"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.
He was a tempest, he was a wave, he was a turbulent beast and a gallant fiend and everything all intertwined. He was a defiant mixture of the sublime and the tainted, the damned and the moral, the iniquitous and the divine – and every day, he wrestled and joined the serpents, the gods, the virtuous beacons, stepping over lines drawn in the sand (to be innocent, to be pure, or to simply follow the pathway of hate and its glorious ends).
And most of all, he was restless.
The boy soldier skimmed over the dunes and rushed at the gulls, laughing without menace, without malice, without desecration glinting amongst his gaze, ebullient and scattered along the shoal. He launched and leaped over towers of sand castles, extended his motions beyond side-walking crabs and legions of dried, cracked, broken shells, setting sail for the water, for the abyss, for the eternal, blue empire washed out before him.
Orsino grumbled on the shore, and Erebos ignored him entirely (freed from the ties, the tethers, of that constant, foxy mind – the reminders of his inabilities or the scorching calculations to fight, fight, fight, like it was his dying breath), racing for the undulating tide. When he reached its heralding specter, its calming siren song, he hurled himself into its bracken depths. Forelegs tucked against his chest, hind folded, and smile widened, the youth landed with a crash, with a splash, on top of its rolling regime, like a prince, like a king, like Poseidon forgotten, peering down at fish and whistling to distant whales.
Now what? he wondered, always stuck in the corridors of wanting and waiting, hesitating on truly bowing to fate, determined with fortune favoring the bold. If he were to clamber on and on, past the crying gulls, past the sinuous sharks, past the daring dolphins, what would await him? Were there more kingdoms, unknown and furtive, secret and specious, down below the depths, or beyond the horizon, glinting in the sunshine, awaiting capture? Were there more threats, more villains, more lives taken, shackled, tempted and abhorred? Did those on his list of vengeance wait there, pulled by the current, taken by the shadows, until he came upon them again – bid to rip them into shreds, to annihilate them into oblivion?
His feet nearly moved, rippled, across the vast plain of water, nearly screamed and screeched and scrambled against the tide, against the world, to search for endless opportunities (where friends didn’t die, didn’t disappear, didn’t forget him because he never forgot them), for undying revenge, for cold-blooded machinations and stolen oaths, assurances, promises that wouldn’t gather dust.
But something held him back. Something always held him back.
Then he was just a boy on the current again, basking in the glow of so many wiles and methods, schemes, trials, and tribulations he didn’t understand.
[Open to anyone! ^_^]
Erebos
i have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want
king of the neon lights wore the crown on friday nights
The beach is just another place, knowledge of its existence tucked away behind vast piles of far more useful things— forgotten among a sea (ha) of more relevant, more necessary information. It was a little chunk of Helovia my grey hooves had touched on only once, back when I was still gangly limbed and all for the fun and thrill of escaping Mother. Back when Sabre was still sheltered beneath the forest canopy, when our hooves thundered in unison and our contagious laughter fell into a sweet harmony. Where was she now?
The question plagued me, haunted my thoughts consistently, always coming back— when will the answer come to me? For weeks now (weeks? Months?) I've been unable to run from the harsh reality of solitude, the creeping shadow of loneliness that no amount of hiding can deter. It's upon me now, giving way to the all too real understanding of my solidarity, that I am a lone king trapped in his own castle. Maybe that's what I'm fated to be, a forgotten piece to an extensive family (no, I'll be something greater)— a temporary name clinging desperately to the minds of others.
I've come here to reflect (don't we all?), perhaps subconsciously hoping that Sabre is out within the tide, the pain of our brutal childhood washed away by the salty waves. All that I find is drying seaweed and despair among sea life washed ashore, decaying carcasses of hopeless fish scattered beside drift wood and discarded treasure. There was nothing here for me, nothing to keep me from turning my back on the edge of Helovia and wandering back inland where I have more of a chance of stumbling upon something. With my crowned head hung in defeat, the unbound laughter catches me— so blissful and open, childish in the way it easily escapes the throat. With curious bubblegum drifting to the blue body that skips over the sand, my ears reach forward to catch the sweet sounds of happiness (where is mine?).
