"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.
Two kitsune siblings are busy doing something mischievous.
The cave walls are aglow with the light cast from a fire, which it appears the black male has lit, with his magic, once the scene becomes clear. However, the white sister, crackling with electricity, is by far the more noticeable of the two, sitting in front of the fire, between the entrance of the cavern, and the roaring flames. Her eyes, a bright, surreal blue, are locked on something overhead, which is not quite definable, in the poor light.
Trailing with embers, the dark kit bounds about their fire, his orange eyes locked on that same something above as he prowls.
Get it! he growls in magic-fox tongue, frustrated that the reach of their fire has done little to disturb their prey above. Only someone with a kitsune companion could hope to understand what he was saying, his noises sounding like just that, noises, to those who didn’t speak kitsune. Why can’t you hit it, Na’aila?
An arcing bolt of lightning leaps up towards the caverns ceiling, crackling with bright light against the instantaneously charred stone. Illuminated in the blast, a burned and singed and bitten griffon is glimpsed tucked tightly in a small nook in the cavern’s upper wall, clutching some unseen thing to her belly tightly. Her beak parted in pain, it is obvious that the mother has been gravely wounded by the hungry fox creatures, but is unwilling to give up the fight, for whatever reason, as incapable as she is of continuing it.
I don’t know, hostilely barks Na’aila in retort, both too preoccupied with their meal, and insulting one another, to notice that someone has entered the cavern with them, why is your fire always so useless, Taorcha? That’s a better question!
[ This is a Random Event for Erebos and those he invites only! ]
The prince should’ve been used to the feeling by now – the perilous scrape of nothingness rasping along his chest, down into the funnels and sinew of his flesh. He’d been cast into its wares so much recently it was like his newfound home: a wide-open chasm, ravaging and ripping him apart, echoes and throngs of days he’d spent hoping and dreaming, wondering when they’d become broken, discarded things. Perhaps when his father died, when his friends were massacred, beaten, when Kaos erupted from bones and fallen Gods, or when a yeti never looked at him either, turned away from him again and again. The boy asked himself why many times, as he wound his wanderings through the borders, along the meadows, down into the thickening strands of grasslands and prairies, and the answer was the same each time. Unworthy, the world seemed to spit upon him, seething and ravenous, mocking and sinister, a savage snicker on the wiles of a youth who’d only craved entirely too much. Was there something he lacked? Was there a flaw, a defect so poignant to others, but nothing he was aware of? Or were they mere coincidences, strung together like tangible forces, tempestuous and sudden, vicious onslaughts, Stygian mayhem and bristling nefariousness.
Erebos had always been a determined beast, a pulsing, pervading maelstrom of conviction – sometimes unholy, sometimes virtuous, something gallant, sometimes caught in the feral decadence of raptor predilections. But nowadays his head hung too low, his eyes stared at the ground and not at the stars, and his persistence seemed to crumble, bit by bit, until it waned off and on, relished by the notion of friends or the challenge of another day, tormented by insurrection, sedition, or simply giving it all up. His oaths and convictions had grown empty and cold, no souls lacerated, brutalized, or carved apart, no treachery granted to the ones who’d deserved it, trails gone flat and senseless, petulant, inept, ineffectual. He was like a legion of fortitude and might with nowhere to put his sword but into himself, and his soul ached, his mind craved, his body warred against the savoring of frustration, agony, grief, and smoldering, severe havoc. He wanted no more of it, of anything, of anyone.
The bewitching essence of Orsino was a meticulous force too, constantly in his ears, drumming a remorseless, iniquitous noise, beseeching him to cover ground, to strike at others, to train for future diabolical yearnings – and the youth listened because it was the only thing he had left: this damned herd, this ridiculous, splintering empire his father had always tried to keep from cracking. If winter and rain, if death and fire were truly in his blood, then the kitsune must’ve shared it too, scathing and wicked, imploring him to search beyond the runes of their archaic kingdom, sniffing the air and hissing a bestial storm.
But today the beast was too far into his own head to pay much attention to the quick, sinister quips of the fox, stretching his limbs at a brisk pace to get away from the deplorable thoughts haunting his skull. He wanted to cry, he wanted to scream, he wanted to yell furiously at the top of his lungs all sorts of severe, Tartarean things, but he remained mute and detached, eyes seeing nothing but endless lines of greenery and snow.
