beneath the skin of his grizzled, angular face or the loneliness and need swirling into a vacuum of emotional deficiency somewhere between the narrow spring of his ribcage, but he can't stop the sensations from coming in response to the candy-corn’s emotionally charged comments about only sort of dying and the uneasy implications of receiving an apology at this particular moment. His usual self-defense mechanisms of irritability and scorn sit unresponsive at the back of his throat, still unwilling to lash out at the only creature in existence that - having met him at least once - actually gives half a fuck whether he lives or dies.
So instead he focuses on the less serious, ‘Trampling through the forest swearing up a storm,’ remark, which is a hell of lot more accurate than the Weaver probably thinks. “And who would I be then?” He asks quietly, as much to himself as to the Weaver or the cream colored mare beside him, now offering her own modest apology. Accustomed to the Basin's population of easily angered and quick to retaliate warrior personalities, the smallness and submissiveness of the mare's voice draws his eyes upward. He barely has time to do more than glance at her though, catch a hint of the blue gradient of her body that deepens to a rich cerulean around her legs and at the ends of her mane and tail, before another body comes rushing in, sweeping an educated eye across the disarray of his fallen form and folding herself down on the bed of pine needles beside him.
Unfamiliar with the bay mare, he bristles at her sudden proximity, head lifting on a stiffly upright neck to watch her warily, but the healer is undeterred, smiling a confident, knowing smile and parting her lips to begin her work - through song of all things.
At first he wonders if the mare seeks to sooth him through singing alone and he arches an incredulous brow, but as she fills her lungs and the notes swell from her tongue to his ears something undeniably supernatural takes hold of his aches and pains, the tightness in his haunches loosening and the heat and swelling of various hoof and teeth marks across his body draining away with the rise and fall of her voice. His ears slam forward in astonishment, eyes widening. The lower tier healers that he's met are knowledgeable, yes, but simple collectors of herbs and bark and other perfectly ordinary medicinal techniques. A magical healing is something new to him, the Songbird - since no one else is known to have such a power - demonstrating a unique and impressive ability.
As the healer works, the elder's ears flop loosely to either side, a sigh of relief crossing his lips. The only wound that resists her magic is the ugly gash and flap of skin across the point of his left shoulder. The torn edges strain toward one another across the gap, loosely knitting back together so that the grisly view of his naked musculature is covered, but the damaged bone beneath refuses to be hurried in its schedule of events, the deep, pulsating pain of the fracture continuing unabated even as the mare's healing melody draws to a close and her warm, chocolate eyes reopen.
He frowns slightly, disappointed for his own sake, but nods agreement to the bay’s question. He does feel better, still heavy with fatigue, but comfortable enough to actually rest now instead of simply drifting between consciousness and unconsciousness. The Weaver thanks the Healer, and she in turn suggests that he thank them all. His brows furrow at the mare's tone, a distinct edge of motherly expectation in the words, but he's so tired, so mentally drained, and all the hateful rhetoric dancing at the tip of his tongue just seems grossly out of place in this company of - friends? Acquaintances? He's only just met two of them and though he silently considers Johnny a friend, he doubts the Weaver would see his return of constant belittling, insulting, and general lack of affection as friendship - so instead he blandly mumbles to the assembly, “Thank you.”
He's not sure what to expect then, with the excitement of action over and done with, his life surely saved and his heroes appropriately thanked, but he has zero intention of struggling to his feet anytime soon, so exhaling slowly, he lays himself flat on the right side of his body again, this time infinitely more organized than the first. “The real hero here is Jellybean." He announces, eyelids slipping low, sure even without his sight that the little griffin will enjoy such praise. He imagines her puffing her tiny pink chest out with pride and a small smile begins to pull at the corner of his mouth. “Think she lost five pounds in all that running, though you couldn't tell."
OOC // Think he mixed up "making nice" with "making fat jokes" again. Oops. :P @Johnny@Zyanya@Lena
The Songbird paid close attention to the surrounding vigil, to the restless phantom who’d required her powers, to the lovely Johnny, to the quiet Zyanya, all nestled and bundled in their close-knit gathering. She thought, for the smallest of moments, Albrecht wouldn’t partake in her request, that he’d seethe and sputter, that’d he vent and rage, that he’d raise his hackles as he’d done at a previous meeting of minds, and she’d be forced to raise hers in return. However, she was content when he bowed to her whims (perhaps his vexation was more discreet, or she had a much firmer command than she’d realized), and paid obligations to the companions who had rescued and restored him, only frowning slightly at his backhanded compliment to Jellybean. Her praise went on in silence, gazing reverently towards the beloved, flying corgi, winking, smiling, grinning until everything seemed settled; her heart beating a far steadier beat. The panic was over, the situation dissolved, and she was left to stare across their range of beatific faces and one cantankerous, healing tempest, for whom she’d rather see spewing and spouting than too quiet, too hushed, beleaguered by pain and torment. She rose from her laden position, stretching and rolling the various muscles through her neck and shoulders, breathing a sigh of relief she hadn’t realized she’d been holding all the while. The Mender’s gaze sought only Albrecht’s for a moment, though she was certain he wouldn’t see, wouldn’t sense, her resolute convictions, her valorous strength, or her diligent urgings through his eyelids. “If it begins to hurt again, please come find me.” The femme nodded, and Imogen arched a brow, forming a silent query neither bothered to voice or respond to – and Lena’s stare riveted to both Zyanya and Johnny again, still thankful for their efforts. What would have happened had she been too delayed? Too slow? Too consumed and busy elsewhere? Albrecht had been in good, reliable hands, even if he loathed admitting it. “You were all splendid. Thank you for your quick minds and sharp intuition.” She paused, focusing on the candied beast, “Perhaps we’ll make a healer out of our Weaver,” and laughed, knowing she was being silly, but rejoicing in the fact that they could be, because the danger had passed and she wasn’t struck down by a lament, by a dirge, by a funeral song down by the riverbank. The fairy’s eyes swiveled to Zyanya too, proffering and bestowing, always eager to offer benedictions to a friend. “You are welcome to assist the Menders anytime, Zyanya. Let me know if you’re interested in our healing ranks.”
her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love
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