The regal figure slips over the surface, hooves hovering over the unknown depths as the horned skull angles to view the life beneath him. Young eyes watch closely, careful to witness the way the water does not try to swallow the unicorn, the way it lets him pass over its surface with refined practice. I should be in awe at the way he does not sink beneath the waves, does not get swallowed up by the darkness of the ocean (it's so open)— but my excitement over the discovery of someone else's magic has been forgotten, cut away and deemed unnecessary (her royal bitchiness is was the only exception).
"You can walk on water," I note, focused on the cloven hooves and the way they kiss the blue surface. What else am I to say to the blue eyed boy? Nothing more came to mind, lips sealed as he stood upon the tide and I simply watched from the shoreline, letting the water kiss at my ankles.
"talk talk talk"
Erebos was a collection of too many elements bound together, and they all reflected back in his form, in his charisma, in his possession, conforming to the princely, regal, chaotic balance of his stature. His father’s darkness, death and desecration, damnation and Mephistophelean regard, had been an adornment in his blood since his birth – soothing, bewitching, intoxicating, a drum right behind his ears, nestled in his skull, in his head, in his mind, conspiring and unwinding. It was a nourishing, delicious toxin, available whenever he craved it – when hate plunged a little too deep, when wrath couldn’t be contained, when all he ever wanted, yearned, or longed for was the destruction of his enemies, was the heartless, remorseless fall of their bodies, the sway of their frames as they were sent to Hell.
He’d been made from his grandfather’s fire too – bright and blistering, scalding and hot, granting him ambitions and dreams, forbearance and pride. It crackled and seethed, embers sifting through his bones, rolling through his lungs, never ash, never soot, but always a boiling, brewing, promise; where convictions nestled, where oaths were granted, where assurances were bound by flames and tempests. Vengeance was a kindling, an incensed blast of infernal allure, and he’d chased it down, listened to the crackle behind his eyes, immoral and iniquitous, ablaze and alive. Maybe they made him desire too, eternally unsettled and wanton, restlessly searching for a means to an end when there truly never would be – he’d snag and grasp one thing only to want more.
Then, for days, he could be soaked in the deluge of water, craving its freedom, its recklessness, its beauty, and its allure, the ways in which its power was never tested, always known. His mother had been rain, gentle, beautiful droplets cascading in harmonious rivulets, and he’d blended, melded, molded to her sonnets and laments, known what it was to cherish, to smile, to laugh amidst the sea, the fish, the brine. Every so often he was enticed by its majesty, by its glory, by its absolute certainty, by its necessity – as if one day too his name would be so renowned, so familiar, so known. Perhaps that was why he felt the foam, the surf, the swell hit his face now, cause him to close his eyes as the surface rippled beneath his feet, as he smelled the salty air and the wild, untamed bracken – imagining the fathoms burying all his faults, all his flaws.
Mother, he almost called into the swirling paradise of wind and tides, to see if she would answer, to see if she would cry back, to see if the gulls remembered her name, to see if there were any traces of her left.
But Orsino’s hissing curled through their connection, and he was forced back to reality. Another, the little fox beckoned, and the scion turned his head to glance at a child nestled by the curl and coil of dampened sand and dunes, incapable of reaching him any further. There were snippets, seconds, where he thought to race into the current and leave the other boy to his own devices, but the subtle familiarity of his figure, the white skull adorning his cranium – either painted or earned – caused him to cease the abrupt movements.
He looked like Volterra.
Erebos wasn’t sure where they stood, he and the stag of bones and dragons, both intentionally rattling and antagonizing the other at their prior meeting; neither coming away wounded. The lad could have been one of Volterra’s – the similarity was striking, but he couldn’t presume. The boy reached out by voice instead of movements, and the prince stood still, a king of the tides, a grin growing over his features at the simple statement, Cheshire and charming, young and charismatic, answering in a boisterous echo. “What can you do?”
Erebos
i have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want
07-02-2016, 07:27 PM (This post was last modified: 07-02-2016, 07:58 PM by Kid.)
king of the neon lights wore the crown on friday nights
From where I stand, at such a great distance (damn these defective eyes), I can just begin to make out the features worn on the blue boy. It's a momentary struggle, bubblegum concentrated on making out the elegance of the face, the cheshire smile that splits across dark blue. It's handsome and devilish, had I been older (more mature), I would have responded differently. There would have been the greedy licking of lips, the eagerness of my steps, a strong stride to push aside the waters and take me to the hooves of unicorn. I would've acted boldly, daring to tease and flirt— perhaps it would be all for not, and I would suffer rejection. Maybe I would be successful, and flourish beneath grace and royalty.
