Kendricke

A Guild that the Legion is befriended to for some time now in Everquest 2 has come up with an ingenious way for their members to help. Dark Horizon left our server some time ago to move to the Bazaar server, a place where you can buy and sell your in-game items for real world dollars. Though they haven't done much in the way of taking advantage of the system, they are truly one of the most powerful guilds on their server and have amassed quite the vault and treasury from their many, many raids. Therefore, they've chosen to actually sell every surplus item and piece of platinum from their guild vault to donate to to the Red Cross. Considering the size of their vault and the sheer worth of the items held within, I'm guessing that these online gamers - not really any different than you or I - will be able to raise at least several thousand dollars from this effort. Legionnaires have already begun to donate their time and even their own homes for the cause. I highly encourage others to do the same.

A repost from years now past. Doors open, darkness consumes. I close my eyes for the briefest of moments (I'm almost there). Hands on me, searching idly. Smoke, smoldering, smelling of old. Tribal undulations fill the concrete floor beneath me (I can feel it). Another doorway, another hand. This one uncaring and just wants my proof. I take a step, and the world falls out. I'm hit by a wall of sensation! I feel the heartbeat of the room, like some ancient mythic beast. All week I've stalked it to this lair, and now it's time to feed. Rumbling, stumbling, almost fumbling, there's movement everywhere! Move it, groove it, cannot lose it. Look at them stare - LOOK AT THEM STARE! I pick a spot and close my eyes, my feet are hypnotized. No longer who I was, my mind expands a beyond its size. I'm in control. I grab my floor. I'll show them what to see. I am the one. I know it now. Perfection is acheived. They back up fast. They give me room. They know that it is me. The hunter's here - that's what they know - and now it's time to feed. I am the sound. I am the floor. I am the gasping heat. I am the ground. I am the air. I am the breaking beat. Feel me now, rushing hard. I am now complete. The hunter's here. His kill is swift, and now it's time to feed. Other hunters come to join. The battle is begun. Striking feints, and counter thrusts. We fight till we are one. Tribal rhythms shape our law. The beast shakes beneath our feet. We are the pack. Our hunt is here, and now it's time to feed. A post (or repost) from other sites In the Library is found Thank you for your sharing, M'Lord It's nice to see you around.

Greetings to Lord Isachar, Lord Zadown, and Lord Frond. I bear long overdue tidings of good will and hope that this missive indeed finds you well. Regarding the story recited here and within, the ultimate irony, of course, is that Lord Isachar revisited this story almost 6 years to the day after the original founding of the Legion of the White Rose. On that day, nearly one year ago now, the Legion was embroiled in yet another exodus' eve. We were planning yet another departure from yet another home. At the time this particular contribution was being added to the collection here, the Elders were already setting up rosters for a new Chapter of the Legion to be founded within the lands of the Shattered Lands of a future Norrath that we'd not yet laid eyes upon except only in dreams. Many within the Guild would be left behind yet again, and once more we'd find our way to a new world only to start over at what it is we perpetually seek: perfect harmony in Honour. Some call it a fool's errand of course, but as with all fools, we are truly blissful in our ignorance of such criticisms, as we deny the idea that our very purpose could well be in vain. After all, we know that the goal itself may be unacheivable and beyond any mortal (or near mortal) reach, but it is, of course, the journey which matters more than the destination. Only in the striving for perfection can such perfection truly be found. So, again, we found ourselves looking toward a new horizon. Truly we maintain a history still...a guild built upon stories and cultures which stretch far beyond our mere physical prowess or abilities. Indeed, it is the very reason for our continued existance, though some would offer alternative explanations, of course. Yet, even now, we come upon another year of this grand experiment we call the Legion of the White Rose, and once more we find that we're looking back to learn from lessons long ago taught and yet only now fully understood. Indeed, in the past month alone we'd suddenly received word regarding several of our former members from Terra, Sanctuary, and Norrath. Though we now call the Shattered Lands our home, it is with a mixture of both awe and envy that current Legionnaires look upon the legends of our past. Awe in the bond that seems to continue to pull across all boundaries to find old friends and comrades and bring them back to us...and yet envy in that some of our "newer" members were not there to witness the youth of this now old codger of a Guild. We're famous now - quite so in fact. It's attracted all manner of younglings and greenhorns to our ranks hoping for a chance to become the next Lord Rorrak...the next Lady Madoka...the next Lord Grimrose. These new members are attracted to the spirit of this guild, and to the stories the veterans tell. It's become tradition to pass down stories of great battles or raids to the younger members and to encourage them to tell their own stories of greatness - or better, to create for themselves a bit of adventure that they may find a new story to tell through the very process of living. This, to most in the guild, is truly what it is to be a Legionnaire - to strive, to push, perhaps to fall...but never to fail. It's good to hear these old tales from time to time, and I'd consider it a personal favor were Lord Isachar to grace again our Stage with it's retelling once more. Though I still look to be that young lad and my voice may still not carry the weight of manhood, I can assure you that it would be a treat to this old man's young ears to hear your voice once more within our Tavern. Yours in Comraderie, Lord Kendricke, Guildmaster, Elder of Respect, Legion of the White Rose Destiny Chapter

