"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.
02-17-2017, 10:29 PM (This post was last modified: 02-17-2017, 11:54 PM by Altar.)
Muted fires in snow-laden forests flashed through the hard walls of waves that bowed him over in the sea. The thrum of the skald’s horns smothered beneath the beating of the ocean, the fresh smell of burning beechwood washed away by briny waters. Altar awoke alone in the cold, angry sea – only drowning echoes in his ears.
The roaring ocean finally began to sleep as the night stretched on, rocking him upon a shore of black rock. The stones threatened to pull the seawater from his lungs as he rose on feathered legs, his chest rumbling with strain. Hours, perhaps even days, he spent in the furious sea – being tossed and battered amongst the waves. His stomach boiled with salt and his muscles screamed from having no reprieve. But Altar would not lay weakly upon foreign soils, not as long as the pagan stallion could still rise.
His thoughts were muddy and his memories were all sticking together like congealing blood. Thord? Where was Thord? Stones tumbled from the crown of antlers atop his black head as he moved further from the waters. A thick line of spruce trees rose a few feet from where the giant stood, stretching as far as he could make out down the boulder strewn beach. Where was Thord?
The sky was a reaching, dull black – nothing shone bright this night, even the moon kept her face hidden from him. The blue roan lumbered into the forest, sacrificing the easier trail down the beach for the obscurity of the trees. And although the newly burnt flesh lay like a pink blanket across his withers and down his back, he only heeded the throb of a carpenter’s auger that played in his ears – but there was no carpenter here. The giant threw his head wildly, shaking the sound out as his made his way through the thick spruces and further inland.
The teeth-bone necklace atop his antlers clattered faintly and his ears twitched at the sound, his muscles seizing - he can almost taste the ash of the bone fire on this tongue. But it fades away and the blue smoke stallion continues through the forest, his first coherent thought was for water that wouldn’t ravage his belly. Surrounded by miles and miles of water but not a drop to drink? That would drive the most pious of priests fucking mad.
There is someone - or something - lumbering heavily through the trees. Crashing this way and that without any regards to fellow wanderers who might seek to keep their activities on the down low. Wessex is not one of those sneaky types; she could no longer walk unnoticed in the shadow of the moon, having been cursed by the sun to glow, glow, glow (thrice she was marked, in a row of lines down the muscular curve of her rump) if she sought the warmth of its rays. Whomever made the clattery-clack-thump-crack sound may be able to see her coming long before her eyes can discern the larger shape amongst the high-boughed trees.
Eager for more than the standard patrol around the Basin’s border, the horned soldier walks willingly towards an unknown danger, newfound tail whipping back and forth. Mottled, like the rest of her coat, with a tiny (still growing, thank you very much) tuft of black at its edge. The week had been a tiring, painful one, full of restless nights, for she was loathe to seek a healer’s herbs to dull the pain. Let the experience live in her bones, let her know what it’s all for, when she bruises and bleeds and sacrifices her body to be a literal weapon.
Altering her course every now and then to follow the large creature, it isn’t until they’re rather up close and personal that she can make out a horned shadow, tall antlers as dark as his skin, and she both frowns in consternation at his mystery and immediately thinks of the possibilities of such built-in stealth. She can only imagine what kind of beast she looks like in turn, pale horns gleaming subtly in the dark, along with her silver dragon tattoo - to a child, this might be the stuff of nightmares. “You’re very loud,” she says flatly, stating the obvious. “Lost?”
He smells of sea and salt and little else. It makes her wonder where he comes from, and what brings him here.
Weaver has never been one to hide either, though she could, if she wanted. She could remove the blue gem and silver chain that looped and swooped around her tiara of horns. She could tuck her wings and hide most of the white marks on her body. Here, in Helovia, the rune of Death on her chest did not glow, and so it did not give her away. But she only hides when it serves a purpose. It does not serve a purpose, and so she does not hide.
Instead she moves through the Threshold as if she has always lived here, though that’s a lie. Act like you own the place, she’d been told. It works. If you act like it, people will believe it, and somewhere in there the lie gets lost. Or the lie never matters at all. Usually. She is graceful and quiet, though not invisible. Not that she needed to try, any noise she might be making is lost to the crashing of someone else nearby.
She turns her course to find a familiar face already there and an unfamiliar one. Of the group, Weaver finds herself terribly normal, though she doesn’t mind. She has never needed to be anything but herself, because that has always been enough. Wild and beautiful like a storm. Raven peeks out from his place in her horns, eyeing the mare and stallion in turn. He is curious, and so she stays, though he is always curious so she should probably stop listening to him.