But I am young, a babe in my twisted youth, still pure. There is no desire, no desperatethirst that begs to be quenched— instead just a quiet observation of the refined structure looming over the water. His body is thin, nothing like the bulky bodies that run in my family. It's a change of scene, so often my eyes perusing the figures of bone relatives, with muscle and force beneath black hide. Bubblegum meets the upturned corners again, brows melding momentarily. In truth, I should be the one with the clever grin, with a tempting smirk to offer the idea of false innocence— I shouldn't be on the receiving end (at least, not for this.Other things... well) of such a smile. I'm the devil in disguise here, chaos folded into the body of a boy— not him.
I should be more than happy to be charmed by the crowned prince of the endless ocean, should be honoured to meet a man of another great line. But I know not of his lineage, the importance of his blood, or the relation between Volterra and him. He's but a beautiful stranger, drifting above the cruel darkness of the ocean without care— where had he planned to go from there?
Why stay here, tethered to this land and all the damned it harboured, when you could venture off to greater places? The possibilities were numerous, he could travel beyond Helovia's grasp and into a world unseen. He had no limitations, could traverse across the ocean's surface and never fear sinking into the depths— for hours he could linger among the nothingness, could escape the gruesome reality we lived in and clear his mind of the tainted darkness. I can only dream of an escape so perfect, where I could find solitude and release the building pressure of Mother's expectations.
His words carry, evidence of the charm in his smile pursuing the syllables that cross the distance between us. I reflect my own prideful smirk, eyes alight with excitement— I could do so much, I could distort others' perceptions of me, could weave strong lies and crush kingdoms beneath me. Magic was not my only gift. "I can do many things," I tell him, cocky and confident as the sly curve of my lips only grows. Monochrome lashes fall quietly, gaze held by the boy in blue. "Is this all you can do?" It wasn't uncommon to find others who had more than just one magical gift, blessed with numerous talents (Volterra, for example). As far as I know, it is just my one. I'm no great king yet, with the power of lightning fast bullets and addictive blood, but a prince on his way towards greatness. Soon enough my time will come, and I will no longer be a lesser soul among the greatness of others— I will be something powerful and better.
"talk talk talk"
His lips twitched, craving an explosion of laughter. The list of things he could do, would do, were endless and abundant, so much like the rolling, mercurial tide he stood upon. He could smile and lie, he could devastate and ruin, he could smirk and snicker and make notes of all the enemies he’d burn on his way to power and obliteration. He could hasten embers, infernos, through his skin, through his touch, and watch everything crumble, coil, and contort to ash around him. He could manifest control and composure, he could unleash demands and commands meant to contort, meant to unravel, meant to claw, crawl, and serpentine its way through minds; make them believe it was what they’d wanted all along. He could crumple under the weight of his vulnerabilities and flaws, then sail on the next current, hasten to the horizon, dash, intervene, and savage all the ways the earth wanted to refuse him. He could wish, hope, and dream brilliant aspirations and ambitions, then watch them fall, dim, become washed away when he cared far more than anyone else. He could request Orsino’s guidance, and drown the scenes, the surroundings, in mystique, wonder, and abominations, trick the eye, distort the frame, and punish those who ever thought to hurt the ones he cherished. He could watch his friends disappear, chase after them, wait for them to turn back; he could witness his mother through rain drops, he could study his father slowly decay around him, he could patrol the borders, the realm, the kingdoms for salvation and not take hold of it. He could love and not be loved back. He could hate and let it warp him – body and soul altered to suit his needs.