The street is hard beneath her feet as she walks with unsure angry strides. The weight of this night pulls at her as she tries to form a smile that hides. No one blames her but herself but that's too much for her tonight. No one understands her frustration at least not least not quite. The sidealk's hard beneath her feet as she walks it crack by crack. The early morning's darkness holds her and she tries to fight it back. No one blames her but herself but that's too much for her tonight. No one understands her frustration at least not least not quite.

Alzorath, Of course physiological differences in body makeup can make depression harder or easier to live with, much as having flat feet can make running much more difficult. However, it is possible to live through the illness. No, it's not something you merely "get over", but it is something you can learn to deal with, and deal with effectively.

I can't get the Orlan to pick up the phone and call me. What's wrong with the "Orlan picking up phone and calling Kendricke" feature!!!!?!!!!

From another perspective, depression is simply an extension of pain and anguish. Frustration of the soul, some would say. It's a matter of hurting in a way which simply does not run its course, since its course is self-feeding. The real meat of the issue isn't the pain itself, but rather the cause of the pain. By this, I don't mean anything specific or visceral, but rather the generality of pain itself. You see, pain itself is almost always caused by resistance. Resisting changes which have occured within one's life can cause tremendous amounts of anguish. It's not the changes themselves which are causing the depression, but rather the inability to accept such changes which cause the pain. Just as muscles which are more toned and flexible will adapt to resistances easier, so too will a flexible and open outlook adapt more easily to encounters of change. Consider. Whether or not it's a loss of a favored job, the death of a good friend, or the ending of a close relationship or friendship, the ultimate burden of pain lies within the individual who chooses to deny or resist such a change which has occurred. Learning to cope with change is the first step toward conquering depression. Maintaining a more open outlook on life and the opportunities presented is a good first step toward learning to cope with change. Remember, one cannot push the river. Don't try to force issues or resist changes over which one has little control. There is definately a calm which can only be achieved once one has accepted that not all events within this life can be overcome by a sheer force of will. Sometimes the best action one can take is no action. Then again, this is simply a differing perspective.

Sorry Law, Smurfs are no longer on the menu. We'll talk soon.

I hear her yawn tired and comfortable and secure with me The morning's still dark but awakening I pull myself out of sleep and help myself to standing She reaches for my arm and I hesitate Smiling I look at her eyes, still drowsy from the night I hesitate Smiling

Boundless in the way I feel today tomorrow feels new and fresh and nervous. Stories shared between two pasts futures linked together but not Gazes exchanged so quick then there fleeting peeks hiding again Walking aimlessly wandering here there strides searching and finding

Two stanzas added.

