"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.
The old stallion sits restive on the ground, belly pressed indulgently to the warm slabs of stone surrounding the hot springs, his swollen hocks and knees folded neatly beneath him and hidden behind a splay of auburn hair spread out like an alarming puddle of red over the dark slate. He rubs his nose against one knobby joint, sniffling in the thick humidity. Beside him, his young companion stretches and rolls his limbless body, warming himself from every angle like a ninety nine cent hotdog in a truck stop gas station. For several minutes the two simply exist in this state of perfect warmth, two hedonists caught in a moment of peace, and then the old black opens one emerald eye, staring down at the python with a hint of amusement in his too-sharp gaze. "So you don't like turkeys, huh?"
It's a rhetorical question, both parties already knowing the answer and knowing the point of the question is not to learn, but to tease. The stallion grins impishly and the snake rolls his head away from the elder, wishing he had arms or pupils or anything with which to give the old man a taste of his own churlish behavior. The stallion grins even wider for the surge of temper and embarrassment leaking through their bond, reaching out to nose at the python with karmic glee. As much trouble as the young companion has given him since hatching, with his periodic episodes of itchiness leading up to the unsettling process of shedding his own skin and his newfound obsession with constantly popping boners and compelling the old stallion to assuage their urges with whatever poor bastard happens to be around at the time - not that any of his latest conquests could be described as unpleasant, after the fact - he relishes this opportunity to give the little serpent a taste of his own medicine.
"Oh c'monnn," He drawls, "Is it the raptor feet? The beady eyes?" He gestures with one front leg, unfolding and dragging the outstretched hoof across the smooth stone with a drawn out schhh, then jerkily cocking his head this way and that, eyes and ears held stiff and unmoving. It's not a bad rendition of turkey behavior, but certainly not as good as it suddenly becomes then. With a shimmer of light his anatomy morphs from four legged to two, from bearded to, well, less bearded, and the threadbare patchwork of his ebony hide swirls into layers of cream and coffee colored feathers. The snake recoils instantly, too startled to even hiss, though his mouth hangs open and threatening.
The stallion snorts, though it comes out more as a chirrup, since turkeys don't have the fleshy nostrils to produce an equivalent sound. He doesn't feel any different, but when he drags himself upright and stares down at what should be chipped, unhealthy hooves it's talon ended raptor feet he sees instead.
"Talk."
OOC // Using :: [ Magic: Light | Illusion that seems to transform Albrecht into a turkey ]
What awaits at the pools is not merely a respite from the cold, a lure which she normally avoids, but the elder.
Already disturbed (aside from being herself, that is) by the malevolent gleam of the Sun overhead, the soldier only living in this hour for the bidding of her masters, the keeper of the peaks; she is a beast which normally haunts the night, beguiled by the lure of the Moon, and her silver handmaidens, and aureate knights, or prowls in the shadowy undulations of the storm’s overhead rage. The death of the Reaper, the one to whom she’d returned, is a cursory thing that nags upon her, bidding her to pass back out into the shadow, the nothingness, away from the bothersome tethers of Society, and the neediness of Her patrons.
She looks upon the old man, who looks down at some unfortunate beast, whom the witch assumes to be his companion creature (so many in this land having bound themselves to so easily culled a body and spirit, a pitiful thing, to be mocked by those such as She, the Beloved one). It is such a putridly ordinary picture that the monster in a maiden’s clothing prepares to move on, her cackling expression twisted into a grimace which plainly displays her distaste for his friendship; turning away, the damsel is understandably caught off guard with the peculiar progression of the scene.
Beguiled by the magic which envelopes the man, the predator narrows her focus upon the only display of such a thing she’s ever witnessed. A mortal, mocking their own soul-kin? Her lips twitch upwards at the strangeness of it all, from the wizened figure’s transition to fowl from unicorn, to the cruelness of this interaction, and its not long before that strange smirk births tittering giggles, behind which arrives the pale one.
"Cluck cluck," she jests, hooves clacking lightly on the stone, her Cheshire smile looming in the steam, as she drops her crown to peer at the beady, bird eyes of the turkey-man, "it is peculiar magic, that."
The old stallion turkey freezes, so absorbed in beleaguering his companion that the mares approach and proximity actually escaped his notice until the moment she opened her mouth. He swings around, four equine legs translating to two turkey legs and two turkey wings through the magic of the illusion, his tri-toed feet clack clacking against the smooth stone surrounding the hot springs with a much heavier tread than makes sense for the size of his current appearance.