Until Orsino wandered over to a cave’s aperture, drawn by the bright lights of flames (and where Erebos didn’t crave to go – he presumed it was just another Basin inhabitant, struggling to keep warm despite the release of spring) – started rasping, started growling, started his heathenous, heinous taunting. The boy followed, ducking beneath the shadows and veils of the cave, his vigilant, steel stare reaching past the two other kitsunes, registering solely on the griffin in the corner, trying desperately to escape, to fight, to flee.
While Orsino, in another time, another life, might have joined them in their zealous hunt, just as malicious, just as wicked, just as hell bent on destruction, mayhem, and hunger, the cunning, crafty kitsune had an entirely different vantage point now. He saw an opportunity, a chance, an instant for the prince to reign supreme, to heighten all his diabolical schemes, to relish the rapier, to drown the wicked in their misdeeds – so as the General understood what was going on (persecution of the innocent again), the deadly elegance of his voice pierced through the cavern walls, echoing, resounding, as a prelude to disaster. He forgot his ineffectiveness. He didn’t fall into his flaws. Instead, he straightened, proud, dangerous, a writhing, wrathful wraith, clawing against the undulating onslaught of portentous skills, promises he could finally keep, eyes focused and narrowed on those who dared to challenge justice.
“What are you doing?” He demanded, commanded, listening to Orsino’s annihilating translation, hoping he hadn’t arrived too late to finally save someone from a cruel, molten fate.
Eek! shrieks Taorcha, his black paws back-peddling, the tip of this tails becoming singed on the fire behind him. The noise and smell of burned fur draws his sister’s eyes around as well; she quickly gets to her feet whilst spinning about, with a growling yelp of surprise, to see the warrior unicorn so framed in the dingy cavern’s only exit.
Narrowing her eyes suspiciously, her soft ears fold back. How did the horse thing expect her to answer him, hm? As far as she knew, no equine beast could understand the language of the great Kitsune. Though her more wary brother has noticed Orsino, she hasn’t, and her lips curl into a snide smile.
Not your business, pony-boy, she quips with growls and pants, haughtily turning back towards the griffon’s ledge. In the motion, she spies her brother’s ember gaze, locked on something other than the roan, and with belated observation, she spies the reason the unicorn had tried to talk to them.
Oh.
I mean, nothing, Mr. Unicorn Sir, the electric fox-creature more genially replies (now that she gets that he can understand her, turning back around to face the General with a foxy smile. Inwardly, she begins planning an escape route, and even smacks Toarcha across the face with one of her many tails, using that same appendage to seemingly gesture for him to do the same.
The prince was torn between allowing them to escape and practicing damnation, yielding to his armaments, his incantations, and his brutality. They played their fox wiles, their silly quips, their pony boy crafts and nothing Mr. Unicorn Sir regards, but he knew better – he’d been born from the feral, from the righteous, and delivered into blasts of bestial calamity by none other than the beast resting at his feet. Give them what they deserve, his mind whispered, his skull brandished, his body craved; and he coveted those twisting shades of nocturne duplicity like a demon, breathing in the air with feral splendor, with noxious, nefarious scintillation. He was wrath, he was ire, he was vengeance, carved, sculpted, and morphed from the deceit, the depravity, the molten, barbarity of the world around him. His eyes touched on the poor griffin still locked in the corner, resting on her peak, fighting off an onslaught of treacherous chords, rampant, pulsating, vicious behemoths who never thought beyond their own selfish interest. In those little fox tails, in those greedy, hungry gazes and stares, he could see the painted behemoth pressing his hoof into a golden girl’s crown, he could see the hollowed contortions of monsters relishing torment and anguish upon a mender, and all the other licentious, cretin wiles foiled and fostered upon innocent lives again and again and again. The boy wanted to do nothing but destroy them, give them a taste of maliciousness, of the gallows slipping around their souls, of the descent into oblivion. If he could do something, anything, for the poor creature suffering at the hands of another, then perhaps, for the day, for the moment, he wouldn’t be so damned and useless.
His stare was chilling, cold, damning, a serrated storm blessed, anointed, with tempestuous edges, like a titan rising from the sea, twisting his trident, ready for the onslaught upon his menacing awakening. He gave them one chance, one opportunity, before the promise of danger, of diabolical design, of pernicious, perilous motions. “Leave,” the command ensued from his lips, growled out from Orsino’s maw – and he didn’t think about how much it sounded like his sire, feral, demanding, swift and condemning.
Being two very different beings, the siblings each hear, and react, to Erebos’ command in their own way.
