For a hundred and fifty years, the world had been rent asunder, rock torn and tossed about like so many pebbles and playthings. The Rallosian Army and the war of the world in the mid 36th century… the cataclysmic tectonic upheavals of The Rending that defined the 37th century… Then at the outset of the 38th, one of the three moons of Norrath, Luclin, burst apart in its low orbit and rained burning hell down upon the already-decimated surface of the planet, crashing into the oceans, flooding entire continents, and further tearing an already broken world. The world of old had been lost, and countless millions had perished. Consumed by walls of fire or crushed by mountains of stone, drowned in the roiling sea or swept into a towering tornado, over half the planet’s population had drowned, suffocated, or burned alive. The few who had clutched to driftwood or barricaded themselves in caves, navigators who had managed the whirlpools or warriors who had climbed above hell on the bodies of the fallen… these were the survivors.

It was 3727, sixteen years after the breaking of the moon, when our story truly began.



On the eastern shores of what was once the continent of Karana, six survivors stood in a circle and whispered. The Rallosians were defeated, the quakes had ceased, and what was left of the shattered moon lazily drifted in the sky. However, the world was not safe even from itself. As the surviving civilizations picked themselves up from the rubble, the clamber began. Some rebuilt, some set about expanding, and others plotted their conquest while they bode their time.

It was The Six who began it. They had discovered each other and their desires to build a foundation upon which to rise above any new flood waters. By combining forces with the will and might of a select few others, they would carve out a place for themselves in the great cities. Amongst the tall dry grass outside the gates of Freeport, they forged an alliance.

First among them, who brought the others together, was Senger Vampeer, a descendant of the mighty Rallosians himself, feared for his massive size and lauded by those who were shielded by the titan.

Heavy of brow and strong of laugh was the towering barbarian Kronin Magnumus, a powerful leader of Halasian blood whose bold word and cleaving axe inspired awe and loyalty in all who listened.

Beauty in Freeport was often deadly, and no exception was Rayven Noire, an adroit bard of legendary finesse, a beguiler of the first order whose talents with both lute and blade had made her a veritable starlet in strong circles.

Maulclaw, a brutal warrior of unmatched strength, wore quiet menace and fortitude like twin plate spaulders, the weight of his thoughts as heavy upon him as iron, his will unyielding and his mystery even more persistent.

Thexians were notoriously enigmatic, and the defiler Dead Morbid was no different, able to spin threads of logic and animation together to command not only the dead, but those soon to be.

And finally, there was Dlisk. His sharp tongue was wicked of wit, quick to lash out and unafraid of who might hear it. He cast disdain down on the smaller Iksar around him, and decried the softskin infestation of Norrath as a disgusting blasphemy. Few could call Dlisk friend, and none dared think him trustworthy. His reputation for deceit and manipulation gave him the infamy of his reputation, and yet no one could deny his strength on the field or his ambition to climb to the top of the social ladder.

The all-seeing eyes of the Overlord cast their sweeping gaze down from the floating Citadel and watched their whispering. Each of The Six had come from a background of power and command, each of them from a proud heritage. They sought a commission under the banner of Freeport and under an indenture issued by Tayil N’Velex, they were bound into a guild. Instantly viewed as vagrant rabble by the other great houses of Freeport, they were outcasts among outcasts. Disposed of by their own people and the world itself, they were The Fallen Legion.



Amidst the slums of the Scale Yard and Temple Street, The Six met in shadow, whispering as they must. Other like-minded citizens began to share drinks and stories. As Senger fulfilled his duties as the contracted guild leader, cleaving his way into the fabric of Freeport, the others played their parts. Kronin’s ability to see potential in others was unparalleled, and he rapidly began hand-selecting those who he know would blossom under the correct tutelage. Dead’s penchant for study and success led him to remarkable abilities as he honed his skill. Maulclaw was often quiet, but those who spoke of his exploits recounted volumes of his prowess in deep dark places. Common people applauded and nobility nodded approvingly as the tunes of Rayven began to weave not only into popular Freeportian culture, but upon the lips of corporals and colonels alike as rallying songs in battle.

And, as many had predicted, great footfalls and wider-still words trailed in the ostentatious wake of Dlisk. He had become the veritable don of the Scale Yard, extracting what he desired and casting out what he disliked.

