"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.
l a r k s p u r Loose ends, they tangle down and then take flight.
The trip to this new place, this secluded valley nestled amongst the snowcapped Mountains of the North, had been nothing in comparison to the many long, arduous miles Larkspur had spent traveling on her own in the last few months. The strange, dark, ever looming stallion, that chased the earth and very life of nature from his path, that had led her from the woods and through the mountain pass to this oasis, had been a fair guide, though as far as conversation went there had been little. Actually, there had been none. But that had suited the mare just fine, for there had been something easy, uneventful and peaceable about the silence, a feeling that had so far evaded the facets of her life. And though she still did not know the stranger's name, he had left her with an uncanny sense of normalcy that had escaped the clutches of her previous, vain attempts at finding a common ground between reality and her expectations.
Larkspur had been nothing short of a wreck upon her presentation to the herd here, a mess of tangled ebony and azure locks and ribs and hips that screamed and jutted out from her dull coat, caused by a lack of a decent meal. However, a week spent rejuvenating herself and resting had done wonders. The hot springs had become her favorite place, where she could soak weary bones and tight muscles in the radiating, ever present heat of the warm waters. The new spring grass that riddled the meadow of the valley floor had replenished and renewed the fullness of her frame, and she no longer looked like a rangy outcast, but rather the formidable and elegantly dangerous creature she was designed to be. Hikes through the cave riddled ridges of the mountain side and morning walks had slowly returned her stamina and strength. Her coat, a dull and dingy, muddled blue at her arrival, was now healthy and shone with eye catching brilliance. Her neck was full again, tying into the strong slope of her shoulder, and the line of her back no longer looked sunk in and neglected.
Her striking wilderness, her indescribable allure, was restored.
Gilded, bright eyes observe their surroundings from where she stands grazing, greedily and unabashedly pulling and tearing at the fresh, emerald blades with sharp, snapping bites of her teeth. There was nothing lady like about her what so ever. So far she had kept to herself, remaining silent and unspoken, listening to the whispers of the Plague and of Lady Psyche who claimed this land. Larkspur had landed herself amongst what seemed to be a group comprised of mercenaries and thieves, the unforgiving and the unseen. Familiarity encased her in its warm embrace, though at the same time unsettled her as she tried to define the train of thought that wrecked war and wreaked havoc in the confines of her head.
Was it too much like home?
Larkspur let the worrisome thought slip past her like a child discarding an idle, now boring play thing. Even the mare knew that there was no sense in allowing one’s self to linger in the past, yet she found it following her like a nagging, constantly pestering shadow, an all too similar image of her mother, never leaving her be. She tore into the grass with renewed vigor, conflicted emotions of guilt and anger and confusion allowing her senseless attack on the plant life to increase in its intensity. Better it than some innocent by stander that wandered too close.
Though Frostfall had passed and Birdsong swayed tentatively in place, it was still cold.
It was a deep, throbbing cold that burrowed in the marrow of his bones and made old battle wounds that were now no more than a scratch ache like a sore tooth. But Déodat was long accustomed to such weather, and he pushed it away absentmindedly, as if merely swatting flies from his back. More than any bone in his body, his heart ached. He blamed it on the frozen wastelands that caused such an uncomfortable, knotted sensation in his chest, but he knew better. Home had been far more fierce and freezing than these tame winterlands; crawling with wild things and blazing with the glory of the proud clans.
Home.
His throat felt uncomfortably swollen at the thought of his wild, serene mountains and the long evenings spent crammed in a cramped cave to shelter from screeching blizzards with his loud, smelly, rambunctious comrades. But they were gone. They were all gone.
His muscles were cramped from standing so still and motionless, and he wandered from the small cave he had sheltered in for his first nights in the valley. He had recovered immensely the last few days—feeding on the dry tundra grasses in the wane afternoon daylight and then sleeping the long hours of the freezing night. But even then, Déodat felt restless and useless. For he was Déodat, descended from a great line of noblemen and nobleson of the great General and his fighting wife Dieudonnée. He was Déodat, mighty warrior of the Clans, renowned for his bravery on the field of battle and fierce loyalty to the line of duty.
And now? Now he was nobody.
Exile.
