"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.
05-27-2013, 04:46 PM (This post was last modified: 05-27-2013, 04:52 PM by Circe.)
Circe
[Open to Grey and Sons of Mandrake]
_____
There was snow that morning.
It was no more than a dusting really, a faint sprinkling of fat, crystalline flakes that would melt as soon as they hit the earth of the Foothills. Surely it was much too early for snow, as it was still in the last vestiges of the Orangemoon season; the air that rode ‘twixt the valleys and the hills was chill-laden, surely, and perhaps it was this that had beckoned to the snowfall to come so early now. A silken veil obscured the azure of the sky, ash-grey and foreboding, casting the dawn in a vault of colorless shadow. The sun barely penetrated the cloud barrier; it was a faint morning of snowfall and a persistent, creeping chill that permeated the entirety of the territory.
Circe had been expecting her excitement to wane and die, to be replaced by the same cautious worry the Dauntless had displayed that first, tenderly berserk night together; she had expected to fret about the foal she carried, to ache with fear and apprehension about the thought of her being a mother and raising a child in the hard world she knew so desperately well. None of those things happened; as her stomach rounded out and she felt the stirrings of life gamble about in her womb, a warm glow settled upon the shadowmere’s breast, and for the first time in many moons she felt….happy. She grazed the fields, relieved of her duty to draw blood and crush her enemy’s skulls, and instead she was left to her own devices to feel her heart flutter with adoration and feel her child shift inside of her. The wonder was indescribable; the joy was heartbreaking. She had even come up with a name for her child—“Callisto”. On quiet evenings, when the sun set low and the golden glow pierced through the cold of the dying season, Circe would speak that name—“Callisto”—and the glow would flare into something almost painful, almost stifling, and Circe would smile to herself in hopeless content. It was quite possible that the sorceress had never been so deep in love before these precious moments with her child she had never even met yet.
Hours ago, on the frozen morning of early snow, twinging discomfort and the likes of which Circe had never felt began to wrack her body, pulling the sorceress from sleep; after the initial shock and panic, the shadowmere realized the hour of birth was nigh, and her excitement flared once more. Quietly she extracted herself to a lonesome corner of the territory and settled herself to battle with this new kind of agony—and it was a battle. The shadowmere groaned and snorted and bit her tongue, gnashing her teeth against the onslaught , laying on her side and heaving her body to expel the trapped foal from within. The sorceress battled with tenacity and impatience she had never before experienced—but she wanted to meet her dear Callisto.
Several hours later, as the flakes began their hesitant fall and the morning began to creep into the dim light of life, Circe still lay upon the frozen ground. The snow fell upon her brow and the tip of her horn; upon her barrel and her flank; covering her hooves and threatening to obscure her vision. Circe was sitting up, ever alert and newly free of the pain of birth—but she was numb. Everything was numb. The wind that started to howl in her ears and the light that fought to pierce through the clouds in the sky, the lasting soreness and hurt that lingered in her body—she was numb to it all. Excruciatingly numb. Her mind, the air in her lungs, the light in her eyes….all of it was dead. She spoke once and only once, and even her voice sounded like the croak of a fading corpse.
“Callisto,” she breathed.
For there was her child, her dearest daughter, brought into this world of early snow and faded light. Here was the tiniest body imaginable, cloaked in night and donning the likeness of the man Circe had collaborated with to create this precious little girl. There was the source of Circe’s happiness; here was the light and glow that had filled the shadowmere’s breast and throat, the spring of the hopeless, giddy contentment that followed the Executioner on her quiet days of reflection.
05-27-2013, 05:31 PM (This post was last modified: 05-27-2013, 05:32 PM by Archibald.)
The wind swept over the hills and brought his scent to his nostrils, driving his frantic hooves as they pounded after her. His gunshot heartbeat was rapid against his chest, threatening to leap from behind the sinew and epidermis to land smack into the chilled grass. The light blanket of snow was thin and slippery beneath his crashing hooves, his trail easily followed. The beast did not care about being followed now, no, all he cared about was Circe--and his child--'s safety.