The other great guilds of Freeport were wealthy, able to afford fine plate and even military surplus from the Lucanic forces. The Fallen Legion had no such purchasing power, and was forced at first to use common tin and thin alloy. It was not long before the Legionnaire was recognized by his badge of infamy. Laughed at by the wealthy and scoffed at by the proud, the light-colored and too-flexible ores they could barely afford were pounded flat, shaped, and molded into the mark of the Legion: a silvery-white armor helmet.



Some refused the icon, casting it aside as useless or, worse, insulting. But the Son of Magnumus knew the power of an icon was more than its metal. Most of The Six were realizing that there was alchemy in their unity. Each of them had a unique element to share, and something greater than the sum of its parts was being forged. Simple tasks from the Citadel to dispose of vermin began to evolve into more and more trust-requiring missions. Assassinations of despotic insurgents, the recovery of a powerful enchanted relic… The Fallen Legion began to rise in stature in Freeport, regarded now as more than a lowly band but nothing like the great guilds that towered over it.

The Legionnaires were growing in number, and the leaders could see now that Kronin, now anointed as the essential spiritual leader of the organization, had been judicious and wise in his selection of members. Those who came into the fold believed what they had been taught and bought in to the concept of a constructed family, of serving the communities from which they came in the process of winning greatness for themselves. The craftspeople and farmers who lived alongside the simple Legionnaires were growing to admire their neighbors, who were largely magnanimous and who followed a clear code of justice far more rigorous than the unspoken lawlessness on the streets of Freeport. The Way of the White Helm was solidifying… a path of service, of generosity, of patience, of the highest standards of conduct, skill, and performance…

But after nearly two years, there were now those within the Legion who were not content to serve. There was one, above all, that wanted not only to lead, but to command, to dominate… and a schism formed.



There is never a good moment for the moon to break and fall from the sky. Some events are disastrous, no matter when they occur. But Luclin’s explosion just as the world thought The Rending had ended compounded its destructive force, and the disappearance of Senger just as the Legion began to split into two camps could not have come at a less opportune time.

The Six were reduced to The Five as the long road of mystery spun out before the massive guild leader, and the sucking wind of change poured in to fill the void left behind. The two camps – one that desired to serve and one that desired to conquer – began to drift apart within the group.

It was during this time that Kronin, on a guild-appointed task deep in the Thexian underworld of Fallen Gate, came upon hiss and crack, growl and snap. There, alone amidst the clawing undead, was a lithe Iksar martial artist whose talons jabbed and whose tail swept bone away from bone. Crumbling flesh parted like sand before the lightning hands of Sesketh Ekalibis, a young lizard female who carried herself with a taller walk than the usual Kunarkian survivors scraping an existence in the Scale Yard. As a wave of zombified dark elves poured from another maw in the rock, the towering Barbarian and the agile Iksar were back-to-back and felled their foes like wheat chaff.

As in the first days, whispers in the dark, whispers of service and community, of greatness and nobility in a time of weakness and war, echoed in the world, and a fateful acceptance brought Sesketh into the fold.

In the coming weeks, many new recruits of exceptional quality followed, and they began to file behind their chosen mentors. Kronin and Rayven led a synchronized group of order, collectively assisting each other and those who did not wear the White Helm. The noble barbarian was quiet of tone and strong of character. His huge stature was proud among the fold, tall and bold, calling the younger among them to step up and lead, to come forward and stand shoulder to shoulder as equals. Dead and Dlisk led a strong, jagged group of individuals, cleaving forward with furious prowess to take as much as they may. While the barbarian warrior and the dark elf bardress worked in solidarity, the ambitions of Dead and Dlisk collided with one another frequently, both terrorizing and energizing the others to aspire, even to usurp. As Dlisk saw the numbers grow and Dead lunge forward to expand the Legion’s reach, he saw the potential for a movement, for a force borne of the very shadows within which he had whispered… and whisper he did, to the young and impressionable, to those who fought and sought for themselves…

One after another, those skilled with the blade and the staff, those who charmed beasts and flipped supernatural energy about their fingertips began to take up the name of Legionnaire, attracted either to the camp of service or the camp of warcraft.

