Salamanders

Salamanders armorial with Legion iconography.

Salamanders Heretic Legionary.

### Cognomen (Prior)

None officially recognised (see red: The Manticaroe Cataclysm - informal designation '*The Fearless*' used by Imperial Army units)

### Observed Strategic Tendencies

High Intensity or Asymmetric Warfare, Zone Mortalis Engagements, Planetary Interdiction, Liberation and Defensive Operations

### Noteworthy Domains

The Nocturne System (Nocturn Primary, Moon of Prometheus, Legion-Fortress), Caldera (Protectorate), Battle Station Geryon Deep (Ateraxis System)

### Noteworthy Successors

Black Dragons, Black Vipers, Covenant of Fire, Dark Krakens, Dragonspears, Storm Giants

### Warcry

"Into the fires of battle, unto the Anvil of War!"

### Colours

Green, Black & Gold

"*On the Anvil of War are the strong tempered and the weak made to perish, thus are men's souls tested as metal in the forge's fire.*"
— Primarch Vulkan
Add intro...

## Legion History

### Shadow of a Veiled Creation

As with several of the proto-Legion groupings in the closing stages of the Unification Wars, much remains unknown as to the exact Founding and intake of the XVIII Legion. Beyond the usual secrecy and security that the Emperor chose to surround the Space Marine project with, in order to protect the nascent Legiones Astartes both from hostile action and from potential espionage, the origins and early deployment of several early Legion gene-strains are further occluded beyond the modern record's sight.

These Legion-groups were formed and established largely in separation from the rest, and it is generally thought created to very specific ends. There were none save perhaps a handful of the Emperor's closest and earliest confidants surviving from those lost and bloody days who knew the facts regarding this mystery, and the truth likely died with them.

The XVIIIth Legion, that was known for some time as the "Dragon Warriors," and would later become known as the "Salamanders" after the rediscovery of their primarch, along with the VI (Space Wolves) and XX Legions (Alpha Legion), comprised this group of proto-Legions.

That this "trefoil" of three proto-Legions was somehow veiled from the rest during their creation and establishment was something known to their fellows, but by edict of the Emperor and His agents, it remained unspoken of openly.

This element of mystery surrounding them can be seen to establish a distance between the three and the others, at least subconsciously in the minds of their fellow Astartes, particular in regards to their earliest intake of Initiates (around which dark rumours circled), which would later blossom into a level of distrust.

This distrust would magnify for very different reasons in regards to what would later become the Space Wolves Legion and Alpha Legion over time, but would be ameliorated in the case of the Salamanders by their later conduct and the influence and person of their gene-sire, the Primarch Vulkan.

However, this was not so in their early days, and it is forgotten now by most that at the outset of the Great Crusade, in ca. 800.M30, the reputation being forged by the XVIIIth Legion was a far more bloody and bellicose one than they would later carry.

In many ways, the pattern of their early fate was set and prefigured by the first major battle for which they became publicly identified; the Assault of the Tempest Galleries in the dying days of the Unification Wars on ancient Terra.

In this, the Legion alone achieved a victory against impossible odds and survived, although barely, taking savage losses which reduced the newly invested Legion's active strength from around 20,000 to little more than 1,000 warriors, although in doing so they secured themselves a place of glory and honour in the roll of the Imperium's forces.

The Legion's strength was rapidly rebuilt with new waves of recruits, their victorious reputation seeing them favoured for the procurement of new wargear and supply, often over many of their peers but, regardless, the pause kept them from participating in the initial explosion of expeditionary fleets departing Terra during the early years of the Great Crusade.

Instead, the XVIII Legion was often deployed piecemeal as fresh Chapters of the Legion were readied and pressing demands called for Space Marine involvement. This meant that for the first few solar decades of the Great Crusade, Legionaries of the XVIII were assigned across a considerable number of different reinforcement battle groups and specialist units such as Rogue Trader expeditions, and rarely fought together as a Legion.

In particular, they were used to add Astartes might to emergency interdiction taskforces sent in to deal with sudden threats arising "behind the lines" of the advancing crusade, such as deadly space hulks appearing without warning from the Empyrean, or in response to xenos corsair raids and rising dangers unexpectedly disturbed by a fresh Human colonising presence in a star system.

In many of these cases, the warriors of the Legion would be the only Space Marine contingent taking part in the conflict, forcing them into close co-operation with other Human forces (often in a command and spearhead role), and inevitably plunged them directly into the heaviest fighting and most hazardous theatres of battle.

Seldom then did the XVIII fight on a battlefield of their own choosing, and while Imperial Compliance actions for the Legion during this time were few and far between, its roll of battle honours was extensive, as was the diversity of its foes and the victories it secured. For the XVIII this created a paradoxical reputation both as saviour but also as a herald of bloody deeds, forlorn hopes and last-ditch holding actions.

For an Imperial Army unit to be assigned alongside the XVIII Legion was a sign that the forthcoming battle would be a murderous affair; be it to break a siege, interdict a counterattack, or hold the line against an alien onslaught in order to protect a civilian population from massacre.

Against the foes of Humanity there was no odds the XVIII would not face, no drop of blood it would not shed, no sacrifice it would not make in terms of Legionaries or materiel in order to serve the Great Crusade and protect Mankind. This kind of asymmetrical battle, it was soon whispered by some of their contemporaries, had become an addiction of sorts to the Legion and their valour less glorious as it had become almost suicidal in temper.