Archibald rose early to patrol the borders, and by the end of his toll he had ventured to the heart of the herdland, hoping to find Circe there. She was so close to her due date that she frequented the area, he could see it in her mannerisms that she wished to nest. He had seen it so many times before in Mandrake before his brothers were born. She would pace, eat, paw, eat, and pace. All day, all night. However, panic struck the warlord when he did not find the shadowmere in the middle of the Foothills. He sent Loretta ahead of him, her vision and nose guiding his hulking form towards the very ends of the territory. His golden eyes narrowed in determination, but his mind raced with possibilities. He knew of the Assassins and their attempt to breech their borders, and he could only hope that they had not snatched up his execu--his mare.
The thought of Circe being captured while pregnant, and bursting, with his child made his heart turn cold and his stomach churn with fire. He would demolish any that laid a hoof on her form, rip them limb from limb and scatter their organs around for those just as stupid to see what happens when someone crosses the Daun--there she was. Archibald's hooves stopped moving, his behemoth body screeching to halt in the snow. His breathing was quick and agitated, his nostrils flaring wide. His golden eyes scanned over the dark mare, arriving downwind behind her, still several yards away, just as his--their--child dropped from her body. He waited for Circe to turn and clean the foal and urge it to move and drink, but nothing happened. Upon the wind the dark mare whispered a single word. Callisto.
Taking tentative steps forward, the Dauntless swallowed the distance between them and the world slipped away from him. His golden eyes darkened with the epitome of sorrow and his ears dropped. As he reached Circe and Callisto, the draft gently swooped his neck nose to smell and nuzzle his daughter. Loretta, watching from a few fox-lengths away, lowered herself to her belly and placed her chin on her paws. Her ears lowered and a whine slipped from her throat, and she crawled forward, her tail curling underneath her belly tight. The bitch continued to whine, her amber eyes darting between Circe and Archibald.
Heavy legs bent and the mammoth, warrior frame of the general crumpled to the ground. His knees fell cold onto the earth and he moved his body carefully, wrapping his giant mass around the fragile body of Callisto. She was beautiful and sad, with a coat like the night sky. Her four legs--solid, Archibald could tell--were dipped in the finest royal blue and her torso was draped in the darkest of ebon. She was a mix of the warriors that created her--perfect and strong and pure.
And dead.
Curling his neck, Archibald held his daughter tight in an embrace, his body slowly beginning to shake. This was not like the births of his brothers--or, his sisters. Flashes of Mandrake's fillies flashed into his head, blood splashing across his vision as the memories flooded and haunted. His first kill had been one of his sisters--his mother had been blessed with a beautiful palomino draft with striking green eyes, and Archibald had killed her without a second thought. But now, when he deserved the blessing, he received a curse. Not your fault, Loretta cooed mentally, whining loudly before tipping her head back and pointing her muzzle to the sky. From the depths of her throat she sung a song of perpetual sorrow.
"Circe. Forgive me."
Through the ages of time
I've been known for my hate,
but I'm a dealer of simple choices;
for me it's never too late.
The snow continued to fall, its pace picking up as the minutes rolled by, creating a sheet of white upon the brow and sides of the indigo mare who continued to lay in stunned disbelieve. There was not even room for remorse in her mind, such was her shock; even as the heavy footsteps of the Dauntless reached her ears and he kneeled to embrace their lost angel, Circe could feel nothing but an alarming numbness spread across all four corners of her body. It was a sedation doomed to fail; regardless, the shadowmere was allowed a few minutes of grace before the shadow would envelope her vision and her world would shatter slowly, painfully, yet surely into complete and utter destruction.
Circe was unaware that she was crying; the shadowmere was blatantly ignorant of when tears had begun to fall from her staring eyes, or indeed, that they now fell thick and fast, forming heavy trails of sodden fur on each of her cheeks. It wasn’t until Circe listened to the bitter, piercing keen of Loretta’s howling that a sob wracked her body—and it was this motion of movement, this involuntary shudder and convulsion, that managed to break the brittle pane of glass that managed to hold back Circe’s despair. It was in that moment that the weight of all that transpired, of all that was lost, seemed to settle on her shoulders with the full of its impact. And it was just in that space of time that the Dauntless spoke with mirrored anguish.
Forgive me, he begged of her.