He stands alone in the pasture now, the grass once green is now frozen. His days exist as a memory, of times in which he once felt chosen. No sun shines on his meadow, no birds sing songs in the trees. Happier times were once known here, but now all is lost to the freeze. Wind blows 'cross the furrows, nothing stirs in her wake. He stands alone feeling her cold, and does his best not to quake. But the pasture now lies silent, and he stands unmoving, too. Wind blows cold and unyielding, while he stands waiting anew. -not fin

I'm attempting to remain objective here. By calling a work "garbage", a poet is typically either: 1 - Truly attempting some honest self-criticism of a work. The poet may feel the work is unfinished or incomplete, or just not worth much notice. However, most poets who feel this way would not actually post the work for public view if they felt this way, leading me to my second possible conclusion, which is that the poet is... 2 - Fishing for sympathetic compliments. It's always easy to be self-deprecating and seemingly pessimistic, which will bring out the pity comments which some seem to thrive on. If the poet is not, in fact, looking for any such validation, it could possibly mean that the poet is... 3 - Trying to make a point about poetry in general. Many poets and writers reach a point where they feel that work is almost always some form of recycled or remanufactured. By intentionally writing such an insincere work, the poet could be trying to prove this point to the audience. The poet may even be trying a form of "cleansing", by which the poet writes an intentionally manufactured poem in order to remove it from the poet's psyche. The poet in this version of events would handidly admit to creating such a work, so as not to have it confused with other works the poet is actually proud of. Of course, I could be completely off base, and the post is some form of secret code phrase necessary to the activation of hoardes and hoardes of ninja squirrels. Who can tell the mind of a poet?

Compiled from the past and present members of the Legion of the White Rose: Fighting uphill all the way, Ne'er to show fear, dismay, Ne'er shirking from the fray, The Legionnaire marches on. A burning need to help all. Only strong will heed the call. Knowing honor will not fall. The Legionnaire marches on. The Eyes facing the light; The Heart conquering the night; The Will to do what's right; The Legionnaire marches on. In midnight's gloom In shadowy tomb And in the tavern's back room The Legionnaire marches on With a splendid tale And a mug of ale A concept that can't fail The Legionnaire marches on In a foreign land He will make his stand Comrade in Honour's band The Legionnaire marches on Heroes' shouts proclaim, Monsters now tame, Bards' tales of fame, The Legionnaire marches on. Through darkest woods or ocean ragin' Where foot or hooves or ship'll take him By comrades true he's ne'er forsaken ... The Legionnaire marches on Though sep'rate now -- the friends of old, Rememb'ring now those tales told, For all who bore that banner bold, Are Legionnaires, marching on. With backs against a wall made strong, And evil's face amongst the throng, The battle we shall fight so long, The Legionnaire marches on. When at last the battle's done, The long good fight has now been won, The lesser men will have their fun. The Legionnaire marches on. From memories of where we stood, And moving forward for the good, Within a strongly held brotherhood, The Legionnaire marches on. And though the fight seems reft, unreal, the brotherhood fights with renewed zeal, and the battle bells ring with a thundrous peal, the Legionairre marches on. Raising hands towards Truth's light, Upholding all that is pure and right, Evil cannot hide from our sight, For the Legionnaire battles on... Win we will, even by attrition, Pound our foes into submition, Halfling Babies are Great nutrition! The Legionairre Battles on. From the BlackBurrow deep, to the Qeynos Hills, From the heart of Kaladim, To the Eastern Wastes as the brotherhood spills, The Legionairre marches on... In the darkness, may i be, A shining light, for all to see, I wish one day, that i might be, A Legionaire, marching on. Under stress and in duress Torn from a lover's sweet caress And presumably not wearing a dress The Legionnaire marches on With Head held high and will to try when things get wry The Legionaire marches on. To fight against the walking dead Feet slipping upon one's own blood red I'd take death's blade in a guildmate's stead The legionnaire marches on Not faultering we will stand During the final battle of this land Fate is written on the sword grasped in our hand The Legionaire marches on with comrades in armour gleaming and wraiths of proud history shimmering and all from past to present cheering the legionaire marches on..... Contributors include Kendricke, Grimrose, Loralor, Angstrom, Artegon, Frond, Vongryphon, Rostislav, Fulcrum, Zephanor, Denfold, Raimour, Geldrinhor, Ealasidhe, Feling, Kakamek, Congutuino, and Risindevil. (Comic Relief stanzas were removed for this version. The full unadulterated Epic can be read here in all its glory.)

