The Fallen Legion: An EQ2 Guild on Everfrost

"From time to time there appear on the face of the earth men and women of rare and consummate excellence, who dazzle us by their virtue, and whose outstanding qualities shed a stupendous light. Like those extraordinary stars of whose origins we are ignorant, and of whose fate, once they have vanished, we know even less, such people have neither forebears nor descendants: they are the whole of their race."

Jean De La Bruyère (1645–1696)
“Of Personal Merit” (1688)

The Fallen Legion is an Epic (Level 80) Guild on the Everfrost Server. Founded 22 March 2005.

The frigid wind comes down from the Icespires and swirls the dusty glass powder at our feet, and yet we do not tremble with shivering. No foxfur covers our shoulders, no heavy pelts wrapped tight. We are without fine fabric and bear only a simple green and midnight cloak woven foursquare about our backs. Yet who are these that show no sign of cold? The furnace blast of hell and the high hot press like lead plates down upon burned skin, rendering to red and black that which was once white and clean, and yet we do not bend low at the searing. No water quenches our thirst, no hand raises to shade us from the hurricane flame. We are without shade or shelter and bear only our furrowed brows to shield our eyes. Yet who are these that show no sign of burning?

The same wind that begins as a fluttered wingflap in the cool and verdant grasses of mystic far-flung fields finds length and breadth across the wide oceans that bear countless ships upon our shores, and reach us with the force of a gale of ages, but no skyborne shrapnel pierces us. The same voices that begin as whispered questions in dark alleys as those wise warriors pass grow to rise in a throng of cries uplifted in our praise as they follow in our footsteps. On the highways that encircle our Citadel, on the dirt roads that stretch out yet unpaved as tendrils reaching forward and outward from that black heart, our footsteps fall together and as One, in the great Union, the brave battalion stands shoulder-to-ready shoulder and marks time in the same path as the great ones that went before. The green of leaf and grassblade, of orcskin and weathered copper shield. The jet ebony of bestial eyes and magic nexus, dark beyond the pall of Shadowmen. These two colors, woven in tapestry, drape around and enfold us and rise high as our banner, but always behind, always the backdrop upon which we paint our symbol.

From the leathery plate and spine of Scale Yard to the scurry fur and razor barb of Temple Street, amidst the widest crowd in East or the secret collectives of North, from South dockside to West plaza, be there tens or thousands gathered, always at the center is that few that walk together. They are barbarian, they are Iksar, they are Erudite and Elf, they are Ratonga and Human, in sky to water, on dry and on rock, together they walk and walk the hard line, for they are no common battalion.

They wear the White Helm.

The only who may, the only who dare. Tall and cutting into the sky, solid and banded of brow, their eyes gleam in all the array of colors that run deep with their code: Honor. Respect. Pride. Excellence. Wisdom. Power. Victory. They walk the same walk, on that hard line, bear the same bold breadth of color, and always above, over the heads of others in all ways they can be, is the line of the identical, the White Helm.

They are Legionnaires.

The cold is not cold. The heat is not hot. Wind does not push, sea does not drench, neither sword cuts nor shield blocks. Through things impermanent it moves forward. There is no bone, no flesh, no steel or rock, no voice or scream, no enemy before us. There is only the White Helm, and it rises atop the crowns of the noble, the bold, the ones that made it. We forge our helms, we wear them high, and always in the trust and truth of each other may we find ever higher the precipice from which to survey the world yet unconquered. Find us another corner, old Norrath, and give up another shard of your shattered self. Show us the next island you hid from lesser beings, and make way for the Rise of the White Helm.

The Legion is marching. You there: Watch... for where the White Helm goes... the fate of Norrath follows.