With his uttered words, Circe screwed up her eyes as a wave of grief and misery rolled over her; slowly she laid herself down, groaning as her head hit the snow-laden ground, her eyes closed and her breathing shallow as though the executioner suffered a fatal wound. This was not altogether untrue.
Her mind began to move again from its sluggish shock, but no conscious thought entered her brain. No, what Circe heard was voices, chanting, abhorrent ideas and terrible, terrible taunts. Memories flashed before her closed eyes, unbidden, unwelcome—the last of her mother Hera’s face flashed in front of her, those radiant blue eyes widening in fear as Hera realized they were caught in an ambush. The way those eyes looked at everywhere but Circe as they struggled for escape; the way her mother had found an opening and bolted, those eyes never even once looking back at the offspring they left behind. Your mother left you, those horrible voices contemplated, you don’t deserve a mother.
Circe knew she was not the only one in pain; she knew that Dauntless kneeled for no one, and she could see through the slits of her lids that his body shook with the force of his own despair. It came off of him in waves; the lament of his companion was a testament to that. She knew she should sit up, answer him, offer him a way out of his own dark tunnel—but Circe could not. She couldn’t look him in his golden eyes, for there she would break; she would crumble with the shame of her failure. There was no blame for him. It was Circe herself that was the broken vessel.
You deserve no mother, the voices chanted, and you don’t deserve to be one.
He had never felt anything like this before, the feeling was crippling and suffocating. His body felt heavy for the first time and his blood pounded heavy in his ears. Loretta's dark cry fell upon deaf ears, but they snapped down to flesh with his dark nape. Archibald stared hard at the ground, his eyes cloudy and sullen.
Before this day, had Archibald even felt a slight hint of sadness? Or was he only a vessel of war?
Loretta's howl dissipated into the wind and she crawled closer to her bonded, head low. Her whining was low and mumbling, but she touched her nose to his shoulder nonetheless. She is beautiful. Loretta told him, face twisting with a new form of concern that she had never felt before. Her pink tongue moved forth from the pearly cage of her jaws and lapped over Archibald's burn-scarred shoulder, her amber eyes glancing up towards his golden ones. Archibald continued to shake, despite her comforting efforts, and he closed his eyes, the dark veils of his lids covering the last but of the liquid metallic of his molten gold eyes. Simultaneously, the Dauntless sighed deeply and pressed his chin into his daughter's cold, damp body.
The silence was long and eerie between the weeping mother and the statuesque father, with the dog pressed now against the giant's back. The snow continued to fall over them, hindering the pitch black of the draft mutt's coat. Archibald seemed to have stopped shaking--from the cold or the sorrow, none could decipher--but his muscles were tight beneath his dark skin. Inside the depths of Archibald's mind he wondered what they looked like from the bird's eye. Did they look like fallen angels, weeping into the snow? Or did they look like battered warriors, grieving the loss of a fallen comrade? Either option was true--Callisto had been a fighter, Archibald would not guess any less than that. He, after all, shared his blood--and Circe's, and Circe was a scrapper down to her very core.
Remembering that, the Dauntless opened his eyes again. "Loretta," His voice was gentle and low, the sound foreign and a tinge bitter on his lips. Loretta perked from behind him and stood, walking to stand near his massive head. What do you want me to do? She asked. "Go find my brothers, the first one to cross your path, bring them. Call for the others. Now." In an instant, the bitch was galloping towards the heart of the herdland again.
Through the ages of time
I've been known for my hate,
but I'm a dealer of simple choices;
for me it's never too late.
Drop past the color; come up through the summer rain.</style>
Upon silent limbs, the golden spy grew closer. It was not for purposes of stealth, that she drew upon the magic of her rank, which caused her to move without stirring so much as a blade of grass, but out of respect; out of necessity. This was as much for her, as for Circe and Archi, for although Phae was a mother as well, she was not a creature of emotional rapport, or empathy. Silently she drew near, oddly splattered wings drawn close to her sides, hugging her lithe curves. Although bits of stardust shimmered and danced around her form, seeming to sprinkle from her mane and tail, the golden-girl for once dampened her flirtatious nature, and approached the would-be mother, with a solemn expression.
