"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.
If Wessex were prone to dramatics, she’d tell the story later and say it’s a miracle she left that beach alive, which is far from the truth but gives credit where credit is due to her opponent. For now, the mottled (how much of it is bruising instead of coat coloration, she can’t be sure) mare limps along in a northern direction until her thigh muscles demand she stop and rest. Begrudgingly, she obliges, taking repose under a soaring oak tree. The boughs block out the stars, rustling in a warm summer wind that seems to lull the weary warrior into a fitful, dream-filled sleep.
Even here, it seems, she is plagued by missteps and loss; images of the past come back in fitful flashes of sharp teeth and harried sprints. She can taste fear on her lips, sour mouth sick with what she knows she cannot prevent, but must watch again and again and again, her mind filling in the details of what she could not possibly have seen. But oh, a childish imagination is a powerful thing, and just as Wessex once played at at Pirates, so can she see her mother surrounded and fighting to her very last breath.
The three slashes across her left flank seem to glow even more brightly than before, purely luminescent in the moonlight as skin splits and sharp, bony growths protrude. It is a different sort of pain than the aches of battle - those, she can sleep through - this is entirely different. An anguished half-cry wakes her, and she looks wildly around before realizing that the sound came from her own throat. Disgusted with herself, Wessex snorts derisively before registering the growing pains that roused her from her sleep. Craning around (god, she’s been in this position before, not so long ago), she peers at her rear end and is more than a little surprised to see ivory collected in pairs along the length of her leonine tail. Unable to touch them, she cannot yet tell if they are sharp or dull, only that there will surely be more oddities to add to her collection.
Wessex the Mutant. From her lips to the Gods’ ears.
It wasn't often that the dragonmare explored the lands beyond the borders of her herdland after the sun had made its descent. It was almost a ritual, a canon, that the dragonmare would be within the borders of the lands during the time of day when their Goddess was strongest. Her mother had had a bracelet, a charm that allowed her to take twilight with her always - Amaris sometimes missed it, though she was also a creature of fire and light and warmth, she missed the devious charms of her mother, and wondered at what had become of them often. You would have loved Akaith, Amaris chuckled through the bond to her companion, who was in his usual position on the breeze above her wandering form. He did not speak a reply, but simply sent a sense of agreement through their bond, warm and comforting, his mind vaguely flicking through her memories to steal images and impressions of the first golden dragon to exist within Helovia, pulling up with them images of Mirage while he was at it. It was a cathartic exercise for them both; he for having never met them, she for remembering them in a new light, with his perspective painting the memories anew.
Tonight, neither of them had felt like sleeping. It had been hard work these last few days, aiding the herd task of clearing the way for the temple to be constructed, and Amaris had spent a lot of time napping and recovering from the physical aspect of it while the sun was up. Evidently, she had overdone it, and now seemed to have shifted temporarily onto a nocturnal sleeping pattern. A wanderer by nature, she explored the Meadow without really taking in any features it offered, merely trailing the curve of the river as it wend its way through the lands. It wasn't until a sound of alarm and pain went up nearby that tension filled her, ears pricking and eyes scanning the area. Amaris was half dragon, half predator, yet she was also half equine, and so she was not immune to the immediate sense of fear when alerted to potential danger. A harsh snort seemed to follow the alarm, and the dragonmare takes tentative steps through the trees to find the form of a many-horned mare lying almost prone upon the ground.
The dragonmare drinks in her appearance swiftly, registering and accepting it with ease (she was a dragonmare after all, and did her best never to judge others for their appearances). Aside from the unusual assortment of horns across the belle's body, she seemed battered and bruised, though none of the wounds were fresh - why then had she suddenly called out in alarm? "Are you alright?" her soft, singsong voice enquired, her gaze scrutinising the area. "I heard something, and was worried someone was being hurt," she added, seemingly satisfied that there was no immediate danger (it helped when Dramyrth was also able to scout from the skies to assure her as much), and returning her golden gaze to the horned mare's.
What is it with others coming out of the dark and sneaking up on her while she’s going through her mutations? Like Wessex is some sort of freak show with a flashing (but invisible to its bearer) beacon on her saying ‘Hey! Everybody! Want to see someone grow more spikes?!’