But he told the child none of these things – merely remained coasting on the rivulets and sea, embraced by the cold surf and the lonely ocean. The youth maneuvered slightly along the current, rippling across the brim to peek into the sanction and fathoms below, to spy on fish and tilt his head towards the lad, intrigued by markings, by potentials, by the unknown. The boy was confident too (definitely one of Volterra’s brood), as if he’d proven himself over and over again, as if his gangly, childish body had beaten down monsters and fiends, cretins and maelstroms. I can do many things, he’d said. The urge to laugh brewed inside him once more, and he had to swallow the notion instead of chuckle alongside gull cries and salty, sandy brine. Maybe he had magic, enchantments, and invocations too – the ability to vanquish and conquer bestial suits of armor, rampage into blackguards, become something other than one more name, one more face amongst a crowd of many. “Like what?” Erebos encouraged, an enveloping grin matching his query, piercing eyes riveted solely on the youth’s strange, pink ones, then following down the length of a blood spatter (like he’d already been in battle, scarred, mutilated, lacerated but victorious) upon his chest. Then, he looked away, trying not to laugh, lips pressed together in a wicked composition, the cat that ate the canary. The boy’s final words resounded, revolved, in his head again, and in perfected, noble quality, he answered. “No.”
Erebos
i have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want
king of the neon lights wore the crown on friday nights
Like what?
The words fall from blue lips, just as cocky and confident as my own. I face him bravely, despite being a nothing compared to this man boy who'd lived for far longer than I, shouldering more burdens and feeling more than just pain and rejection— he had not lived pure months of quiet hatred that culminated gradually, bursting at the sight of a single individual (the sole center of this hate). He has probably felt so much more, and I have felt nothing at all when compared to him— it makes me feel lesser (how rare), thinking about what an advantage he (all of them) had over me.
But he does not know the many things I can (and will) do, the leaps I will take to put myself ahead, to take away the competition with petty but swift moves. He does not know that I am keen on succeeding, that failure is not an option when it comes to anything, that I will never hesitate to bring someone else down. I will reach the top, whether it be through deception and lies, inlaid with lust and greed, a composite of sin and cunning— or something more courageous and treacherous, with exchanged blows and sweaty bodies (sweaty for a different reason), clenched jaws and vice grips. I could rule the world, could become something chaotic and unsympathetic as I bring ruin down out of pure disinterest. I could do anything.
Nor does he does not know the precision at which I could blast away that brain of his, with a shift in weight and the fluid, fatal constriction of muscles. I could bring him to his knees before he even had a chance to register I'd moved at all. I could take everything away from him, could shatter all those thoughts with a swift and accurate kick. I wouldn't didn't.
"There's plenty of things someone can do if they put their mind to it," I tell him, words distant and soft. My mind is rolling away with the waves, pushed and pulled until it slid from my grasp and ran rampant into the churning blue depths. My gaze wandered, drifting to the grin cracked upon dark features, caught in the glint of his eyes. "If I wanted, I could blow your mind." This was, of course, a joke. I could very literally blow his mind, but I could also weave lies and perform acts of deceit, work my way in and bring it all down. But that process was unmastered, far too long and grueling for me to perform here and now (I wouldn't even fully grasp the basics of it for at least another year or more). Instead I stand relatively still and calm, collected and quiet. My mood has changed from a moment ago, falling down from my throne of confidence (where is the grin now?) and stumbling into the dark of something more melancholic.
I lick my drying lips, withering against the brittle winds from the salty sea. "And what more can you do, if not just this?" Bubblegum falls to the cloven hooves that linger above the surface, gently pressed to the water as though any deeper and they may never be removed. As though they'd be sealing a permanent connection between ocean and body, a commitment too great for someone so young.
"talk talk talk"
There was an unearthly, eerie amount of confidence pervading from the other colt; too self-assured, too resilient, too composed for someone of his age. Erebos had likely been the same, but had been molded and taken apart several times along the way, kindled and incensed, reanimated and sketched, taking his experiences, his adventures, his hate, his compassion, and tempering it to something similar to what he was now. He’d stumbled and fumbled on many tasks, trials, and tribulations, and he had to wonder what on earth this child had done to possess the assertiveness, the audacity, or the nerve. “That’s true,” the prince responded to the boy’s first statement – because he’d uttered a belief that scorched over his own malicious, gallant heart. The scion believed in himself, no matter how many times he’d fallen, because of determination, because of perseverance, because of the enduring creed snaking through his core: he could do anything he wanted, as long as he tried, as long as he persisted. One day he’d slay the dragons, the ghosts, the goliaths, and giants wreaking havoc over his brethren, kin, and friends. One day he’d conquer the world alongside his chosen allies. One day he’d snatch the stars instead of chase them. One day he’d succeed where others could not. One day he’d cease craving, because he suddenly had it all, and nothing, no one, could stand in his way. It’d be beautiful, barbaric, and savage, and he couldn’t wait for those fatal, feral moments when everything fell so neatly into place, carefully orchestrated, executed, and ordained. “What would you like to do?” he postured in curiosity, for everyone had goals, dreams, and aspirations.