Halting a few meters away, Phae allowed her shield of perceptual invisibility to fall, gradually beginning to impact her environment in a more noticeable way. Her eyes fell upon the body laying on the almost-frost covered ground. Words did not fall from her lips, as her sea-green gaze fell first upon Circe, a mare whom she did not know that well, and then Archibald, one of the Grey's more prevalent and prized warriors. Exhaling softly, the spy remained silent. She would go if they wished, and if she stayed, she would see to it that they were not disturbed. Although this was a moment of grieving, and one demanding privacy, there were forces at work in Helovia which would not allow the almost-couple to have their moment alone.
High above, Stella circled, trilling a single mournful call as her watchful gaze looked on, over and above what equine eyes could see, to warn her bonded in case an interruption should present itself. Already she could see Loretta disappearing into the distance, seeking out Archibald's kin.
Won't you sing to me your poetry,
Won't you take me to your home,
Won't you be for me forever
So I'll never be alone
05-28-2013, 12:33 AM (This post was last modified: 05-28-2013, 11:42 AM by Alex.)
Knox We didn't know we knew you 'til we lost you</style>
The broken is found by Loretta not long after her master sends her away. His own companion shares brief exchanges, sending images to Knox as she learns of them. all muddled, all somewhat obscured by the secondhand source, they leave the colt lost and uninformed. What is it? he asks his companion, urgency striking the tone of his thoughts and creating a hazardous chord. Manhattan, what's wrong?
His companion is silent for a moment, staring out into the distance as if she will find his answer there. When she turns to look at him, it is with solemnity and sorrow. Something is wrong; something is very, very wrong. His mind screams at her, reaching out with urgency as he grows more and more concerned by the second. He watches as Loretta runs back from where she came, leading the way, but he does not move. He will not move, not until Manhattan tells him the truth.
An image of the dauntless flashes in Knox's mind, paired with flashing portraits of those whom Knox has, in his own way, once lead to death. The message is clear enough, but still his companion's voice rings in the corner's of his mind. Perhaps it is to emphasize for Knox the sad and terrible truth, or perhaps... perhaps Manhattan, too, must think it in such clear terms to believe it herself. Nonetheless, the words ring out:
Archibald is dead.
"No." A whisper.
"No." A desperate moan.
"It can't be!" The cry of the one left alive.
Knox wants to die.
Knox wants to fall right then and there, to let his body collapse and tumble to strike the earth in a violent display. Let him suffer in his final moments, let him feel the pain amplified. All physical hurt is gone; the aches from his challenge with Faelon fade. All that is left is terror and hurt.
If Aylin has taught him anything, it is to love—that he, a beast who thought himself so long to be nothing but wretchedness, can love. But he wonders, wonders as he begins to run after the red malamute, wonders as snow falls fat and heavy to sting his eyes and chill his blood, if this is the consequence of love. Is love no more than a buildup? He has not ever loved his brother until now—respected, yes, but never loved. As the forest shifts and sways around him, as he gallops through seemingly endless wood and feels the slap of a white bridle against his cheeks that grow wet with the product of his sorrow, he wonders why it is now that he chooses to love his elder brother.
Does he love Archibald because he is family? Does he love Archibald for his strength and quiet kindness, of which he has heard of only in stories? Knox cannot love his brother for how he knows him: Knox barely knows him. The realization that he has let so much of his life already go by without caring for his brother, for any of his family, enough to truly know them, is one he cannot bear.
As lost as he, Manhattan runs blindly in his wake. She cannot correct her master or ease his pain; she knows no better. Her own limited understanding of the world tortures her master far beyond belief; wrenches her own heart until it thumps slowly and painfully within her blackened breast. Somehow she runs ahead of Knox; perhaps it is the pain of Faelon's bucks that has slowed him, perhaps it is the heavy sensation grief weighing on his shoulders. He is too young for this, she thinks. They are all too young for this.
But then again, can anyone ever be ready to see their brother die?
The dark pair burst through the brush and into a clearing, shoving past Phaedra without any thought and then stopping shortly before the huddled figures resting upon the earth. The hot tears which streak across Knox's cheeks sting like an familiar fire. He has cried too many times, but he still does not feel the good. Now, as he lets his blue, panic-stricken eyes sweep across the unfamiliar mare and his Brother's huddled body, he needs a light.