Taorcha, more timid than his bold sister, has already been quite frustrated with the entire hunt for quite a while (in truth, since his fire had again proved to be useless in their snaring a meal). He observes the length of the unicorn’s horn, and the size of his hooves, and decides that, even though the kitsune standing nearby is beneath both he and Na’aila’s natural born status, even a snotty fox prince can read glaring warning signs. Stepping back hesitantly, into the flickering shadow of the fire, he warily lowers his head, plush ears slipping back fretfully.
Maybe we should, he almost pleads with Na’aila, knowing his sister well enough to figure she does not like being commanded so.
True enough, her electric eyes are narrowed, her five tails twitching behind her with irritated motions. She too sees the size of the unicorn, but, who cares? She has lightning, and Taorcha’s piteous whimpers only make her even more angry.
Shut it! she snaps and barks at him, her white teeth gleaming in the firelight where her malevolently curled lips reveal their points, her sharp eyes falling again on the unicorn.
Leave, huh? sneers the pale kitsune, stupid grass eater. She kills her food, too. You leave!
Her tails gesture up towards the griffon, the fox entirely too perturbed with having been told what to do by a pompous blue unicorn to care much for lying, anymore. Besides, the bird-creature up on the stone ledge did eat meat! Such was the way of this world, one thing, devouring another, and the magical foxes were hungry, just like everybody else. What did the unicorn care if Na’aila and Taorcha got some eggs out of the ordeal, too?
Despite the General’s command, the twins denied the demand of departure – and here, here in the reaches of the dungeon, of the cavern, where only Orsino had the true translations, the unholy little monster grasped his opportunity. He’d always been wily, cunning, a blend of the ferocious and the feral, too ensconced and enshrouded in immoral platitudes to understand the nature of virtues, promises; he balanced on the lines of iniquity, craving the relish, the circumstances, the schemes to ensnare Erebos further down the road to ruin – to be anointed and consecrated with power, with oblivion, with treachery and deceit. Boundaries were not his strong suit – that was where the General had always relented, rebuffed, or rejected his perilous insights (to destroy whomever they came across, to obliterate the other soulless infidels, to massacre those daring to maim their flesh). But he can sense, he can see, he can feel that Erebos is too far gone now: there were too many moments bludgeoning his sentiments, his ruminations, driving him down the pebbled, marshy path of condemnation, and the kitsune couldn’t let it go, couldn’t see past the instance dropped there, the hypocrisy looming between the others’ tongues. He simply didn’t care.
Instead, the fox smirked, and granted only a segment of their rendition by his choice, pinpointing his soulless gaze on the others as he recounted the revised edition. They refuse.
Just as he predicted, the boy flared to life. The General, with his gallant, intrepid wares, with his valorous convictions, became more than an incensed, embroiled heathen, moving slowly, narrowed eyes riveted on the electric kitsune, incapable of understanding her shouts, her sneers, and only comprehending the dissent, the sedition, to his potency. Perhaps power, perhaps danger, perhaps damage and destruction could persuade her to leaving, to flee from her mutinous efforts; otherwise, he’d be an ominous pledge, a foreshadowed conclusion, a son of the Reaper, a master of movements, of actions, responding to his own description of vengeance. It tantalized, it enticed, it unraveled through his frame, slow, methodical steps, granting her just enough time to escape if she yearned to alter her plan – because all his frustrations, all his inabilities, all his god damned flaws and ineffectual movements were going to be a thing of the past, a sliding, forgotten piece of oblivion, surging along the crisp memories of days where he could only smile, only laugh, only be cast aside by the Gods, by the heavens, left alone, deserted, abandoned, and forsaken. He wouldn’t let the griffin be one more cast into the slaughter.
The rush of his magic came through his chest first, ethereal and nefarious, lingering along the pathways of his splintered heart, coming to rest with an eerie grin, before wandering within his spine, curling and coiling along his mind, a whisper, a ferocity, a rapture, a reverie. He could almost hear Orsino’s cackling, the snicker, the smirks, the barbarity of everything stored within him: and he unleashed it with a slender noose, with an avaricious control, lending it across the floor, along the rubble, through the wicked fires in a vindictive spiral of silence. It threaded and climbed, cajoled and tethered; intending to notch well within the chosen victim, the little electric girl with her brazen hunting skills, condemning with its perilous wake. He only asked for it to deliver pain, anguish, and misery, for it to slide through her spine and down the length of her limbs, for every ounce of his suffering to be unleashed along her frame, to ruin her, to oblige her terror and tyranny for a potent taste of the same, for one singular moment where he showed someone what revenge truly was, and that he could be the one to harbor and harpoon it all.
