You trudge on towards a crumbling city, wondering if this is where your life will end. The dismal cracked buildings around you reflect your visage: worn, hopeless, and forsaken. The looming city may well be your last sight. You are lost, starving, and about to fall to your knees from weariness. An appropriate place for the forgotten to die: this city of grey and neglect.
But we are all lost things here, broken wind-up toys that through some combination of fortune, fate, and entropy have ended up in these halls. Whoever you are, wherever you come from, you are of the Iron Legion now. This grey, steel city in the middle of the plaguelands might just become your home. Dis, is the last stop.
Happiness is not promised, but acceptance is guaranteed.
Chapter 2: The Butterfly Effect
All things end in chaos.
And, like all things, the Legion bows to this fundamental law.
Corruption lost a lot of respect when he picked Arcturus as his second. Although she was a fierce fighter, she was not plagueborn. Many believed that she just did not carry the bloodline of true warriors, and is not blessed by the Plaguebringer.
In a world where nature itself is constantly trying to destroy the very life it has created, there is no room for internal conflict. The hungry monstrosities that prowl the vile contagion are as harsh and merciless as their homeland. One by one, dragons and hatchlings alike were snatched away
Then the BeastClans came. We had regarded them with disdain, for they were just beasts. Inferior to dragonkind.
They came over the horizon, darkening the already bleak landscape, swarming into lairs and nests leaving rivers of blood in their wake. We were baffled. Enemies that were so easy to defeat were now so difficult to even touch. We had lost too many warriors. Much of the BeastClans remained at a distance, throwing giant amounts of magical energies into the battlefield, wrapping reality itself.
The battle lasted for days, each of us outnumbered and fighting for our lives. Calls for help were ignored and hatchling's cries went unanswered.
Strange things happened to the fallen. Grievously wounded dragons did not die, and yet perfectly healthy dragons suddenly never woke up again. Some swore that they saw their dead friends get up again only to fight for the other side...
Casters. Magic. A vital advantage that we did not possess.
When it ended, what remained of Chaos Legion gathered in a haggard hoard. Fingers were pointed, and in a fury, we drove Arcturus, and her firstborn Hades, into exile. Corruption, stung by his failure, was forced to step down. Corruption's long reign has ended.
Chaos Legion has fallen.
But give us a blank slate, and we start anew.
This, now, is a new world. We have tasted magic, and it will not be soon forgotten. The headstrong and rash Clan who only knew how to fight tooth and claw gave way to something new. More shrewd and cunning than their predecessor, and much more experienced.
In the civil war that followed, Eupatrid seized power. He had a strong standing in the Clan, and a rightful claim as he is regarded as a true Plagueborn.
And as iron sharpens iron, the Legion shall thrive once more.
We will find magic, bring casters amidst us, and learn the secrets behind their mysterious power. Then we will claim it for ourselves.
By some combination of fortune, fate and entropy, Diablerie, an outsider, strayed into the Legion's territory. Before, he would've been hunted down mercilessly, now, he was offered a choice. Swear loyalty to the newly forged Iron Legion and fealty to Plague, and he will be given protection and all the benefits of a Clan.
And so then we learnt of Arcane, dragons who held power over the stars themselves.
Enchanted by this new power in our claws, we sent scouts across the border and into the crystalline world originally considered weak and inferior. It seemed to now hold possibility.
Something beautiful was found in Arcane. Gossamer-winged flashes of colour that wielded the power of the elements as if it were an extra limb. They were born to it, as we were born to die. They were worthy of preservation. Of evolution.
So we stole their eggs and their hatchlings. They will give the Legion warriors of magic, and the generations after them will grow into true children of the Plague.
It has been said that something as small as the flutter of a butterfly’s wing can ultimately cause a typhoon halfway around the world. Butterflies are proof of transformation. Like the butterfly, we must shed the cage that restrains us, find the potential within and emerge.
After all, to serve Plague is to be the butterfly; our lives are fleet but fleeting, small but glorious to behold.
The Iron Legion has recruited Fae.
Listen well dear child, for you are made of iron. We do not bend, we do not break. Do your duty, serve the Legion, and spread our will across the land until we reign supreme once more.