Sesketh had heeded the words of her teacher wisely, intently absorbing the softskin’s seemingly boundless understanding of the world. For a traditional Iksar, serving a softskin was not only a personal insult but a tragedy of cultural proportions. To be an equal with those once subjugated by the mighty Sebilisian Empire was beyond the comprehension of many Iksar. To own, to conquer, to take and build and better was the traditional way… and yet the more she fought along side these Legionnaires, the more that Kronin spoke in his conversational way, the more she realized that there was a greater power beneath that she had not tapped into. Her wild and furious side began to temper and solidify, and unbeknownst to her, the deep blood of her Swifttail heritage churned and flooded her, awakened by the cold reality of noble Halasian teachings. Her strength grew rapidly, her agility surprising, and soon her potential to lead and learn caught Dead’s attention… and Dlisk’s as well.

Thrust into the center, Sesketh was forced to make a choice: The Way of the White Helm… or the Way of the One.



It happened rapidly. On one thing could Kronin and Dead agree above all else: Dlisk was now too dangerous to continue to stand as a leader. His greed and ambition had attracted a vile group of hateful enemies, and the forces of Freeport were conspiring against him. In a sharp and sudden move, the Legion collected itself and united to expel Dlisk from the order. That degree of greed and self-interest were now clearly defined as outside of the house of the Legionnaires.

His vengeance was terrible.

Outraged and screaming, Dlisk took to the streets in rage, and in his furious anger, the walls of his defense crumbled. All the scorn he had heaped upon others had collected in a great reservoir, and when the dam of his reason fully collapsed, he was drowned in a sea of those who he had wronged and taken advantage of. Some say he survived as a vagrant for a time. Others say he was so utterly destroyed that not even his memory survived in our plane of existence. Either way, Dlisk the Treacherous collapsed upon himself with all the energy of a dying star, unmourned and rapidly forgotten by a world he had hated more than it could stand.

Unfortunately, the schism had started a chain reaction that could not be stopped. Those who adhered to Dlisk’s teachings fled as well. In the draining death-throes of what seemed like the end of a guild before it began, Maulclaw too disappeared, taking perhaps the same distant road upon which Senger once walked, and as the vessel broke and the waters of the Legion poured out through the holes, Dead’s faith in greatness through unity could no longer substantiate a failing family. He took up his staff and conjured himself away to another place, perhaps even another time. His body remains behind, to this day still walking and speaking, but it is not Dead. He transported himself away and left only a shell behind… much as the guild he once helped to lead.

Before he left, though, Dead passed on his mantle, to the shock and surprise of even the great houses of the cities, to the young Swifttail prodigy, Sesketh. He knew that she was a student of Magnumus, and would sit well at the table left now only to Kronin and Rayven. What was once six deep was now three shallow, and their cup was cracked and leaking like a sieve.



As a pond that filters itself clean becomes beautiful again, as a liquor is distilled and refined into a clarity of remarkable richness, the broken walls of The Fallen Legion allowed its ichor and taint to drain out and pour away the sediment, leaving behind a hollow tank… but at the bottom of that tank, what remained was Excellence.

As any Legionnaire now knows… excellence begets excellence.

The broken top of the cup was cut away with precision. The top-heavy ideas of ego, of boasting, of victory at any cost include integrity… all were excised and discarded. What was left was a smaller, stronger vessel of simplicity and grace, and into its waters was allowed only the purest drops.

The Way of the White Helm was open to anyone who truly followed it. Peasants and commoners alike up to the noblest figureheads of state were all welcomed, provided they adhered to Kronin’s teachings of service, sharing, and solidarity. His philosophy had become that of the guild, and the guild had found itself.

With Kronin’s teachings at the spiritual core and Sesketh’s organization as the leadership framework, The Fallen Legion flourished rapidly. It established a common law and its current system of rank and order. It cast into stone its core ideals and showed them to all for the world to see. And yet, for all its foundations, it was an incomplete model, seminal but without the true substance to come.



Rayven's skill as an adventurer had already led her further into the deep places of the world than most would see in a lifetime. It was largely due to her intrepidity and experience that the Legion began to send squads into truly legendary regions of Norrath. There, outside the walls of the world's cities, the power struggle between Overlord Lucan D'Lere of Freeport and Queen Antonia Bayle of Qeynos was left behind... Paths crossed that otherwise would never have crossed.

Enter Slysedgewick McFly and Drille. Adventurers of astonishing prowess, remarkable ability... immediately the great recruiter, the Halasian giant who had built this organization stone by stone since the first whispers amongst the grass, saw the foundation rise to a true monument with these, the missing stones in the great wall, the final rivets to forge the core of the true White Helm.