The voice, however, is in striking contrast to the Basin Lord’s snarky one, and even though Wessex is irritated, she cannot deny that the owner of said voice is probably full of good intentions. It’s melodic, sing-songy, and logic says the warrior would be hard pressed to find someone intent on harming her who first asked if she is alright. The mare who steps into sight only adds to the surprise, for she too, seems to possess some unusual features. Wessex’s gaze immediately goes to her leathery wings, and then to the gold dragon that seems to hover around. Her companion, she assumes, but makes no effort to engage it as she has recently discovered that not all companions are as ebullient as Nimue.
“Ah… yes. Fine. “ the Corporal replies, not quite sure how to otherwise respond. Her tail twitches then, filled with a jolt of itchy growing pains. Wessex winces, and then immediately regrets it. “Nope, just me and some… growing pains.” Her shoulders roll, and that in itself sets off a whole new batch of aches. If only she could get to the Basin, throw herself into the Hot Springs, and then just live there for a day or two. But she cannot move now, not without rest that seems to be elusive, and with someone here to conveniently take her mind off all the things, she chooses to engage the mare. “What are you doing out here at this time of night?”
All the normal folk are sleeping. Wessex isn’t normal, by virtue of her appearance. What is Amaris’s peculiarity?
The dragonmare, having missed the actual transformation that took place, did not quite understand the reference the mare made to growing pains - the grey lady looked grown full, adult, at an age where the only changes that would affect her would come from battle, or magic otherwise. Perhaps it was some kind of magical change, Amaris mused, having gone through something like that recently. Oh! the realisation echoed through her mind and bond, that's where I recognise her from! The fire-cheetah.
Any further than that, however, and Amaris' memory was blurred by the chaos that ensued from the fire-cheetah's existence - she merely recalled seeing the spiked mare's form, and was ignorant to the fact that Wessex now bore more spikes than that previous point in time.
The mare did seem riddled with aches and pains, and concern frowned across Amaris' façade, but she allowed the mare to distract her from it - guessing that she was distracting herself from the pains as much as she was deflecting Amaris was enquiring any further into what they were all about. "Couldn't sleep," the dragonmare offered simply, with a rolling 'shrug' of her winged shoulders. "Decided to enjoy a moonlit exploration instead of standing around imaging all of the unsuccessful ways I could try and get myself to fall asleep."
That was the sum result of her reasons, though certainly not very specific. Basically, her mind was too loud to let her body rest, so she put her body to work as well. With a raised brow and a kind, curious glint to her eyes, she posed the question right back at the mare: "And yourself? What interests you to venture to these parts in the dead of the night?"
Even after these lovely additions, Wessex imagines that her head-spikes (or dildos, as an inebriated old pervert might call them) will always garner more attention than her tail-spikes, as one often naturally looks to another’s head for conversation. That might give her an advantage one day, but not now, when they’re hardly more than white nubbins poking through her tender flesh like a baby’s first set of teeth. “Sleep is overrated,” Wessex replies with a half-scoff, though it is purely in jest. It’s what they all tell themselves, right? Now that they don’t immediately doze off into lalaland like they once did as foals and the pains of adulthood are all too real, they must convince themselves that this sleep thing is not the only thing they want.
“Ha, well that’s awfully… productive of you,” Wessex says with a chuckle, amused at how the mare has chosen to frame her conundrum, mostly because she has the right of it. She kind of decides right then and there that she likes this leather-winged woman, and that if she has to spend this agonizing night with the company of a virtual stranger, it might as well be this one. The sky remains cloudless, affording some general ‘light’ to the too, for Wessex’s luminescent marks don’t really do much but act like a firefly’s ass, saying ‘Hey, here I am!’ to everyone and their mother.
“I was on my way back to the Basin from a spar when my body just decided to stop working. This chick beat the shit out of me, and I don’t have enough pride left to try and lie about it,” she says with a derisive snort and a quick flick of her ears. It’s been such slow going, and her muscles are surely going to cramp up and be worse tomorrow, so the analysis is fairly accurate. There’s no bitterness in her voice about the defeat, for how could there be? It is the nature of her profession to alternate between wins and losses until one reaches a certain level, and damn that is a spar she’ll remember for awhile. One she’ll definitely try to redeem herself from – you know, after she’s got some more experience under her so called belt.