But then the little skull child persisted a little too far, dragging a knife along edges and margins, lingering near fanning flames: If I wanted, I could blow your mind. The warrior’s gaze widened, pretenses flickering and forming, a mask positioning carefully over all the things he wished he could say and do; strike and slap, challenge and distort, maim, rip, and tear, devour and consume until the boy couldn’t even remember his own name. His voice sprung and leaped into varying venues, gliding on sarcasm and wit, plunging into regions of mockery and iniquity. I’d like to see you try, he wanted to say, I doubt it, he wished to utter, I dare you, he yearned to cackle, but none of them coiled along his tongue. Perhaps the boy was right, and he was capable of festering Erebos’ membrane to smithereens, so nothing would be left but a shell, but a vessel, of a blue colt once destined for something great and grand. He’d learned not to underestimate others – like lands, like monsters, like gods (because even they could perish). He ultimately settled for a sly sort of smirk, resting on the eaves of his mouth and lips, coiling upwards to chisel their way into nefarious whims or delightful, mercurial persistence. “Can you? How interesting.” The tones weren’t sharp, weren’t menacing, weren’t vehement, but cool and composed, head tilted to study the waxwork abilities of the lad.
The inevitable flared immediately thereafter, for it was his turn to showcase abilities and talents, what lay in his blood, what quivered in his heart, what lay laced and ruined and diabolical, festering through his marrow – a piece of darkness, a brewing of infernal infernos.
But rather than tell, rather than lie, rather than intertwine every talent he possessed, the prince wanted to show.
“What more can I do…” The beast murmured outloud, gazing towards the horizon as if deep in thought, hard-pressed to find anything noteworthy, pulling threads of deception and deceit together; a specious veil, a harpooning subterfuge. His gaze shifted to the sable kitsune basking on a rock, another Lilliputian, eldritch abomination, waiting for his opportunity to snatch and extort. They connected in silent observations and vile scrutiny, smirking, taunting, and snickering at the others’ wiles and concoctions amidst the unholy disquiet. At once, Orsino gathered his wits, his uncanny, cunning abilities, and along the shoreline rose an image: cloudy and foggy at first, like a curtain of mist rising from mountains, lakes, and valleys, but as it began to take shape, the embodiment, the figure, became a ghostly essence of the chosen beast. A Stygian form was cast onto the sand, conforming to the dirt, the dunes, the loam, with an arrogant satisfaction plastered across his face, his red eyes, his ivory mask, and his broad, distinct shoulders. Erebos remembered him as Volterra, the son of Confutatis, assured and resilient, bold and intrepid, waiting for his moment to take on the world. Perhaps that’s where the child found all his defiance and gall; Volterra simply spread it through his blood, through his ichor, incapable of containing it. The prince’s stare slid immediately back to the youth, maw pointing towards the mirage haunting the beach. “Is this your father?”
Erebos
i have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want
king of the neon lights wore the crown on friday nights
What would I like to do? Now there is a question with a million answers, a million answers with a million outcomes— would I ever truly achieve what I want? (No) I'll try to, I'll push and I'll struggle to achieve the greatness I so eagerly seek (the childish dream I've upheld for so long). "Grow up." The simple answer comes, the most realistic idea, the easiest to complete. I want to grow up, to physically and mentally shed the skin of my childish existence and become something more. I don't want to be any kind of boy or baby, I want to be something greater than just a foolish child to look down on. Is that so wrong?
There's certainly more I want to do, more I want to be— but like hell I'm telling this stranger all about my hopes and dreams (I don't tell anyone about that kind of shit). So I'll let him mull over my response, let him analyze it all he wants (he won't find much there)— let him enjoy the nothingness behind my words, the emptiness of my syllables as I gaze towards the navy hide upon his shoulders.