The leadership was back to five again, and it was decided that it would become one of the guiding principles of governance for The Fallen Legion. There would always be five leaders, a council of equals to steer the organization.

Drille, to instruct the art of collaboration, camaradiere, and conquest.
Kronin, to trace the Way of the White Helm and bring others to its path.
Rayven, to teach the skills of exploration, adventure, and success.
Sesketh, to record and safeguard the lore and laws of the family.
Slysedgewick, to assemble the great and lead into the dark, unafraid.

So was formed The Council of The Five, and along side them, a compliment of trusted officers. The highest echelon of confidants, led by the Executive Officer, the indefatigable ratonga druid Nassir Deathweaver, the Officers of the Legion are the paragons of Legion virtue and maintain the highest standards of conduct and service in the name of the great Green and Black.



As the Era of The Five began, so The Fallen Legion was established as one of the premiere organizations on Norrath. Citizens from every great civilization united under the great Green and Black banner of the Legionnaire. Soon the organization had a substantive presence throughout the lands. As the name of the Legion spread, it attracted more and more aspiring adventurers.

As other organizations rose and fell, there came a time known as "The Merger." At that time, smaller guilds or those guilds that were without as robust a philosophy as the Legion began to disband. Several such organizations looked to the leadership of the White Helm, and several such guilds were absorbed by the great Green and Black.

However, as the size of the group dramatically increased, there was a core concern that resonated throughout the sum of veterans: the dilution of the identity of the Legionnaire.

It was decided, solidified into the legal fabric of the family, that quality would always be more important than quantity. A rigorous Apprenticeship program was established, and a new rank system better defined and supported the membership. In short, it was through this trial that the Legion discovered its outer boundary. The family had seen that it was, indeed, a family and not merely an organization. Greater than simply colleagues, the Legionnaires who persevered and truly united were brothers and sisters through and through.

And then there came the troll.

Unassuming - as much so as a towering behemoth can be - an ironclad commander from the ancient swamps came before the council. He was quiet by any standard, a general of few words, and followed always by five compatriots, his lieutenants. He was known simply as Lord Targ, but there was nothing simple about him. Those who knew of his exploits had heard tales of a tactical mind unlike any other, of armies operating seemingly as one mind, attacks coordinated in ways seers could not portend. A legend in his own time, the great Army of Targ came before The Five, with his own five behind, and struck a pact. The ways of The Fallen Legion - The Way of the White Helm - had become renowned as well, and upon that path, Targ agreed to set his own mighty footfalls.

The troll general was an unstoppable force, his ever-silent comrades vigilant and quick. The Green and Black unfurled with a mighty crack in the wind and ventured into places immortals dare not tread. The epic titans of Norrath, tyrants and monsters, dragons and demons, began to fall with astonishing rapidity. From the House of Bayle to the Citadel of D'Lere, from Icespire to Solusek Ro, from Greenblood to Rivervale, all Norrath trembled as the united Legion became what it is today.

Now known as Savior Targ, the greatest military commander in the lands, he stands tall with the other officers and leaders of the guild, and united they serve above all else.

A Legionnaire is first and foremost, above adventure and accolade, beyond gold and glory, a servant to the community... and there is no greater purpose to serve.



The reshuffling of the great tectonic plates during the Rending literally redrew the map of Norrath, and after the moonfire fell, entire ecologies were changed, destroyed, or created. In all the Norrath of the 38th century was one of rediscovery. In 3741, the desert lands of Ro were located once more, much of its ancient history intact, its capital of Maj'Dul still vibrant despite the catastrophes. In 3747, the Ulteran Spires were meticulously reconstructed, opening the skyways and bringing new commerce as well as new challenge into the world. People of all continents were shocked in 3764 to discover Faydwer still a verdant and life-blossoming place of mystique and majesty. Perhaps most importantly, in 3785, those who had dared to venture back out to sea - once the very definition of death during the upheavals - had once again found the once-again-lost continent of Kunark, and all the triumph and terror within.

It was a discovery that would leave its mark on The Fallen Legion.