He stares into those mismatched eyes, his turkey head swiveling, craning upwards to meet her gaze while his actual head and neck tower above her diminutive height. “It is.” He agrees, systematically moving each part of himself in a slow process of determining what controls what on this new body. As far as he can tell, his regular head, neck, and tail coincide with the illusions head, neck, and tail, but the wings are bound to his front legs, and the turkey legs to his hind. He shakes himself, ruffling the turkeys feathers and waggling both of their beards before clearing his throat.
“Noodle boy thinks turkeys are terrifying.” He tells the mare in a conspiratorial half-whisper that’s more than loud enough for the subject of the comment to hear and understand him. “I’m not so sure I see his reasoning. I mean, these things are all ass.” He grins, though the expression doesn’t translate well to his lipless, turkey beak and stretches himself out like a cat just waking from an extraordinary nap, pushing his buttocks up into the air and lowering everything else. His real tail sweeps side to side behind him, fanning out the turkeys massive display with more than a few salacious wobbles aimed in the mares direction.
“What do you think?” He winks back at her, his beady turkey eyes stagger blinking in a woefully unattractive fashion. Meanwhile the ‘Noodle boy’ stops his almost-hissing and startled, defensive posturing, swayed somewhat by the stallions rowdy humor, but more so by his ridiculous display. Not unsurprisingly, he finds it difficult to fear the illusion while it turkey-twerks around them.
She giggles as he prances, the sound of his feather tips scrabbling against the stone alluring, her differing gaze still lowered, to look upon the illusion of the thing’s eyes, deceived by the guise as well as the serpent. Beloved does not fear, however, finding very little of that emotion inside herself when presented with something as diminutive and weak as a turkey. She does not think of the turkey as being a strong as the stallion falsifying him, whom, albeit old, is far stronger than the bird he currently appears to be.
Regardless, there is no ire upon the air, but perhaps that which the snake exudes, glaring and frightful all in one instance, so that the maiden tilts her eyes between the blue-red tissues of the ugly bird’s head, and the fretful snake. As the beak of the thing parts, she inhales a sharp, mirthful breath, her giggles stammering to a quaking, high pitched halt as she instead croons, a sing song noise, before, again, her laughter arrives, more fully than it had before. Now, beneath her, too, her hooves have begun to move, a slow, ceaseless dance from one tip, to the other, to the next, seemingly at random, her pale and inky eyes travelling along the path the dancing tom takes.
Mouthless things, Beloved decides, should not smile. The dancing, however, will do. Moving around him in a circular inspection, she is not overly cautious of treading on the serpent, or anything else, for that matter. Inhaling deeply with her nostrils, the demoness recoils, shocked to discover the bird smells like horse, her ears flattened, and her crown pulled back to its fullest, still dainty, arcing height.
"Magic is the mad one, is what Beloved thinks," the cherubic murderess chimes, wondering why they called her broken when the world was thus; still, her shock is short lived, her gaze again descending with her crown, so that her pale lips can reach out in curious desire to touch the raised tail feathers of the bird.
The old black continues to smile through his lipless, turkey charade, even rumbling a low roll of laughter as the pythons innate fear subsides and allows him to enjoy the spectacle of his prodigiously petulant bonded carrying on in such a ridiculous manner. The snake uncoils himself, rising up on his limbless body like a sprouting stalk to watch the turkey-stallion and the ivory colored mare flounce around one another like two competing performers awaiting his judgment.
One wobbles, another prances, and the last one sways along to the beat of their hooves drumming the stone underfoot, a light hearted and relatively peaceful collaboration until the mare stops her tip toeing, the perfect white of her muzzle reaching out to poke at the stallions illusion.
Perhaps it’s that barest of touch, or perhaps the illusion has simply run its course, but at that very moment the spell is broken, suddenly dissipating with a shhsss of energy released, leaving not an impressive fan of poultry design beneath the mares quizzical lips, but the sallow ass end of the stallion himself. He freezes, front legs still splayed out in front of him, turning his head to stare up at the mare and the unflattering positions they now find themselves in. His lips twist into a wicked grin, only fractions of a second passing before his tail sweeps upwards, aiming to drag the tangled locks of its tip across the mares shoulder and over her withers. He squeals in a high soprano, a harsh sound that rings and carries across the open spaces of the Basin.