Lords and Ladies, I realize that I have a long history regarding dramatics and controversy, so perhaps it is fitting that I make my own thoughts on such a topic as this known at this time. Then again, there arises the question of the topic, or rather what the topic here actually is. Those who see what is before their eyes may see this as merely a discussion on a poem about Christianity and only then because the title of the poem blatantly states as much (I wonder if this poem have evoked the same response if it was not titled as such). Personally, I feel the topic is much larger, based in itself largely upon the fact that this discussion has evolved as it has. The topic is no longer merely this poem, or even religion, but rather Poetry itself. It begs us to answer the question - what IS Poetry? The office of poetry is not to make us think accurately, but feel truly. -Frederick William Robertson Poetry is not merely the collection of safe places and comfortable feelings. If anything, poetry is the contradiction of such things. Poetry is designed, by its very nature, to evoke responses. If poetry did not challenge our sensibilities, it would not move us at all. If it does not move us, then what is its point? Poetry is not a language we speak with diplomacy and political correctness. It is a language of power and might. The very name of these forums refers to that fact. Words can hurt, but they can also heal, warm, chill, warn, anger and evoke. The best wordsmiths can do all and more within a single audience. The true Masters can evoke all these differing responses within a single person. The greatest poem is not that which is most skillfully constructed, but that in which there is the most poetry. -L. Schefer Poetry reminds us of who we are, and enables us to see the world through a different shade of perspective. Of course poetry will be slanted and biased. All good art is. Growth demands resistance. True progress comes only with great difficulity. Muscles and bones grow only when shown a need for growth. So it is with our minds' ability to reason and understand. Learning does not come from stagnation, but from challenge and adversity. Poetry can be ignored, but it cannot be denied. Poetry is power. Poetry is might. You may agree or disagree with the message, but you cannot deny the power behind that message. Just as you cannot deny the emotional responses of this particular poem. Whether you feel the message is accurate or not is irrelavant. The point of poetry is not within the understanding, but within the deliverance. The very act of poetry is its own point. Poetry exists as much, if not more, for the benefit of the poet as it does for the audience. We do not write because we want to; we write because we have to. -W. Somerset Maugham Remember that the critique of a poem is not the same as the critique of its subject. Keep your minds open to the possibility that understanding is not a personal possession and the world becomes an infinate possibility unto itself. The only limitations we have are those we impose upon ourselves. The sky is grey and the grass is purple. Don't let anyone tell you what to think - not even yourself. Yours in Honour, Lord Kendricke, Guildmaster and Elder of Respect, Legion of the White Rose

Lord Foe Calibur, It has been some time, has it not? I've recently visited the old home of the Crystal Tides, but alas, those halls seems barren and lonely these days. It's always nice to see an old Legionnaire m'lord. Take care and good luck.

more?

I MET a traveller from an antique land Who said:—Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand, Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things, The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed. And on the pedestal these words appear: "My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!" Nothing beside remains: round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, The lone and level sands stretch far away. -P.B. Shelley On behalf of the Orders of the Legion of the White Rose, I greet you and bid you happy day on this, the anniversary of your birth, m'lord.

Lord Happybudda, I believe what is being referred to are the stories Lady Madoka used to write utilizing characters from the Legion in fictional settings. We all remember the story of the evil cloned Spartacus, yes? I'll try to search through my own considerable archives this weekend to see what I can find. I have managed to discover that we do have some of the old (1998-2000) archives copied and stored within some old warehouses in our Halls of Dicussion. I'll do what I can to sift through them. Please be patient and realize that we're talking about roughtly 20,000 posts. Also, I still have access to our old mailing lists for the Legion (over 11,000 emails spread out over 5 different mailing lists). I should be able to search some of those also to see if references to Lady Madoka's stories still exist.

I suppose I could wish him well here as well. From one "Ken" to another, here's hoping this year's the good one, old friend.

In New Tanaan there's brooms, but no dust to be swept. Bookkeepers abound, yet not a binding is kept. Ogguk and Feerrott grow quiet and dim, For not a single ogre exists to slam, crush or swim. Innothule's there with trolls playing in muck, But no Frogloks attacking - there's not even a Guk! Noble Felwithe is gone, as is Kelethin, Tunare's finest children have no place there within. Qeynos has crumbled. No more rule by the Bayles. Yet somehow dear Freeport still has ships a'sail! Innoruuk is there, but his children are gone, as is their citidel - Neriak's forlorn! The high men of Erud can nary be found, yet the heretics of Paineel have found their new ground. Throughout all the lands, cities fall into rubble, but only within the lands of the doubles.