"I can, just not in the way you may think." The subtle grin cracks wide, flickering mischief displayed in bubblegum eyes. I prance just a little further into the water, letting my weight part the sand as I settle back into a casual stance. He perhaps thinks I have amazing magic, or some awe inspiring talent that could blow his mind metaphorically— but no, I mean literally. One rock flying straight towards his unsuspecting skull and boom, nice shot. Instead I'm still and unresponsive, the grin fading and eyes drifting off towards the white caps that appear here and there along the ocean.
Bubblegum hardens, twitching as they lay over the unfocused figure— a figure I've become familiar to over the months of my life, the details of hardened ivory and cold ruby reflecting back at me. I want to look beyond the illusion, see past the smoky titan and tell him that no, I do not know this man. But I do, I know him too well. "Yes," it's quiet, almost silent. The words could be lost in the whipping winds and roaring waters, could be lost if one wasn't listening as they slipped from my lips. I admit to my heritage, that I am made from a nameless man and unknown woman, a forgotten son and with a lost sister.
Bubblegum eyes drag over the subtly cerulean figure, locking onto the passive features and my ears fall back— did he know Volterra? Or had he simply seen him in passing? "What of him?" There must be reason for bringing him up, for recreating a static image of him standing among the sands, features still and crimson eyes vacant (it's really creepy really). "Do you know him?" Perhaps they have crossed paths, have had a simple exchange of words or a deep conversation, maybe they only know one another by the way they look. Do I look like Volterra? The sudden idea of resembling the man I've so dutifully attempted to alienate myself from (the way Zhu has so easily done) makes my stomach churn and ears fall back.
"talk talk talk"
What could’ve been amusing, diverting, was left in shambles on a knife’s edge of duplicity and shadows. They played a furtive game now, battling wits and distortions with callous armor and nothingness in between. Erebos nearly snorted at the child’s first response (how clever Orsino noted, rolling his eyes), but noted the hidden decibels and the chilling composition for what it was. The youth had his secrets, motives, plans, and goals, or merely naught at all, and didn’t plan to share any with the prince. It was a dulling notion, and the sentiment drained him of any foolhardy, reckless exuberance. His eyes lost their curious, inquisitive rapture, settling for the rocky shoal or the endless waves rolling towards his hooves, interest no longer compelled when the other didn’t want to share in the mirth and sport. Maybe the boy didn’t have any goals, any dreams, any aspirations for the future, merely existed on the earth, roaming from one land to the next – letting the world take him by surprise or oblivion. While Erebos believed it was a waste (there were so many things to do, to see, to unravel) to wander from ruin to ruin with no ambitions, no plots, no feral intentions, they were all permitted their own ways of life. Somehow, someway, the other would end up shuffling towards his fortune or failure. The path, the arrival, the twists and turns, would be the surprise and mystery, intertwined, entangled, and unknown until it hit him in the face.
He grunted mildly in response to the threat of blown brains and subtle grins, far more intrigued and interested in the child’s demeanor towards his father (or the ghostly, eerie image orchestrated on darkened strings and wily threads). The soldier watched closely at the change; very subtle, barely a reconstruction of features at all, except for the quiet, drawn admittance of the shared heritage. Perhaps he was ashamed. Perhaps he was rueful. Perhaps he was angry. Erebos couldn’t decide and the boy gave nothing away, too much like a stone, like a rock, all marble columns and skull features. He wondered, very briefly, what it would be like to hide from who you were and where you’d come from. He’d never thought of committing the act – he’d always been proud of the snow, of the ice, of the dangerous, lurking caverns, of the poignant, haunting summits, of his mother, of his father. Vocals clung to the waves, clear and bright, not sullen, not lurking, rising to the unsaid challenge. “I was curious,” he proffered for reasons (and now he knew there were more and more cretins and creatures spawn from the blood of Confutatis; as if she were reigning again, just in a different fashion, claws still dragging through kingdoms and realms). “You look a lot like him.” The prince smiled then, small and singular, hiding a chuckle clinging to his throat. “I met him once,” he shrugged, then bade Orsino to cease the magic, watching as the image flickered away to bits and pieces of nothing.
Erebos
i have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want
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