Considered untested and a burden to the kingdom until proven otherwise. But he was not one to squander under scrutiny and pressure, though the weight of loss and grief threatened to consume his fighting spirit. It was not what the General would have wanted, he thought. Had they died for nothing? Had they died in vain? Revenge. Vengeance, swift and terrible, on those abominations that dare invade the might of the noble clans. That is what the General would ask of him, were he still here in the flesh.
And Déodat would not deny him this simple request.
He cleared his throat with a resolute snort of dismissal, causing wreathes of vapor to unfurl from his nostrils. A sharp gust of icy wind promptly slapped the vapor back into his face.
A mare grazed alone some distance from the mouth of his cave. He watched her, the wind swirling strands of black hair across his absentminded gaze. She was fair, as he found most mares to be. Her skin was like autumn skies, and her hair was as wild and black as a storm brewing over distant mountaintops. But more often than not, he had discovered that females tended to be quite useless in this land. His observations consisted of extravagant beauties with flowing hair that could be used to strangle them in battle, and shimmering skin that was little good for anything other than blinding innocent onlookers. And such colors they were, colors as he had never seen before in the clan lands.
There, wild bays, buckskins, dunskins, blacks roamed the mountains, colors average, simple, and pleasing to the eye, covered in frost and mud frozen to their fetlocks. And how they could fight, those warrior women! He had yet to meet a woman here that was even a shadow of such glory, and he did not get his hopes up as he wandered nearer to the stranger.
He grazed in the distance for a while, near enough that they could feel one another's presence, but far enough away that he had plenty of space to devour everything in his space. He felt glad for simple companionship. That is, until the sound of her tearing and churning the grass as if it were the last meal she would ever eat, disrupted his peaceful. Feeling vaguely peeved, he sighed to himself and then glanced her way, his expression rather bored.
"If you're not careful, that'll go straight to your hips, you know."
l a r k s p u r Loose ends, they tangle down and then take flight.
Thoughts of home did not send Larkspur into fond moments of recollection or heart ache, but rather quite the opposite. She bore a different kind of sadness upon her shoulders, a deep resentment that roiled and festered in her chest like an open sore, a fury that reared its ugly head at the thought of remembering, mixed with the undeniable shame of guilt for running from it all, something that she continuously buried in the deepest recesses of her heart- where no one would ever find it. So Larkspur chose not to think of her mother, who despite her best attempts to keep her daughter under lock and key, ended up with a wild, untamable fighter. And she lamented the fact that with each rise of the sun her father’s memory seemed to fade and dim further, the passing of time continuously eating away the last fragments of the only one who had ever mattered.
It left her empty, hollow, searching and aching aimlessly for the same conviction that had once driven her resolve.
It was, perhaps, a hopeless cause.
Larkspur heard him first, the tell-tale sound of hooves tracking across the freshly thawed ground, unhurried and lackadaisical in the distance between strides, near enough for her to notice his presence with relative ease and catch wind of his scent, unfamiliar and new as it lingered around her with the still frigid Birdsong breeze. Slender ears swivel and careen in his direction, golden eyes attempting to remain ambiguous as she watches the stallion draw closer and closer still. Uncertain of his intentions, and growing vexed with herself for allowing someone to wander up to her so easily, the mare continues to eat with slightly less invigorated enthusiasm than before. She assumes that if she remains quiet he will go away, and she can be left to wallow in her tangled, twisted, self-imposed misery.
But he speaks.
“If you’re not careful, that’ll go straight to your hips, you know.”
The dark mare almost chokes on her most recent mouthful of grass, the blades catching in the sudden dryness of her throat, her eyes wide with uncharacteristic surprise as she coughs and splutters, trying to catch her breath. She recomposes herself immediately, realizing after several fleeting seconds that she had not been imagining things, and that those words had truly come out of the insolent creatures very own mouth. Ambiguity is lost on her now, and gilded eyes narrow in inauspicious, murderous scrutiny as she finally gets a good look at the scoundrel. Do not be mistaken- she does not take offense, like some flowery, vain women might have, but rather she wonders at his audacity and obvious lack of tact. Her eyes linger on him without digression, unwavering in their piercing stare. She takes note of the spiraled ruby horn, the strong slope of his shoulder, the scars and blemishes that crisscross their way across his bay coat in intricate patterns, some unnoticeable to the untrained eye.