But even as he watches, Knox catches the sight of breath ripple across his massive brother's hide. The information clears, the understanding reshapes itself and intensifies. He sees the mare lying desolate upon the ground as it turns white with an early snow—notes the curve of her sides and sees the stain of afterbirth littering the earth. For a moment, ever fleeting, a confused sort of bewilderment catches Knox's expression and grasps it tightly. He draws closer, his body curving to see what lies beyond his brother's hulking figure and beneath the curve of his powerful neck. Condolences fall from Knox's lips like the strange snow from the Orangemoon skies. He manages little, just drawing close enough to watch Manhattan lay to rest beside his brother and gently place his own cannons against Archibald's left shoulder and let him know where he stands, ever at his side. His own tears dry, the words long intended split the open, silent air. "Brother, I... I'm..." his voice quivers, trailing off. He has killed before, but he never should have. And this... this is some cruel twist of nature's fate, some wretched curse cast down upon a murderer's soul as it tries to perhaps live a life of forgiveness and regret. This... this is something young Knox cannot bear to see. Because in the dim, cold day, he connects; he dives headfirst into emotion understands the situation laid before him wholly and completely.
Archibald the Dauntless is not dead—his spirit is.
05-28-2013, 05:45 PM (This post was last modified: 06-14-2013, 12:41 PM by Evers.)
Evers the Able We're just two little street angels with dirty faces
Withers twitched as a drop of snow fell upon his short blue fur and his intelligent gaze lifted skyward as his breath blew visible on the wind. He wondered if this was the sign of Frostfall or was it simply a bad omen. Evers had been wandering around the Foothills a little, awaiting Irrydae so he could be brought into the presence of Ophelia and finally have his role in the home Ktulu had accepted him into, decided. The Able surprised himself when he felt a sense of nostalgia as he walked around, after all it hadn't been really all that long since he ruled, but a lot had happened in the days after. So much so that his time as Chief seemed like a far off memory, but he still couldn't shake off his sense of duty even now as he walked on wet rolling greens. He had left this land with his task unfinished, would Ophelia give him the chance to put that right? Evers certainly hoped so, it would be much different from the pressures of leading, but maybe it was better for him to work behind the scenes. Mandrake was dead and he needed another purpose to his life to fill the hole she had left inside of him.
By the time Rita had perked her ears to the summons of Loretta, Evers resembled a look more like that of a drowned rat than a horse. The snow making him shiver as his mane stuck to the side of his compact neck. With a pause followed by a sudden scramble of paws, the blue coloured mutt raced as fast as her tiny paws could carry her baby body until she stumbled into her bonded's forelegs. Yipping frantically whilst jumping up high off the ground with alarm plastered all over her youthful features, drowning Evers in fraught emotions. The roan stallion, with eyes wide in shock and confusion, watched as his friend sprinted off with a certainty to her stride and after a few seconds, he picked up his gait into a swift gallop and chased after her. Grunting every so often when he slipped slightly on the moist ground.
No thought entered his mind as he ran and he was even more rattled to the core when finally he arrived to gaze upon the scene Rita had brought him to. He watched Knox shove past an unknown pegasus mare whose expression seemed solemn and Evers smiled once to her in a way of gratitude before moving over to stand beside Knox who had moved closer to Archibald. Attempting to place his soft nose on his little brother's shoulder as a comfort before turning his sorrowful gaze towards Archibald and the mother of the child whose lifeless body lay upon the cold ground. Rita sat at the hocks of her bonded, head hung in grief and her tail motionless. Even at her tender age, she understood and lamented.
After all his dauntless brother had been through, did he not deserve just one miracle? Or were the actions of their past unforgivable and what lay before them now was a minefield of curses. Evers shook his head, he didn't understand why such an innocent child deserved death and he prayed for Archibald to find his inner strength, not to fall into the pits of despair. Not after the 'charmed' life they had lived so far. Lowering his head, ears flopping sadly to the side, he spoke briefly to them with thick emotion. "I am sorry, truly sorry."
.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
HP: 45.5
