"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 time had come for her to leave. Living in the mountains with her mother and three brothers had been entertaining for all of about five minutes. Yes, three brother. Half-brothers, might she add. Erebor was as stoic and boring as the mountain he was named after – all his father’s child. Bismark was quiet, sulky little brother. And Korbin? Korbin thought it was endlessly hilarious to pop out from behind rocks, trees, and everything else as skeleton. It was only funny once.
Then there was her mother. Her always watchful mother. Though it’s not like she can escape those eyes. Even now, even for the past half a year that she’s roamed the wild, wide world outside her pine forest and mountainous home, her mother follows. Not as her mother, but in the eyes of the raven that perches on her shoulder.
For a time though, it had been fun. They’d watched the chaos they’d begun destroy the land and it’s residents like a cancer. That had been the goal, though even they never could have predicted how far their actions would reach. Amazing what stopping one heart can lead to. A full-fledged battle of magicians leaving every kingdom in the land bloodied and beaten and no one won. Her mother was forced to give up her crown, but Weaver is pretty sure that was the plan all along. Bit by bit, after that, the dominos collapsed until their world was, quite literally, ripped on its head. Destruction, chaos, fear and power. Those had been the goals. All but power remained.
After that, Erebor had decided to return to the world-on-its-head. Korbin followed soon enough, leaving Weaver and Bismark with their mother. So she too left, chosing not to return to the world they had ripped to pieces, but to strike her own path. It has taken her some time to find this place, whatever this place is. A forest, inviting and foreign, looms in front of her. There is a line, somewhere, something invisible and something that, had she known, she might not have crossed. But when she does, the raven that sits on her back is suddenly gone.
“Raven?” she calls, though not that loudly. Panic and worry don’t crease her voice, but rather, a hint of curiosity. Where did he go? Did her mother’s magic not reach so far? Perhaps. He had never been hers, not entirely, though the more they had traveled the more he had felt like hers. The place on her back feels light and wrong without him there. She takes stock of the rest of her. Wings- check. Those were her mother’s magic, but somehow, they’d become a part of her instead. Horns – check. Those were the gift of a stranger in a strange land, but they too had become a part of her. The silver chain from the pretty silver boy is also still there.
Most importantly, the rune of Death still sits on her chest. Without it, she knows she would be subject to the rules of death again. With it, she is invincible, and it is a beautiful thing to know it still stands. So where then, and why, did only Raven go? Perhaps she could find him somewhere in the trees or something in this place that she’s stumbled.
She moves into the trees like she owns the place, even though she doesn’t even know what this place is called. Doesn’t matter though. Her head is high, and she looks around with those amber eyes curiously. Could this be a place to settle down? A place worth staying? Maybe. So, she keeps going, trying to figure out just where she’d found herself.
Tall Wood, she knows it as, the trees so old that their tops are obscured in the darkness of night, when it reigned. For now, the Sun burns overhead, the very lash which had driven the demon into this realm of beginnings; not that she avoids it, this place, rather that she doesn’t intentionally seek it. When she does, however…
Well, she doesn’t like to leave with nothing.
Peering through the boughs of the sentinel pines, her ears twitch, and pivot, while her lips titter, tutter about the coos and warbles of one who has forsaken rational for power, the expressionless pallor of her mask occasionally warped by the presence of a twisted smile, and a smattering of peculiar giggles staining the otherwise silent air. All that moves about her is the foliage, and the little beasts which scurry and scamper away from the presence of the serpent.
Until her, that is.
Beloved narrows her eyes, legs stilling their ethereal sway, heart fluttering in her breast at the mark of the rune on the breast of the bleak stranger. Many are the realms she has witnessed the burning of, and many are the titles of that inevitable Finality, master of War, and Famine, father to Suffering: Death, Mortis, Yr, the angel knows it by all its names, and dances in the arcing sway of its curved blade. To see her, so soon upon the death of the Reaper, his name emblazoned on a foreign breast, does the white witch well to behold, as if a sign from the beyond that Death does not Die. Does she, too, dance among the fire which scalds all but the worthy, this stranger with the shadow entwined in her flesh, with moony tendrils interwoven among the perfection of pitch? Or is she culled, toppled, severed by that scythe’s sweeping reach, as the rest of them, the rabbits, the weak?
"Behold, stranger," sweetly croons the wicked one from the shadow of the Tall Wood, her ivory figure arriving from brambles and hidden places beyond the trail to lay eyes upon the wandering one more fully, "the realms of Helovia in spring."
Tilting her crown, a peculiar forty five degree angle given to her neck, her silvery eye shudders, as a deep breath of the woman’s perfume is drawn in through pale, milky nostrils.
"Beloved does not often walk here," speaks the demoness of truths, righting her awkwardly angled head and giggling, "but she always walks well, you see. You seek refuge, yes? They all do, here."