Born of the Swifttail lineage, and ferociously devoted to the proud legacy of her heritage as most Iksar are apt to be, Master Sesketh was shaken to her core when she learned that her homeland had survived the destruction that had blotted out entire lands. Could Sebilis have survived? Were the jungles still teeming with her scale-kin? Was the Empire on the rise once more? Unanswered questions were too much to bear even for a warrior of her mettle, and so with a great heavy heart and yet a resolution of purpose to go into the world to do her work as she was bidden by flames in her heart, Sesketh stood from her seat on the Council of Five, and disappeared into the jungles to find her people. Still and always a Legionnaire, it was time to be apart from her friends for a time, and that meant laying the coronet of command upon another brow.

Not every organization had the strength or the resources of the Legion, but many ventured into the deepest recesses of Kunark to pursue ever-greater danger. Few had the courage, fewer had the skill, and perhaps only one had the fusion of both in the healing arts to keep adventurers alive: Slysedgewick. With the guild's stature in Norrath at an all-time high, it was no surprise that the great powers of guilds, cities, and armies alike would send for aid from one of the world's chief metaphysical hierophants. So too, then, did another member of the Council of the Five lay down his mantle, as Sly took his time away to save lives and stem the tide of chaos that threatened to burst forth from the black.

The great Kronin, having always been the heart and soul of the organization, stepped forward and assumed the mission of the Chief Administrator, and conferred Sesketh's seat upon Lord Targ, and in the stead of Slysedgewick, the great warrior and craftsman Rancour was appointed to rise. An imposing figure, Rancour had gained an extraordinary reputation for assistance and service.

For twenty years, the world had seemed to catch its breath. Holidays came and went, the great cities seemed to settle into a semblance of order, and the drums of war and cymbals of natural disaster were on a steady decrescendo. With the raising of the great Guild Hall off the Coldwind Coast of Antonica, one of the finest architectural projects undertaken since the times of the Combine Empire, The Fallen Legion seemed to have wrested its fate out of the hands of the gods and staked its firm claim as a formidable social, political, material, and military force in the Shattered Lands. It refused to suffer mediocrity or succumb to the weight of time, and had now erected a palatial fortress to serve as the nexus for its work in rebuilding and resurrecting the greatness of Norrath, to help the common man and the noble knight alike to be safe, to become prosperous, and to serve one's neighbor, no matter who or what that neighbor may be.

So powerful was the enticement of the Way of the White Helm that it would not so easily give up those of kindred spirit. The green and black welcomed back Sesketh, having rediscovered Sebilis and reconnected with her people. With the advent of regular ship service, the metaphysical connections of the druid portal system, and the astonishingly-sophisticated transportation hub constructed within the Guild Hall, no far-flung corner of Norrath was out of reach for a Legionnaire. As a testament to the meritocratic, democratic, and fairness-based values of The Fallen Legion, she gladly took her place as a regular officer in the guild. At the heart of the organization is service above all other things, and one needs not governance from a throne to serve upon the ground.

Now comes the dawn of the 39th century, a family united, a purpose thus far fulfilled. As chaos and disorder coupled with discovery and adventure defined the century prior, how will this new era be defined?



There are names of legend on the tongues of Norrathians, names that evoke fear and trembling in the cowardly, spurn hatred and ferocity in the loathesome, and incite awe and swelling pride in the just. Names of heroes unparalleled in history, they are watchwords of might in a time of doubt and uncertainty. When all Norrath seems to be turning in on itself and giving rise to greater and greater suffering, the names of those who wear the White Helm are carried on the wind to those in need.

The names of veteran Legionnaires are like incantations, summoning forces incomprehensible to the lesser who pale in comparison.

But there is another name, a name on the freshest breeze in from the seas, from the tossed tempest of a still-shaking world. From the march of the Rallosians, through the breaking of the moon, and down through history to this time, this moment, there is another name that may yet be the magic key that unlocks the greatest chapter in this story, the turning of the tide yet to come that will propel one of Norrath's greatest forces to the very pinnacle of fable. It is said that once a Legionnaire, always a Legionnaire... and some are born for it.

Is your name that of the next hero of The Fallen Legion? Whether you watch it or make it, be sure of one thing above all, adventurer. You've learned of the Green and Black, now, the Way of the White Helm. Whether you choose to follow it or not... you are witness to a mighty tale... a tale of heroes. A tale of brothers and sisters, timeless and without boundary or limit, an endless story... an ever-quest. The quest of the Legionnaire.

Welcome to History. All Hail The Fallen Legion.