“You live in the Basin.” She says, half question, half statement to the mare. She’d never been properly introduced, but you don’t forget a face like that. All three of them sprout more than enough horns to do some serious damage, actually, which makes her smile just a bit at the thought of it. Deadly things in a pile. Then she turns her attention to the stallion, “Weaver,” she offers, because she may be a double-edged sword standing next to a half-dino thing, but she was a born a princess and she has a handful of manners left. Many she ignores, a few she finds useful. Names are knowledge, and knowledge is useful.
03-12-2017, 12:49 AM (This post was last modified: 03-12-2017, 01:20 AM by Altar.)
Altar remembers nothing of the days before the sea and even less about his time within its depths. The last clear memory was of himself standing beside one of Thord’s runestones, scraping the velveteen from his antlers. Yes, Thord. Where was Thord? Despite the importance his mind insists upon, the name blows through his thoughts but still it cannot be tied down and it is swept away again by his still storming memories.
Dawn is beginning to break, sending swelling flames of colors across the sky and brightening the shadowed forest. The horn-crowned roan moves deeper into the unfamiliar woods, beyond bramble bushes and mushroom patches, listening to the footfalls of the one who followed. “You’re very loud,” she says, Altar drawing himself around to face the mouth piece of the terse, yet decidedly feminine voice.
The yellow eyed mare wore a headband of colored spikes and something near her flank glowed faintly in the tempered light, she was both a strange and curious sight. It is here that he reminds himself that he is salt-sick from the water and could be having visions, although his other senses seem to prove otherwise. Altar has never even seen another of his kind with horns, never mind what it was that grew from her mottled head. He shows nothing of shame or discretion as his gaze keeps being drawn back to the top of her head, “lost?” He takes a moment to answer and when he does his voice is guttural and resolved, “never lost,” he says firmly. “I am always where I am intended to be,” he says, his eyes moving curiously across her hairless, malformed tail, “what is the name of this place?” He asks, skin quivering as his tail swats away the wound flies that suckle in the blistered and cracked places down his burned back and flanks.
The soft rustling of wings brings another yellow eyed mare, as fascinating and peculiar as the first and for the first-time Altar considers if he might be dead. Dead and wandering through Freyja’s Fólkvangr fields – but that is no place for him, not he who burned for the pagans.
Again, his lack of tact is palpable as he has to tear his eyes away from the wings at her sides to meet her gaze, the brief eye contact bullied away as his attention is pulled towards the raven that now peeks from between her ears. Altar is shoveled over with thoughts of Huginn and Munninn, Odin’s great ravens that rested on his shoulders forevermore. She gives her name yet his eyes remain rapt upon the bird that shifts atop her head and he wonders if she knows that she wears an omen. “My name is Altar,” he offers, his flat black gaze sliding between the two yellow-eyed strangelings that came to him amongst the shadows.
This salt-licked stranger would hardly be the first to stare at her crown of horns, rather aptly (wishfully) colored as if the tips were forever stained in blood. The measure and boldness are noted as more pleasing than off-putting, though it is not because she seeks a male’s gaze. Some part of her secretly enjoys being regarding as something strange and unusual - as if in all the world, there are none quite like Wessex.
It’s probably the truth, and unbeknownst to our half-dino, half-horse, things are going to get quite a lot thornier, whether she likes it or not.
Hot on her silver heels comes a winged pegasus she knows by sight, if not by name. “Yes,” comes her reply, with a slight smile in the dim light. The white of her nose horn swings to look at the smaller Basiner. “I’m Wessex.” Which is enough of an introduction to them both, for now. The antlered stallion is mysterious, and she wonders if that isn’t an affect, or he really does thing in mystical ways. Either way, she chokes back a chortle, blowing out air through her nostrils in a soft snort. “If you truly intended to be here, you would probably know this place is called Helovia.” Lizard eyes glance over at Weaver, curious to see what she has to say about the whole situation. Not everyone is fond of Wessex’s blunt nature - more than a few edges have been ruffled at her unabashed honesty and peculiar gaze.
In the growing light, she can begin to make out the necklace of something that hangs from a prong, the sickly-glistening burns that cover some of his body, the salt that lies cracked upon his coat - the last two don’t look particularly healthy or comfortable. And also - gross. Blood is fine. Blisters are… not.
She wears many omens, it would seem. The blue rune on her chest, the mark of death that she bears. Both curse and blessing. The girl who’s been touched by death, arriving in the Basin right after the final demise of their very own Reaper. How fitting. Raven is a sign of many things, depending on where one comes from. She’s traveled through places that nearly worshipped him, places that believed that ravens belong to Apollo and mean good fortune (laughable, Weaver does not necessarily bring good fortune with her).