Larkspur sees them though, she sees him.
There wouldn’t have been a chance in hell of knowing who he was out of a thousand other faces, and she knows she has never met him in her lifetime, but a slow realization needles at her like the persistent, irksome hum of a gnat. There is an undeniable familiarity about him that aggravates her; she can see it in the way he holds himself, the unforgiving, indifferent tone of his voice, and the keenness in those indigo eyes that peer back at her expectantly.
Fearless and without hesitation she steps toward him, long, cat-like strides carrying her forward with momentum fortified and molded in tenacity . There is nothing meek and mild about her, no hint of helplessness or damsel like distress of some beauty in need of rescuing. Her eye lashes do not flutter wantonly and no sigh of feminine fatigue escapes her, she is not fragile, and she is not weak. All but growling she settles into a stop just steps away from where he stands, an image of her wild, sometimes irrational temper come to life.
"While I appreciate your concern,” Words are laced with sickly sweet antagonism, baiting him to bite, “I can only begin to imagine the insecurities that would drive a man to such limitless amounts of bravery, that he would dare to comment on a woman’s weight.”
12-19-2012, 11:51 PM (This post was last modified: 12-20-2012, 12:34 AM by Déodat.)
It seems they'd both come to the same conclusion.
After his snide and most ungentlemanly comment, Déodat assumed she would waltz away in an affronted manner, and he would be left in peace—not to mention he would have all of his and her dinner to himself. But alas, this was not the case. She choked and spluttered on her mouthful, and he couldn't help but wonder if she would keel over dead from shock. He chewed thoughtfully on a stiff stalk of tundra glass as she regained what remained of her dignity; the end of the stalk protruding from his lips and twitching comically with each slow rotation of his crunching jaw. But his expression remained quite serious, as always. His eyes always have a cold intensity to them—dark and striking and ever-burning.
Perhaps she thought him observing her figure, as any boy might do, for she was quite beautiful, but he was not. In fact, he was doing the same that she was at that exact moment. Sizing her up, analyzing her as if she were his enemy, as he did with every single new encounter in his life. It had once been forced habit, but had long since been drilled into his battle-hardened mind and honed to natural instinct. It took one thorough glance, and no more, to know she was not the tame kitten with soft paws he had mistaken her for.
Quite the opposite, really.
More like a lionness than a kitten, he decided. Her golden eyes glittered like a cold jewel in winter sunlight as she prowled towards him in quick, powerful strides, her unreadable expression sharp and remarkably feral and wild. She was neither timid nor aggressive, and so he settled on confidence. Her bold, straightforward manner was oddly refreshing.
He paused chewing as she spoke, her breath sweet and cool as it unfurled on his auburn face, and her words just as enticing. Without quite chewing his mouthful all the way, he swallowed audibly. She was quite in his personal bubble, to be honest. Frowning in vague annoyance, he moved a pace away with a proud snort, his brow glowered deeply over the bright intensity of his gaze as he scrutinized her.
"I'm not entirely sure why you think your opinion matters in the first place, but that is a most interesting conclusion you've come to, kitten. Beside the point though, really." He straightened up, his spine snapping to attention and his black hair cascading down the sides of his thick, muscled neck like a sleek black river. "The point is..." Her eyes had little flecks of a brighter color in them. He hadn't noticed that before. Aware he was staring, he snorted again and gathered his manly aura around him like a mother duck shepherding her ducklings beneath her wings. "The point is," he began again forcefully, "you, madam unicorn, are defiling my dinner with your hooves."
12-20-2012, 01:35 AM (This post was last modified: 12-20-2012, 02:16 AM by Larkspur.)
l a r k s p u r Loose ends, they tangle down and then take flight.
Sweet satisfaction, it furls through her with welcome warmth, and it’s all she can do to keep herself from smiling in selfish delight as he moves away from her, his irked scowl at her rather abrupt invasion of his personal space her source of amusement. Her tasseled tail flicks idly through the damp spring grass, curling around her pasterns and her legs, tangling and knotting as it snares against anything in its path. She pulls back just enough to allow him some distance, and to perhaps reassure him that she does note bite, though the thought may have crossed her mind. She does not smile, but she does meet his dark eyes glare for glare, bright yellow-gold glimmering and dancing with an undeniable hint of impish mischief that she cannot help.