Excellent work m'lord. You do your Mentor and your Guild proud.

Preface: For some, this is an old story revisited, and for others this will be an entirely new work. Before I begin however, I'd like to take a moment to point out why I'm posting this here as a new story when it is in fact an old one from the Legion's time within Archmage. Firstly and most importantly, the story as written was never actually finished. I had written three short chapters on it, when the story itself was hijacked by a few others who took the tale in a direction that I had no anticipated nor desired, so I allowed the tale to wither on the vine rather than pick up where it had been forcibly left off. I should also point out that many of the characters in this tale are no longer Legionnaires, nor would they likely feel comfortable being associated with the Guild or particularly me as an individual at this point in our lives. The resurrection of this story is not intended to disrespect those individuals who may feel in such a way, but rather to respect the way they - at one point - viewed the Guild and myself. In respect to the historical aspect of the story itself, I personally feel it would be wrong to change key characters or plot lines now based solely on how events have turned out. With that in mind I will be attempting to edit and complete the tale as originally intended, without strange plot twists or characters being interjected by the reading audience. Each chapter will be posted separately and with sufficient time between for commentary and discussion to take place as replies within. I only ask that no one attempt to add new chapters or plots to the story as it is being revealed. With that being said, I hope you enjoy Duty. ------------------------------------------------ The Guards protested only slightly at the presence of the Defender of the Sacred Rose. Her presence was needed for their Lord and brother Kendricke. She was, after all, his kaishaku on this day. Though the boy they adored had given explicit orders to the Dominion that none should be allowed within his chambers, they allowed her entry with nary a hesitation. "Konichiwa Kendricke-Sama", the First Knight and Samurai of the Legion of the White Rose performed a ritual bow within the waiting room of her young Guildmaster. "Guildmaster", she thought to herself, letting the word mill in her mind a bit. It was still too foreign a word to her, and she privately preferred to think of her Lord as Daimyo, but it was his wish to hold with the traditions of his lands, and she had no desire to disrespect her Lord. "Konbawa Madoka-san". Kendricke replied quietly, and his voice sounded almost curious and inspired. He sat in the traditional lotus position, facing the large plate window that looked out upon the western borders of his own Kingdom, the Arakk Mountains. His head was newly shorn, and he wore his familiar sackcloth robes. Madoka noticed his ritual kimono hung upon the same rack she had given it to him on, some years ago. "Is not the setting sun beautiful this evening?" Madoka forced the tears away before they had the chance to well up. She knew that this would be Lord Kendricke's last sunset, and here he treated it as if it were just another day. In the morning, she would be one of two Honoured seconds at his seppuku, and the thought of a life as Ronin was nothing compared to the thought of a life without THIS one. "It is indeed, Honoured Lord". "Madoka!" He spoke wryly as he turned slowly, rising from his meditative posture, "There is really no need for such formalities yet, is there ?" He followed her gaze, and looked at the kimono across the room. He smiled gently, and Madoka felt her cheeks burn from the sudden embarrasment. In shame, she looked down. "M'Lord...It's just...I...Wakarimasen!" Kendricke looked away. Silence descended upon the room. Minutes passed with only the sounds of cicadas in the distance, and the young darkness that comes from a distant sun giving its last farewell to yet another day. Madoka had been raised a Samurai. She understood duty, and honour, and sacrifice. At her Lord's whim, she would thrust herself upon an enemy sword, and gladly lead her army to do likewise. Obedience to a Samurai was as natural as the stars in the night sky. However, this mage was not Samurai, and her time within his "Legion" had changed her in ways she was only just beginning to fully understand. She found that her opinions mattered a great deal, and that sometimes disobediance was important - sometimes MORE important than blind faith. Those she encountered in this Legion were as varied as sea shells. Yet, all shared common goals and visions. She's fought alongside 100,000 bushin at the Battle of the Thousand Rivers, and never felt the power she felt within a single meeting of the Orders within the Grand Keep at the Halls of Honour, the capitol of the Legion's vast member-kingdoms. Madoka looked upon the still silent Guildmaster she'd sworn Allegience to so many years ago. He had not aged one day in all that time. The stories she heard had once seemed fantastic, and she originally thought them fancy, yet in all her time with the boy Guildmaster, she had never thought to ask him if they were true. She'd always assumed he would tell her of his origins, when the time was right. Anger began to swell in her breast and she felt her temper rise, a flaw in her upbringing that she had never fully overcome. She had wasted her time! She could now see the many opportunities she'd missed spread out before her as a table buffet: He would never see another sunset from this room, and in fact, within another hour, he'd never see this room again either, when she helped him to his caravan bound for the Halls of Honour. He would never finish his Japanese lessons. He would never see her homeland. He would never perfect his mokuso. He would never share the story of his origins with her. Just then, Kendricke broke the silence, "It is time, is it not?" Duty. Years of training and conditioning took over at once, and the anger was gone as if it had never existed. "Yes, M'lord. At once." Servants were summoned and they began to pack for the long journey. One of the younger attendants began to pack some of the Guildmaster's personal effects. Kendricke stopped him with a gesture. "Where I go, these trinkets and baubles will not be needed." The servant suddenly seemed to remember where Lord Kendricke was going, and fell to his knees weeping. Madoka struggled to keep her own composure for the second time in as many hours. Silently, she cursed herself for her lack of discipline. Without a word more Kendricke left the room, leaving his overcome attendant to grieve his Guildmaster who even now rode off to meet his own death.