Leaning back, he tries to press himself into whatever part of the mare is still close enough to touch. “Oh Beloved-“ He gasps, feigning shock and appall, his face a caricature of reaction and turned to his companion in conspiratorial glee. "I never knew you were so forward." He croons, the high notes of surprise in his voice replaced by a throaty rasp.
"Talk."
OOC // @Beloved One track mind, these two. xD
The turkey and the demon dance together, the serpent swaying in time. The metallic gleam of the silver eye quivers, its shine alternating with the glossy void of her cross marked gaze, held fast upon the magic image of the tom. His peculiar head, blood red, sinew pink, and sky blue, keeps most often the wavering stillness of her stare, and, for a moment, the wicked one seems almost playful, and demure, her giggles unmarked by the black rancor of her savage heart. Enthralled in the magic, and the transformed elder’s prance and spread feathers, and the desire to touch them grows, and grows…
Her kiss, however, seems to revert the spell, the man’s rather furry rump suddenly appearing inches from the striking tip of her blade. With a lady’s shrill remark and a shying step, she recoils away in surprise, her twisted mind unprepared for such sudden twists as this.
Dancing in her distance, the touch of the russet’s tasseled tail upon her figure and the sway of his haunches towards her fretful features draws a balking row of laughter from her, the giggles high and swift, and her momentary fright eases into the quiet black from which it had suddenly risen, like oily droplets on a hydrophobic trampoline. Nipping out towards the extended, narrow hinds of the aging man with a bright row of insidious laughter, the white witch moves back alongside him, her head lowering, moving to snake beneath the tangles of his inverted mane, unless he chose to recoil away.
"This is forward," croons the pale one, her lips reaching, wanting to tease and tousle the strands of the man’s mane, to find the muscle hidden beneath soft, weathered skin, "we were quite behind, before."
The old stallion’s devious grin only intensifies as the mare shudders with realization, squealing a high pitched complaint as she startles away from his true and much less impressive display of derriere. She laughs, but the sound is more unsettling than comical, at first hesitant and with an awkward cadence, then swelling and quickly exceeding the perimeters of a normal, appropriate reaction. Still crouched, his pencil neck curving to watch her more closely, the stallion’s expression begins to falter, one ear flicking backward as her laughter continues and his apprehension builds.
Already set on edge, he reflexively shifts away from the mare’s reaching jaws when they brush past his swollen hocks, exhaling a thin trickle of laughter, weak and insincere, a paltry offer to mollify whatever offense is hidden behind her cackle, but she presses farther, coming shoulder to shoulder with him and speaking, dipping the bleached rose of her velvet muzzle into the curtain of auburn suspended from his neck and throatlatch.
He swallows, gathering the force of his magic around himself like a like a hammer held poised above an anvil, ready and waiting for the blacksmith’s command to strike, to mold a material raw and wild into something of utility, of art. “I stand corrected.” He rumbles, quiet, his attention never wavering from the intensity of her eyes. What started out as a simple jest, an antic let to run just a little too far, is now a standoff, all the lightness of his earlier mirth evaporated by the heat of tension between them.
Nearby, his companion coils tight, wedging himself beneath the lip of a stone slab and twisting his limbless body into a knot of muscle and scales, his pear shaped head hidden at its center. The mare stands between snake and stallion, and suddenly her colorless hide feels like an uncrossable distance. The young python feels alone, despite their close proximity, and frets. What if the old stallion is harmed? He’s unable to offer aide, to even call for help. Trepidation churns in his stomach, a wave a nausea quivering toward his throat.
04-11-2017, 10:47 AM (This post was last modified: 04-11-2017, 10:48 AM by Beloved.)
He does not take her, as so many men have thoughtlessly done before, enfolding her in their strong embraces to lead her towards those inevitably rough and passionate ends. The old man does not even react, really, merely recoils into himself, as if he knows she is not just a treasure to be drawn freely from the earth. Beneath that easily offered gleam is a hidden pitfall, the gentle caress of her mouth against his flesh, the disguised edge of a dagger.