Oh, to find sleep as easily as she had when the comforts of youth still clouded her mind. Amaris had never been a stupid child, no, but the ignorance of youth truly was blissful, mostly because one did not know just how little one knew. As age and time and experience chipped away at one's innocence, the realisation of just how insignificant you were became more apparent. And for some reason, this realisation caused anxiety, uncertainty, unrest - and, inevitably, shit sleeping cycles.
Amaris maintained a small half-smile, a shadow of a smirk upon her lips, as the mare commented on sleep, or lack thereof, being normal. Yes, at times like these, when one preferred moonlight to daylight, but the majority of activity occurred during daylight, meant sleep was elusive even when one was not fraught with overwhelming thoughts that churned into a cesspool of anxiety and restless nerves. The dragonmare did what she could to cope - she walked, she thought, she filled in the time as best she could with something, anything just to continue getting by in the crazed world.
So the mare was from the Basin, and most likely in the warrior ranks, if her comments were anything to go by. Amaris tried to maintain fitness in a survival setting, she did what she could to ensure she knew how to defend herself, how to disable an attacker, how to stand strong against one who would strike her down - how to protect her home, even if it technically was her rank's responsibility, it was hers. Amaris offered a conciliatory nod and wry grin, happy that at least it seemed the mare's pride was more bruised up than her body.
"It's best to keep moving, if you can. It will hurt, but a lot less in the long run, than if you stand still and let the aches settle too long." Soft, warm tones offered, though their words suggested low level torture as the solution to everlasting pain and suffering. "I'd be happy to walk with you if you want." It was a genuine proposal, though she suspected she might be scoffed at for making it. So, with another wry, almost cheeky grin, she added swiftly: "Or, of course, I'd be happy to stand around talking all night too, if you'd rather succumb to your bruised and battered ego."
“I know, I know, I know…” she grumbles back, hating that she’s pretty much disregarded the first rule of post-spar recuperation; don’t settle in until you’ve soaked your aching body, if at all possible. “This isn’t my first rodeo, just the worst thus far.” Her head turns to glance back at her hip, mock-glaring at the body part that’s failed her the most. The lady does make sense, however, so she sighs heavily - dramatically, even - and shoves herself up from the ground. It makes her wince, sharp pain shooting through her hips and down her leg. The bone is probably bruised, the flesh around it far more tender and inflamed that she’d like. “If you don’t mind walking with a cripple, I… would be glad for the company. There’s a hot spring in the Basin, I was hoping to make it there, but the going is slow.” It is almost as painful for her to admit to wanting - no, needing help - as this sparring aftermath is. But the logical part of her wins out, again, and she knows that there are few options that make sense.
“I’m Wessex,” she says gruffly, by way of introduction. If they’re going to walk together, they should probably know each other’s names.
“So what’s your story?” she asks, as she begins to hobble away from the protection of the tree, wanting nothing more than the sweet, sweet distraction of someone else talking, while she dreams of alternating in baths of ice and steaming hot springs. You know what would be really awesome right now? For her to mutate a pair of fucking wings, not these little stubby bone bits on her rear end.
It seemed her pokes and prods would be enough to stir activity from the mare, no matter how grumbling and pained she was feeling. Amaris was glad she had not taken offence to her jabs and taunts, glad that she saw what little humour there was left in the unfortunate situation she had found herself in. The dragonmare's smile remained as she watched the mare get up, not foolish enough to offer to help left she offend the mare by assuming she was 'weak' enough to need help.
"I don't mind," the dragonmare confirmed quietly, nodding along as they began to walk, albeit slowly, in the approximate direction of North. The spiked mare reveals her name, and having already surmised that she was from the Basin, Amaris guesses that her previous conclusions were right - Wessex was probably in the warrior ranks, probably sparring, practising, improving herself for a future of conquering or defending lands.
"Amaris," she offered simply, even as Dramyrth plonked unceremoniously from his hidden perch in the trees above to land atop her scaled withers. "This is Dramyrth," she added, forever including him in her introductions now, still curious that there was ever a time she could not do so.
"My story?" she asked back, as they wandered the lands. Movement was good, it stopped the chill of the night from settling in, it gave her body and mind something to do other than think and worry, activities she had been engaging in a little bit too much of recently. "I'm a half-dragon, half-equine mare who lives at the World's Edge as a Philosopher," she began, not entirely sure what the horned mare wanted of her as far as 'stories' went.