More often, Raven is seen as something that lives between life and death, a carrier of messages. It is more fitting for her, after all, the girl that can travel between life and death. Not that she can quite control that travel. But still, she has touched death twice, and suspects she will visit him a few more times in her life. Lives, maybe. She’s pretty sure it’s just one life with a few broken patches in it, but perhaps it’s really just that she’s been gifted with a nearly limitless supply of lives to waste. But that seems wrong, because she ages, and one day age will take her home.
Weaver actually does laugh as Wessex replies to the stallion, hardly kind enough to at least choke back the laugh as Wessex does. The dino-mare has, as far as Weaver can tell, ruffled less feathers than Weaver has already. She is blunt and careless and conniving, and it’s the last that seems to upset their General so. Tough skin, soft soul. She wonders what that’s like, to care enough about what others think of you for it to hurt. Somethings things touch her soul, certainly, but not in the way they touch his. Because she’d meant no offense (in her world, being conniving is a compliment), yet he bristled at her now.
Maybe it was just the damn wings. She was still the only one in the Basin with wings, and it was both glorious and off-putting. She enjoyed being special, don’t get her wrong. But sometimes she wishes she could use them without being promptly stared at as a monster. She is a monster, but not because of the wings of her back. “In particular, you are in the Threshold, where all horses new to Helovia find themselves.” She offers, her voice friendly enough, though her eyes and smile are mischevious as always. “Both of us come from the Basin, a herdland up to the north. Though there are other herds in warmer places, if you don’t like the cold.” Not everyone can handle the cold, she supposes.
03-17-2017, 10:05 PM (This post was last modified: 03-17-2017, 10:12 PM by Altar.)
The one who wore the blooded horn stifles a noise when he speaks and his ears flick forward inquiringly, it is not until the winged one laughs aloud that they fall back against his skull. He can’t place their amusement and so he finds that their sounds immediately irritate him. Then a memory of tradition slides through his thoughts and when he remembers, he is suddenly grateful for the pledges of silence the mares in Mydalr vowed. Yes, Mydalr, that was his home. There the mares were silent.
Wessex’s answer pulls a hard voice from his throat, “I am always where I am intended to be,” he repeats, his tone matter-of-fact and almost inquisitorial. “Although it is not always I who chooses the place,” he says, his eyes following hers as she looks upon his burned flesh and he notes that she does not wince amid her disgust. The waking sky flushed the shadows from his skin and highlighted his screaming red wounds, the sun revealing the splinters of wood in his salted burns.
The painted mare offers him more and so he lifts his ears and listens, the Threshold she says, in the land of Helovia, she names. Ah, yes, Altar has no fucking clue where he is and he can no longer feel Thord’s tether or taste the sharpness of iron.“…if you don’t like the cold,” the mare continues and the battle song plays from his memories, strident in his ears; Clamber, with a heart of steel. Cold is the ocean's spray... and your death is on its way.* The draft laughs back, “the cold’s never bothered me.” He remembers that he has never lived any other way but snow and ice and blood ash.
The necklace rattles faintly atop his antlered head as he tips it forward inquiringly, his broad shoulders pulling back and bringing him to full height. Thirst coiled demandingly inside him and although he smells water nearby, he does not pull away. They fed a numinous, needy curiosity that has always lived in his witched bones and so instead he asks, “is there fresh water nearby?”
Altar is going to be in for a surprise when he finds out the Basin is led by two mares, one of whom is quite the enthusiastic chatterbox. Wessex, personally, runs on the quieter side, and she can’t wait to see what the crazed natterings of Beloved might elicit from Altar in all his mystical responses. Her head tilts to one side, half-amused at his cryptic (is he a Shaman of sorts? His response indicates some sort of religious dependence) responses. But she does not press him for more information, more concerned about the nasty-looking wounds than whether or not he’s going to go to turn into some sort of fanatic.
The Basin can handle itself. They live in the valley of glaciers, for goodness’ sake.
“Well, that’s good, because in the winter we’re covered in snow and ice. Or so I hear.” She manages to avoid shivering at the thought. Her mass will come in handy in keeping warm, but that doesn’t mean she’ll enjoy the dead of winter. “For now, it’s pleasant.”
At his request for water, Wessex dips her horned head in assent, then jerks it to her left. “There’s a pool close by. I’ll show you. Weaver -” her gaze turns to the painted pegasus, with a question that was in no way trying to assume control of the situation, but is merely a practicality. She’s the only one who can fly, and if something were to happen on the trip back, Wessex is far closer to Altar’s size than her fellow soldier is. “ - would you mind flying ahead and finding a healer? His burns look like they need immediate attention.”
And that is a thing Wessex knows little about. She's far more the 'draw blood' than the 'stop the bleeding' type.
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