Kitten be damned, this lioness still liked to play with her perspective meals.
As the bay unceremoniously swallowed his last bite of food and begins his epithet, Larkspur shifts all he weight to her right, allowing her left hind hoof to rest lazily in the shards and blades of spring grass. The dampness that lingers in the ground clings to her pasterns, and loose blades of grass stick to the feathered hairs there, like straggling travelers begging for a ride and refusing to let go. She feigns interest, ears swiveling toward the sound of his voice in subtle, indifferent movements, her expression changing as she watches him catch himself staring blatantly at her- losing his words as he tries to say them. For all her perseverance, Larkspur cannot stop the teasing grin that changes her hardened expression, nor the look of questioning curiosity that dared him to explain himself, replacing the previously devilish glare that had been there. She shifts her weight yet again, tossing her head slightly so that the mess of her storm colored forelock is cleared from her face, sweeping around the base of her brindled horn and off to the side where it falls against the length of her cheek.
She takes notice that he collects himself like a practiced soldier, the curl of his strong neck against the wave of his mane, the dark, smoldering eyes of the deepest blue that stare at her so intently. She surprises herself when she doesn’t look away.
"The point is, you, madam unicorn, are defiling my dinner with your hooves."
She considers him coolly, like a student taking a test, but she makes it a quick study. Instead of answering right away Larkspur’s first reaction is to scoff, a guttural, snorty sound that does not befit a lady. However, she had never been one for lady like things, and she makes sure to assure this notion by promptly dropping her head and taking another large mouthful of green from what could have been considered his patch of tundra grass. Slowly and unhurriedly she pulls her head back up, munching contentedly and rather thoroughly on her too-large morsel, in absolutely no hurry to excuse or explain herself. Glittering, gleaming eyes peer back at the stallion expectantly as she swallows, daring him to say something. She even goes so far as to take another step toward him, simply to try and irritate him further, finding grand amusement in his subtle hints of discomfort.
“My sincerest apologies kind sir,” She tilts her head to the side, words trilling with mock remorse. “I wasn’t aware that my presence caused you such affliction. Have I made you lose your appetite? It would be for the best I suppose… If you were half as concerned with your own figure as you were mine, those extra layers would be less noticeable.”
Her expression is rather demure, though a hint of coy allure lingers in the way she lets her words bite into the air, clear and lyrical as she speaks. If he was half as intelligent as she assumed him to be, he would realize she spoke mostly in jest. Larkspur was not so ignorant to miss the fact that he was anything but ungainly and out of shape. No, despite all her cat calling and attempts to belittle him, she had decided that he was not so different from her. He was a warrior, the same honorable, noble creed that sang in the blood of his ancient ancestors was not so unlike hers. It was the familiarity that called to her; she could see it in the dark depths of his eyes, the lingering, eternal and imperishable flame of the valiant. She let her eyes roam over him a second time, unabashed and seemingly arrant, lingering on the more noticeable of his scars, her thoughts drifting and beginning to wonder in childlike curiosity.
Who was he? What was his story?
Did he understand?
“Do you have a name?” It is a simple question, one that leaps from her mouth unexpectedly, gone and lost to the wind and time before she can realize she has said anything at all. She immediately clams up then, wondering if she has said too much, or if perhaps she has already angered him beyond the point of hoping to make any sort of friendly amends. Before she can say anything else she grabs another mouthful of grass, than one more, sufficiently shutting herself up so that she cannot speak, at least until he has had a chance to retaliate to her previous affront at his appearance- she was nothing if not fair. Too much time alone has made her rusty; her skills when it comes to socialization are rather unpracticed and affected by long days, and longer nights, spent in conversation with no one but herself for company.
Perhaps there was a chance that he could forgive her short comings and imperfections, ignore her inherent faults and flaws.
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Like slow-spinning redemption. [Déodat]
![[Image: QV8O7HU.gif]](http://i.imgur.com/QV8O7HU.gif)