Do you yield? Orsino cast into the hollowed void, growling it amongst the gathered, as Erebos continued to unleash the molten wrath, the abhorrent hues, the soulless depravity welled and walled within his once courageous stature.
[Erebos attempts to use his corruption magic to inflict enormous amounts of pain on the electric kitsune.]
The brother is gone before the General can gather his magical will; a zig-zagging shadow, the magical fox vanishes with growls and scurries, no longer caring that much if his idiot sister decided to get herself killed for a bit of meat. Though it would be more difficult to hunt without her culling bolts of light, Taorcha would rather risk having to struggle to eat again, over never getting to eat anything, because he had been smashed beneath cloven hooves. Bolting back into the cavern, following the low, small tunnels into the caves (and eventually out), to best avoid the vengeful unicorn.
Na’aila, however, is too filled with pride to see this logical course of action, and instead of turning tail, she ducks her head down, and snarls. Sparks crackle along the length of her ivory tails, her pearly fangs snapping at the air before her, and as Erebos gathers his magical force and projects it towards her, so too does the Kitsune.
The black magic strikes the fox and immediately forces her legs to buckle beneath her, a yowl permeating the cavern as she struggles to flee the agony devouring her from the inside out. Her bolt of lightning is cast awry, the unicorn’s spell swifter, and with a blinding, crackling sound, the blinding branch of electricity bursts upon the cavern’s ceiling.
A low rumble begins to dully roar beneath the piteous sounds of Na’aila’s suffering, and cracks begin to permeate the ceiling, expanding outward from the initial impact point of that very (unfortunately) accurate blow to a weak spot in the stone.
Never! viciously snarls the kitsune in response, just as the first chunks of rock break free. Scrambling backwards, she tumbles into the fire, almost instantaneously ablaze from several points of her milky fur. The fate of the kitsune sister, however, is thusly blocked from view; a cascading wall of rock and debris quickly seals away all sight of the electric wielding fox, or her brother’s fire.
Flying from this wild rush of earth, the griffon lands at Erebos’ hooves, eddies of dust swirling about its claws and paws. A combination of some plain, black cat with golden eyes, and what seems to be a raven, her wings are flecked with the same warm, honey tones that color her gaze, and she looks towards her savior with a single, thankful clack of her beak, before she departs.
Yet, where she had been, there remains one of her two salvaged eggs.
[ Taorcha escapes the cavern with his life – but was Na’aila so fortunate?
Congratulations! Erebos has been given a Common Griffon egg! It may hatch in this thread, or he is welcome to care for it until it hatches. ]
The prince could’ve watched the kitsune splinter, scream, and fracture apart for an eternity. The bestial shades of his mind were content, were satisfied, didn’t care how the rocks and stones tumbled down upon her, didn’t care how many waves of agony were unleashed and echoing through the ricocheting chamber. He wished she could reach hell and be tortured there too, amidst and amongst all the other brutal, barbaric, condemned souls, reaching and reaching for serenity and finding none; in her, he could see the outlines of all those who’d wronged him, his friends, his companions, and it was sweet, it was vengeance, it was justice.
The magic flickered away from him, cast off, coiling back into dormancy until it was needed again. His features were aligned into only tranquility thereafter, the first time he’d felt it in such a long, long while, brows no longer furrowed, a smooth, smug, triumphant smile bridging over his lips. Orsino stood there too, proud, dominant, supreme, besting those who thought they could lord over him (but he had too many weapons at his disposal, and they hadn’t had enough power to topple the sable fox from his Stygian tower). The pair fizzled and sizzled, and only when the griffon landed at the scion’s feet, did reality suddenly churn back to them.
The boy instantly gentled, became more gallant, more virtuous, more valorous than his savage armaments moments before, leaning down to smile at the wounded dame. He nodded at her clack, at her thanks, grinning all the more that for once he’d actually been on time to save another from their plight (not useless, not inept, not ineffectual). Much to his surprise, she granted him something more in return, because as she flew off, escaping from her trials and tribulations, there rested an egg.
His eyes widened, then sharpened, curling his head back towards his chest in effort not to cry, not to laugh, not to break apart into a thousand emotions. He’d done it.
He’d accomplished something, and been blessed again for his efforts.
Erebos turned his head to glance at Orsino, and with that feral connection, victorious and indulgent, they both helped to gather the egg and leave the tumbling cavern.
.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