"I was born in the Edge, but found myself travelling away for a time. My most recent trip saw me away for barely more than half a season, but when I returned, almost two full years had passed in Helovia." She supposed that was an interesting enough story to tell, if the mare wanted to hear more about it - but there wasn't really any more, for Amaris had settled finally, had found work she enjoyed and was finally building relationships up again, despite her past, despite those she had lost along the way.
"A fairly standard Helovian tale, I'm afraid," she added with a wry grin, knowing all too well that Helovia was a hotspot for fantastic tales and histories, wondering if this spiked mare had her own to tell. "How about you? Got an interesting tale to share? Are you a native?"
“Amaris, Dramyrth, ” Wessex repeats back, nodding shortly. “Thank you.” It is as much a thanks for indulging her as it is for adjusting to the slow pace and her low-key, no-fuss company. Wessex tries to avoid drama like the plague, unless it comes to bitching about things with her fellow soldiers - that sort of snark is a-ok.
Wessex listens, her ears swiveling around the many sharp protrusions, all but stopping in her tracks when Amaris so casually mentions that she’s half dragon. Orange-yellow eyes fall down her foreleg, where one can see the tattoo which wraps itself up her leg. A symbol of what Wessex wants to be when she is at full force, and the dark side of her found it father fitting once the horns came in. But she holds her tongue until the end, chuckling in the back of her throat at the quip about Helovian tails - though truthfully, they all seem to have rather bizarre backstories. This is not a land of simple herds and patriarchy, where mares are content to pop out babies, and colts grow up, leave, and form new herds. Glancing over to her traveling companion, she replies with, “Helovian tales are hardly standard, I’ve come to understand.”
The Gods seem to make sure of that. She inhales deeply and then lets it all out with a sigh that signifies nothing more than that the Corporal doesn’t know where to begin. Her story has been closely guarded for awhile, hints dropped here and there, but never spoken aloud. Not because of any great attachment or shame, or anything like that, but simply because Wessex likes her privacy. “Not a native, I come from a kingdom by the sea, where my mother ruled as a Warrior Queen. I wasn’t more than a yearling when the mold and monsters came, and we were unable to stop it.” Her voice falls flat and unemotional, rising and falling only in the nuances of words - relaying facts, the turn of events. No one else need know that the kingdom slowly starved from a lack of food; first the old and the young were taken, then the weak ones, then the brave ones…
“I’m ninety-nine percent sure I’m the only survivor, and came away with some pretty awesome parting gifts." Her voice slides into sarcasm-land, letting jokes tell the rest of her story. "Fun fact, I wasn’t born with any horns or spikes, or orange eyes. I was obnoxiously plain and normal.” her voice drifts off for a moment, briefly wondering if she’s come off as a total ass for the flippant way she talks about literally hundreds of deaths. “Aaaaand then I joined a mercenary group, and now I’m here.” A short pause.
A half-smirk curved her lips as the spiked mare chuckled, and Amaris was glad to be able to provide some amusement to the interaction, some semblance of light and laughter to an otherwise odd situation. It was good, she supposed, that she was able to talk about her past with relative ease now, when even still so recently going into detail about it had wreaked havoc with her emotions. It was easier this way, to speak so lightly about it all, to gloss over the details, to merely speak about it as if she were speaking about someone else's history, someone else's past. To disassociate, to distance, to carry on and ignore the pulls of nostalgic depression that tried to pull her down, always.
Was it respectful to those that had been affected by her past? Was it right? Amaris didn't know the answer to those questions, she only knew that it was a way to cope, however unhealthily, with the burden of their histories. Perhaps it wasn't a long term solution to dealing with it, but that was a problem for 'future-Amaris' to deal with - 'present-Amaris' needed to focus, to get on with life.
She listened to the short tale Wessex weaved, silently respectful, hearing the familiar undertones of seriousness in her words, detecting a sense that this mare was doing similar to herself, and speaking of the events with such brutal dryness that it was as if they were describing a stranger's history, a lore of a land, a simple fact that one needn't cry or reel or feel anything about. Amaris, while not a fan of bloodshed and war for all the death and destruction it inevitably brought, did not blame the mare for distancing herself the way she herself had, and accepted the story with a quiet nod and impassive expression, not feeling inclined to prod deeper into this curious mare's history, for clearly she had been through enough without the dragonmare investigating the inner workings of her emotional state.