With a groan of frustrated desire, for the wanton sensation of flesh upon flesh, and thereafter the flight of her lover from her unfulfilled desire for more than just the usual flavors of passion, the wench feels anger rise within her, sudden and hot. A vampire, or black widow, depending on how one viewed her, the witch’s lusts were entwined, bound together as tightly as a tree outgrowing the strangling bounds of vines, twisting through its crooked boughs, choking away the verdant leaves. Her bites, once caresses of beguiling tenderness, become unloving, their fierce pressure relenting only when she recoils away from him with a snarl, stomping off several meters with a sharp, mare’s squeal of displeasure.
Rounding about suddenly, her flyaway hair caught by the wild wind of her pivot, she stands in place, and unleashes a ferocious peel of snarling giggles.
"So tender, your sudden coyness!" she mocks, her fleshy hips suddenly curving about from behind her, the silky strands of her tail lifted in a high arc, and her crown angling upon a most seductively arced neck; a glint of amusement shines within her eyes as she cranes her head aside, glancing towards his aged manhood in an obvious way for emphasis, "your tongue must be the only one fit for acting."
The woman’s moods are like branches beneath a hurricane wind, whipping this way and that with sudden and overwhelming force, leaving the old stallion confused and disoriented by the whirlwind around him. One moment she's smiling, laughing, the next she rounds on him with an intention so openly hostile that he bristles in anticipation of an attack. Illogically, she bends her head to nose him instead, nuzzling with a tenderness he wouldn’t have guessed she possessed, though it quickly dissipates, her velvet lips parting and pressing her teeth too harshly against his skin, pinching, biting without restraint.
He stands immobile still, though his skin twitches and his muscles tauten beneath her gnawing, waiting to see if the pendulum of her emotions might swing once more away from ferocity and violence, and to his enormous relief, it does. She pauses, then storms away from him with another squeal, the sharp sound ricocheting off his back turned ears and shuddering through his tensed form. Grateful to face only the onslaught of her voice now, he can't help but sigh.
What the fuck is this bitch? He wonders, and when she speaks his head falls sideways, cocked in disbelief, unable to fathom that the previous display was meant to be something of romance. Her mocking accusation draws a flicker of anger across his features, all due offense taken on behalf of his manly endowments, but though sharp words prick at the inner tissues of his mouth, eager to leap to self-righteous freedom in the air between them, he sets his jaw, too wary of the white woman’s unpredictability to risk inciting another bout of flirtation.
He steps backward, keeping sight of the disconcerting soldier as long as possible before sweeping his head downward, gently grabbing his companion by the middle and hopping over the small lip where stone meets turf around the boundary of the hot springs, his weathered hooves finding comfort and traction in the soft soil of the Basin's valley. The python hanging in his mild grasp squirms, twisting and coiling until it is he that has the stallion by the face and not the other way around, where the black releases his grip, allowing the snake to drag himself over one brow and to the base of his horns, the tiny heartbeat in the back of his mind only then beginning to slow.
The grizzled face turns back mid-stride, eyes guarded as he declares, "You're insane."
As he dances away, she remains, her haunting eyes held on his aging face, a taunting peel of laughter rising from her breast, with heady inhalations and dreamy sighs entwined among the bells of her madness. Her desire, still rampant, sends her black blood rushing, her fetid heart throbbing (among other things), but as the old man sweeps up his slithering companion and flees the promise of the white wolf’s love, that want ebbs, and eases.
Fear is not attractive, to such a woman as she, at least not in such a manner as to rouse images of his body pressed in upon hers in that intimate dance. No, as he scurries, his sloped angles and skeletal ridges draped in aged, leathery skin, she sees no longer a man, but a sheep. The saliva builds in the bottom of her mouth. Her tongue eases along the pink softness of her lips.
‘You’re insane,’ he tells her, like she does not know. With a barking ream of laughter that seems more amused, or perhaps even proud of such a title, the wicked one bobs her head low, her rapier angled in such a way (paired with the malevolent gleam of her eyes, which are purely oxymoronic to the capricious bounce of her giggles) that there is a promise of violence, if he does not soon continue his retreat. Her right fore drags slowly across the powder laden stone, slowly, a serpentine line, that repeats, as if it does this without her volition, as she answers.
"And you’re old," retorts the wench, her laughter a brook, and her stare a peculiar, unbroken line which watches his escape.
[ OOC: Thank you for the wonderfully weird thread <3 ]