It does not take long before the sounds and smells of other equines finds her. There is one smell that is particularly strong though. Foreign, as everything here is foreign, but close. Weaver doesn’t seek the source though. She never looks for anything that does not look for her. Chasing is nothing something she does. Not obviously, anyway. Chasing something some obviously is weakness. It lets you enemies know just what you want, and just how to hurt you. Yes, Weaver would like to meet someone else in this new place, to learn where she is and what this place can offer. But she will not grovel for it.
The voice finds her though, seeks her. A strange greeting, and she wonders if this is normal of all in this land. Behold, stranger, the sweet voice begins, and now Weaver turns those amber eyes to find the source of the voice as it continues. Helovia. The other mare names the place as she emerges from the trees, a pale angel or demon, Weaver isn’t sure. An upside down cross mars her strange, colorless eyes. It is a mark the girl does not know, but still, it brings a bit of a grin to her face. A sly, mischievous, pleased little smile.
She turns herself to fully face this pale mare, who doesn’t technically introduce herself but does, in a way. “Does Beloved always refer to herself in the third person?” she asks in return. “And is she always so certain?” But in this case, Beloved should be certain. Weaver has nowhere else to go, and even if she did, she’d likely follow this strange mare anyway, with the cross on her eye.
“Weaver,” she offers. “I do. Where is there to seek refuge in this place?” And why should I go? But she does not ask that. Not yet. Beggar’s can’t be choosers.
She doesn’t answer the question given first, instead lifting her crown, her nostrils wrinkling in contemptuous wonder as she glances once about the surrounding wood. Third? Where? Here there are two, and two alone, unless one counts them, though they are only whispers, kisses, smoke upon a breeze.
Her head tilts, eyes realigning on the crowned stranger. Is she always certain? Of course, she is. There are two, and one is wandering, because Beloved has found her here, and she is not a vagabond, a rogue, no outcast without aim. That leaves one, one in the shadow of the Tall Wood.
"You are but one," she explains, giggling, sure that this clever-eyed thing already knows, but seemingly having to say so anyway. Peculiar, these mortals, how they inquire after the obvious, thinks the witch, her eyes narrowing.
Weaver? she wonders. What is this, an accusation, a mark of weakness given by judgment alone? As had been thought then, in the meeting, when the concept of such a path had been laid before her: Beloved does not create.
A frown devours her features for a moment, an ear falling back as her next question rattles through the writhing of the whispers. Refuge, she seeks. How would she know, then, of the weavers, their cloths and textiles, and that laughable offer to her blood-lust by the Shouting Dawn (the Lady Hotaru)?
Is it, then, her calling?
The smile which twists the lips of the white witch is unsettling, her giggles a long stream melding and warping. What a delight, this irony! How perfect, the winding lines, and their blessed union! Breathless, a wet breath is shuddered inward, at last managing words after some minute or longer, distracted, still cackling at her luck, and fate.
"Mind you mountains?" the demoness purrs, her peculiar eyes shifting north, a distant shadow blooming in them, as she walks the way in her mind, far, far from here; suddenly, her gaze snaps back to Weaver, "to the north Beloved haunts; the Aurora Basin, land of dancing skies."
It doesn’t take her long to figure out that this pale girl is weird. Like someone didn’t quite teach her how to speak, or maybe that it just never stuck. Probably that it never stuck, because that brain is probably rattling around with spiders and snakes and all manner of vicious and hideous things. Weaver could be entirely wrong, certainly, but this is the impression she gets. And Weaver, being a stubborn little girl, stick pretty firmly to first impressions. Even if only in jest. Not that Beloved would get a jest.
The pale mare looks around with those strange eyes like she’s looking for someone else. A third person? Maybe, maybe not. Maybe she’s just looking around like this because the girl is a little loopy. Are they all like this in Helovia? You are but one, the mare says. “And you are quite literal,” she counters, as if this is entirely a logical counter. But in way, it is. “I’ve spent nearly a year being ‘but one’. It is still my choice to stay or go. I see no chains.”
That said, she’s already decided she’s staying. Maybe only to see if they are all this crazy, in which case, she will in fact turn around and leave. Because while the pale mare is tolerable, Weaver can’t live her entire life stuck in what feels like a circular conversation. No no. That shit’s not gonna fly dearie. Yet despite this, she’s still curious about the pale mare who speaks in the third person and this place called Helovia. It feels promising and dangerous.
Of course, Weaver’s always been one to get herself into trouble. Getting dangled by a dragon over the ground (no big deal, when you can’t die), facing the four horsemen of the apocolypse. All just another day, right? Sure. Totally. The pale mare is laughing now though, pulling Weaver’s thoughts away from Beqanna and back to this place. This forest that she stands in, this pale mare that is her only company. Where the hell was her Raven? She was still not pleased about that.
“I grew up in mountains,” is her reply, certain and assertive. She doesn’t agree to go in so many words, but she looks north the way Beloved does, and then back at Beloved, waiting for her to lead the way to this place of dancing skies. That she wanted to see.
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