"Quite," Amaris agreed softly, her smile a bit more sombre, but her eyes telling of the recognition of the mare's coping of a rough past, yet she did nothing more about it than that simple look. It was definitely interesting, that much the dragonmare could not deny no matter how many other histories she heard. Wessex had spoken of a mercenary group, and the dragonmare could not help but think of the Grey, the herd that had taken the Foothills for themselves only to then join with the Basin and wring havoc against her home - a group of skilled beings who sold their abilities to the highest bidder.
The memory that rose unbidden to her cranium left a sour taste in her mouth, though she hid it well behind her smirking façade and quiet, curious glances. "And how are you finding Helovia? As exciting as the life you've left behind, or less so?" she posed, seeking to distract her wayward thoughts from past wars and horrors, seeking solace in this mare's words, her past, her story, so that she might for just a moment, forget her own.
Oh, Wessex had plans of selling her abilities to the highest bidder, but one thing led to another… and then Tiamat found her in the Threshold… Erebos turned out to be a kindred spirit… and, eh, maybe gold is overrated. Maybe what she’d really been looking for is a place to let her ambitions grow, to find something worth caring about again. Her life is no longer a number on a checklist, worth whatever the men with money deem it to be. It isn’t determined by a kill count or how many times she’s nearly died, or by whatever she can win from her fellow phalanx mates. The Corporal still values strength and cunning and still finds her head goes a little light and thrummy in the heat of battle, but she also knows someone isn’t going to slit her throat in the night for a newfangled sword.
There is… safety here. Loyalty. Figures more like her mother than pure warlords of the in-between stage. And she does miss her mother, mostly in the way that she knows there was much more the Warrior Queen had to teach her, and sadness that all that knowledge is now lost. All the lore of her kingdom (which the tomboyish princess never turned an ear to, unless it was an Epic about a Hero) rotted with the bards, spores silencing the songs they once sang, swallowing up the woods and sea-grass until there is nothing but the ghostly whispering of wind amongst the ruins.
But this interesting creature either truly finds her story interesting, or is the polite kind. Wessex snorts, “Hardly, compared to being half-dragon. Although they call me half-moose, or half-tank, or something like that. Still… dragons,” she says with a look towards her pale companion, shaking her head a bit. It’s fascinating that the one of them who is conventionally exotic is so… demure? Eh, maybe that’s not the word Wessex is looking for. She does bring up another question thought, and to answer it, Wessex can only shrug. “Well this Kaos thing is interesting, right? I’ve never been in the middle of a God War before.”
Because that’s essentially what it is; Gods fighting over land and power, while Helovians are stuck in the middle with no clue as to who’s the better Master.
The dragonmare couldn't help the sense of judgement, of assessment, as the spiked mare continued speaking. That the mare thought her own story, her own history was less interesting than the simple fact that Amaris was half-dragon irked her a little, though she could not pinpoint specifically why. Amaris thought of herself as nothing more than what she was: half-dragon, half-equine, bondmate to a golden king (the first), a wanderer who had finally settled (at least for now), a mare of reasonable intelligence who felt emotions very deeply, who did not always make intelligent decisions despite her cleverness, who often felt awkward, anxious, and otherwise out of place even in a world of strangeness and many unique individuals.
So she offered a small half-smile, trying to be appreciative, clinging to the fascination that was dragons, for even though she shared blood with the fiery reptiles, she too found them endlessly captivating and bewitching.
Wessex moved on to speak about the current climate of war and unrest, of insecurity and curiosity over the fate of the gods. Amaris remembered from her childhood, the wars of the gods that savaged the lands, the magic that was numbed, paused, stolen for a time, the darkness that swallowed the lands. History repeats, she knew, this was just another cycle of change, of uncertainty, of crisis and turmoil. Would they survive it?
The only certain answer was that they would try.
"Kaos is indeed an interesting development, but Helovia has seen many such developments and continues onwards despite it all. I do not advise accepting complacency, but merely hope to inspire a will to survive." They were but pawns on a giant chessboard, all of them, for none of them could dream of the power the gods wielded, the sheer might of their will able to craft and construct lands from nothing (at least, that's how the original Helovia was built, before they took to 'stealing' lands from other dimensions altogether); that they were threatened, powerless and blind against this Kaos should cause concern to stir in even the most ignorant of the populace.
But they would survive, wouldn't they? They would carry on, though they had no idea of the possible changes they might have to bear, to face, to fight - or to join?
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