- Founded on
- …
- Members
- 4
- Tax rate
- 100%
- War eligible
- No
Combat Record
Career-long numbers from eve-kill
No killboard data available for this pilot.
Activity
What the corporation flies and where it fights
Most Valuable
Matchups
Who they kill, who kills them, what they lose
Top ListsLast 90d
Hulls LostLast 90d
Losses broken down by hull class.
Battles
Engagements in the selected window, from our own killmail archive
Description
Ex umbris, in abyssum.
No one is born in Old Man Star. You wake up there — maybe after a misjump, a clone bay error, or a desperate escape gone wrong. For most, it’s the end of the story. For a few... it’s where the story truly begins.
Old Man Star was already soaked in legend when our first pods floated past wreckage and ash. It was no homeland — just a battlefield caught between empires, where the rules changed faster than the local time dilation. A crucible of lowsec madness, where fleets vanished without a trace and cynos flared like ghostly screams in the void.
We didn’t come to conquer. We came to endure.
And we did — barely.
We learned to kill in the quiet between gate flashes. To cloak in the breath of our prey. To trade metal for time, and corpses for data. We watched the great alliances pass through like storms, burning everything and everyone, then fading back into nullsec with only smoke in their wake.
But we remained.
Smaller. Colder. Sharper.
And then… we disappeared.
The great powers assumed we dissolved. That we were just another flash of violence in a dying system. But we didn’t die. We went deeper.
We found the abyss.
It started with whispers — unstable wormhole signatures, strange gravimetric readings, fleets lost without a trace. And then we stepped through. No more empire gates. No CONCORD. No sovereignty. Just silence. Silence and teeth.
The wormholes became our home, our hunting grounds. No up. No down. No borders. Just movement. Just war. We became ghosts in systems no one remembered, striking from nowhere and vanishing without a name.
We forged Legio Abissus not as an empire, but as an idea:
Discipline in chaos.
Order in the void.
A legion of capsuleers bound not by territory, but by purpose.
We are not here to build monuments. We are not here to be remembered.
We are the shadow behind the probe scan.
The sudden flash on d-scan before the slaughter.
The last thing you see before your pod turns black.
We are sons of Old Man Star — but our true father is the abyss.
We do not seek glory. We seek the perfect kill.
No medals. No fanfare. Just the silence of wreckage cooling in the dark.
Legio Abissus.
We do not rule space.
We hunt what dares to drift through it.
No one is born in Old Man Star. You wake up there — maybe after a misjump, a clone bay error, or a desperate escape gone wrong. For most, it’s the end of the story. For a few... it’s where the story truly begins.
Old Man Star was already soaked in legend when our first pods floated past wreckage and ash. It was no homeland — just a battlefield caught between empires, where the rules changed faster than the local time dilation. A crucible of lowsec madness, where fleets vanished without a trace and cynos flared like ghostly screams in the void.
We didn’t come to conquer. We came to endure.
And we did — barely.
We learned to kill in the quiet between gate flashes. To cloak in the breath of our prey. To trade metal for time, and corpses for data. We watched the great alliances pass through like storms, burning everything and everyone, then fading back into nullsec with only smoke in their wake.
But we remained.
Smaller. Colder. Sharper.
And then… we disappeared.
The great powers assumed we dissolved. That we were just another flash of violence in a dying system. But we didn’t die. We went deeper.
We found the abyss.
It started with whispers — unstable wormhole signatures, strange gravimetric readings, fleets lost without a trace. And then we stepped through. No more empire gates. No CONCORD. No sovereignty. Just silence. Silence and teeth.
The wormholes became our home, our hunting grounds. No up. No down. No borders. Just movement. Just war. We became ghosts in systems no one remembered, striking from nowhere and vanishing without a name.
We forged Legio Abissus not as an empire, but as an idea:
Discipline in chaos.
Order in the void.
A legion of capsuleers bound not by territory, but by purpose.
We are not here to build monuments. We are not here to be remembered.
We are the shadow behind the probe scan.
The sudden flash on d-scan before the slaughter.
The last thing you see before your pod turns black.
We are sons of Old Man Star — but our true father is the abyss.
We do not seek glory. We seek the perfect kill.
No medals. No fanfare. Just the silence of wreckage cooling in the dark.
Legio Abissus.
We do not rule space.
We hunt what dares to drift through it.