Ballad of the Last Day Forward: This is a song which was written in appreciation of the efforts of the mages of the Sixth Legion of the White Rose, who fought ever so valiently to protect the denizens of Ager Terra from their own Folly, and it become an Armageddon tradition from that point forth(we are now in the Thirteenth Legion). Every Age, on the Reset of the Great Final Battle, I took to our stage, to recite the following for my beloved Legionnaires. Today, I recite it for you, as part of my efforts to include much of our Guild's history and traditions with the rest of Terra and Norrath. Though the Legion has moved on to bigger and better things, its spirit still lives on in the hearts and minds of all who hear the legends of the mighty Legion of the White Rose.[/b] He stood upon the Sacred ground, his promise strong and Honourbound. The boy Guildmaster watched the sun, and knew the day was nearly done. (He knew their days were nearly done.) He thought upon his Sacred vows, whilst worry etched upon his brow. The sky turned red to end the day, and yet the lad still watched away. (He wouldn't turn to look away.) His simple garb, a secret hid. Dressed like a guard - a peasant kid. For if they knew, they'd try to protect, the Guildmaster of all Respect. (They'd surely die for his respect.) His need was dire. His means were here. Would they break from all the fear? Did they stand with him this day, With evil's end upon its way? (The Gods' ending was on its way.) Through the ranks, he wander'd 'bout. He listen'd for all hint of doubt. His head held high, his jaw set firm, and still no worries had he heard. (From their lips, no fear was heard.) The night was long, and tense enough. He watched his men sleep in the rough. They'd gathered here to serve their Lord, and would die for his reward. (Twas his respect that was reward.) The dawn was breaking. Men awoke. With gruffer tones, the captain spoke. He said to take in all the slack, He'd march us till we broke our backs. (For Honour, they would break their backs.) The boy Guildmaster took his place, he grabbed some water - cleaned his face. He marched along without disguise, and smiled when they would recognize. (They looked, and saw, and recognized.) He hid no more. There was no need. They urged on him to take the lead. With a gentle no and boyish grin, he simply marched beside his men. (He proudly marched beside his men.) Death would come for one and all, and these brave souls would surely fall. Yet fighting against certain failure, still was better than surrender. (Death would come, but no surrender.)

The Duality of Honour I cannot keep my back to darkness, but neither look full on the sun. The world exists between their harshness, Day and Night exist as One. Within me now, a stain of night. No way have I to cleanse its dark. No light to reach my soul intact, and yet no one will see it's mark. I am a walking contradiction, I am the lamb in wolfen skin , knowing that the greatest fiction... ...often lies within."