The burning winds of Nocturne howled as Daedren stood at the foot of Mount Deathfire, its fiery peak towering ominously above. He could feel the ground beneath him rumble faintly, the heartbeat of the world speaking of ancient trials, of the legendary Salamanders, and the flames that awaited to test his mettle. Clad in the rough attire of an aspirant, Daedren looked upward, squinting through the haze, knowing that somewhere above, within the molten heart of the mountain, his fate as a Salamander Astartes awaited.
The atmosphere was suffocating, the air filled with ash and heat from the lava rivers running down the mountain's sides. But this was his calling. He was about to face the trials of becoming one of the sons of Vulkan, the revered Primarch of the Salamanders Chapter. And though the physical landscape was daunting, it was the stories of the trials that weighed heaviest on Daedren’s mind, whispered among the aspirants as sacred lore. Every Salamander aspirant had the tale etched into their hearts, the Tournament of the Year 832.M30.
Daedren repeated the tale to himself, the story of Vulkan’s legendary contest with a stranger, as if each word could fortify his spirit. He could hear the voice of his father, years ago, echo in his head:
"In celebration of the Primarch’s victory over the Dark Eldar, a grand tournament was declared on Nocturne. It was a celebration of strength, endurance, and the crafting skills held dear by the people of our volcanic world. The greatest warriors of Nocturne competed, showing their prowess in contests that forged them into men and women of steel. But as the celebrations began, a stranger appeared, an enigma amidst the revelry..."
Daedren visualized the scene, the stranger, pale-skinned, standing in stark contrast to the dark, scarred faces of the Nocturneans, his clothes made of materials unknown to the primitive world. He walked with an unearthly grace and spoke not with arrogance, but with a quiet confidence that demanded respect. The people had laughed at first, for who could match the strength of Vulkan, the towering Primarch of the Salamanders? But their laughter quickly faded as Vulkan, intrigued by the stranger’s boldness, accepted his challenge.
The wager had been immense, whoever lost the contest would swear eternal loyalty and obedience to the victor. The Primarch, his face betraying a faint smile at the audacity of the stranger, agreed to the terms without hesitation.
"The contest lasted for eight long days," the sergeant would continue, his eyes wide with the gravity of the tale, "and every man and woman on Nocturne witnessed feats of godlike power. They wrestled, lifted anvils, raced, and faced trials of endurance that would break any mortal man."
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Daedren imagined himself standing among the crowds, watching in awe as Vulkan and the stranger performed unimaginable feats. They had held anvils above their heads for half a day without tiring, their faces calm, muscles rippling like coiled steel, while every other competitor faltered within minutes. Each contest had been a draw, for neither Vulkan nor the stranger could be bested. The crowds had watched in silence, knowing they were witnessing not just men, but gods in mortal form.
"As the eighth day came to a close, both Vulkan and the stranger were tied. The elders, desperate for a victor, devised the final trial: the Salamander Hunt. Both men were given a day and a half to forge their weapons, tools of destruction that would slay the most fearsome beasts of our world: the Firedrakes."
The Salamander Hunt was the trial that burned brightest in Daedren’s mind. He could see Vulkan, with his mighty hammer, and the stranger, wielding a sword of impossible sharpness, climbing the dangerous, magma-ridden slopes of Mount Deathfire. Each of them hunted the massive Firedrakes, reptiles born of the volcano's molten depths, creatures so large and powerful that only a being of Vulkan’s stature could hope to bring them down. This trial wasn’t just about strength—it was a testament to skill, patience, and unyielding resolve.
Vulkan, caught in the midst of the eruption, had nearly been thrown from a cliff, the carcass of his salamander gripped tightly in one hand as his other clung to the jagged rocks. Hours had passed as he struggled to maintain his hold, his fingers slowly losing their grip. Just as he was about to fall, the stranger appeared once more, carrying a Firedrake larger than Vulkan’s own. But instead of claiming victory for himself, the stranger sacrificed his prize, casting it into the molten lava to use its heat-resistant hide as a bridge, saving the Primarch’s life.
The crowd back home had cheered when Vulkan returned, but the cheers were silenced when Vulkan knelt before the stranger, declaring him worthy of loyalty beyond any contest. It was then that the stranger had revealed himself as the Emperor of Mankind. The Emperor had come not to claim victory, but to show Vulkan that true strength lay in humility and honor.
The story ended as it always did: Vulkan ascending to lead the Salamanders, leaving Nocturne with the promise that his sons, the XVIIIth Legion, would forever safeguard his homeworld.
With the tale echoing in his mind, Daedren took a deep breath. His trials were just beginning, but he had learned from the best. Vulkan's story wasn’t just a legend; it was a guide. Daedren would need to embody the values of his Primarch, strength, endurance, craftsmanship, and above all, honor.
The flames of Mount Deathfire beckoned, and Daedren, with courage steeling his heart, began the climb. The trials awaited, and with them, his transformation into a Salamander.