Regardless of the truth of this assertion, it was plain that to the XVIII Legion to triumph against the odds was the only victory worth the name. In the worst instances, such as the legendary Manticore Cataclysm, retreat for the XVIIIth became often unthinkable even when tactical expediency would dictate otherwise, and the Legion paid in blood for its own untenable standard of valour and service.

Their resultant reputation is known to have won them great favour in certain circles of the Imperial Court and High Command while others, such as Lord Commander Actia of the XIII Legion (Ultramarines), bitter after the events of Manticore, is on open record as stating that the XVIII carried the seeds of their own destruction within them.

He claimed they were no more reliable ultimately than the quixotic V Legion (White Scars), whose control would increasingly cause difficulties for the Great Crusade, or the III Legion (Emperor's Children), who had yet to have their gene-seed deficiencies repaired by the finding of their primarch.

In addition to the influence of the Legion's interrupted development and evolution, attrition would ensure that in these early solar decades of the Imperium, the XVIII Legion's numbers never fully developed in the manner of others, battlefield losses preventing them from ever reaching the nominal full strength accorded by the Imperial High Command and War Council, while its warriors and officers remained distanced from those in the other Legions through a combination of circumstances and choice.

Increasingly overmatched in number and superseded by others, by the fourth solar decade of the Great Crusade, whether the XVIII Legion would ultimately survive was a matter of open debate in some quarters.

### Born of Fire

When the infant primarchs were stolen away from the Emperor by the Ruinous Powers and cast across the galaxy, each one landed on a world inhabited by one of the lost human colonies. Given the malign agency behind their journey, it is perhaps surprising that so few of the primarchs emerged from their incubation pods unscathed, and ready to rise to power, on their adopted planets. Sadly, such a gentle fate was not destined to befall Vulkan on his arrival upon Nocturne.

Always a turbulent and geologically unstable world, Nocturne was particularly active at the time of Vulkan’s arrival. Day and night were indistinguishable due to the choking ash thrown into the sky by the new volcanoes, and the only light came from freshly disgorged lava as it cooled from a white heat. It was into one of these lava fields that Vulkan’s pod landed. Where any lesser being would have been killed, Vulkan was able to escape to safety, although he was left bearing scars that even his genehanced physiology was unable to fully heal. The horrendous burns were extensive and bone-deep in places, and he was left in constant, unimaginable pain.

For three years he wandered the wilderness, the only living things he found were the enormous salamanders that lived around the summits of the volcanoes. In that time he rapidly grew to maturity, but was never able to truly shake off the terrible wounds he had suffered as an infant. Eventually his travels led him to a village, and to people who he recognised as like himself. Compelled by a strange fascination, he studied them from afar, fascinated by how they cared for one another in a way alien to the fiercely individualistic salamanders of the mountains, and was even able to learn the rudiments of their language.

*Vulkan brought up his other hand and probed beneath the layers of ash for a firm grip on the rock lip beneath. Through the clouds of loose dust he could just make out the purple armoured warrior standing over him on the outcrop above, doubtless waiting for him to slip, or poised ready to kick him off into the seething lava far below if he attempted to climb back up. With a sickening lurch Vulkan felt the whole outcrop shift, to give under his weight, and even as he pitched off into the abyss saw a sneer of triumph pass across the warrior’s bloodied face. Then, in a blur of burnished gold an armoured gauntlet closed around his flailing wrist, and the second warrior that had stalked him, the one in the shining armour, pulled him up and away from the ledge and led him to safety.*

*"You should have let it fall," said the first, his voice dripping with disdain. "That pathetic wretch is no primarch."*

*"Look at the eyes, Fulgrim. Can you seriously doubt that this is the Primarch of the XVIII Legion?" said the other, breaking the seal on his golden helm to reveal a stern, noble face and a striking head of short-cropped, ash-white hair. "Greetings, my brother, my name is Rogal Dorn, and I have been sent to reunite you with your father, the Emperor of All Mankind."*

*"Bruh-ther?" croaked Vulkan, dumbfounded.*

Despite the innate connection he felt with the people, when he eventually entered the village his hideous and inadvertently fearsome appearance saw him treated with disgust and horror, as though he was a mutant or a xenos abomination. He tried to talk to the villagers, to allay their fears, but his charred vocal cords could only form sounds more akin to the roar of a wild beast than that of coherent speech. His increasingly desperate pleas were silenced as he was felled from behind by repeated hammer-blows swung by the village blacksmith, and when he awoke shortly after, he was shackled with heavy chains in the man’s forge. He was put to work at the bellows, and while he could have broken his bonds and escaped at any time, instead he stayed, drawn to see the society of which he craved to be a part, but from which he was so cruelly rejected.

Vulkan remained in the forge for a year, watching how the blacksmith crafted items of great artifice, and he might have stayed fettered longer had it not been for a raid by Drukhari slavers. At the first sign of attack the villagers gathered their children and hid, but if any thought at all was given to Vulkan, it was as a sacrificial lamb that might distract the raiders from a more thorough search. However, when the villagers eventually emerged from hiding they found Vulkan standing proudly amidst scores of broken Drukhari bodies. Without a word he dropped the bloodied blacksmith’s hammers he had used to such brutal effect, and pointedly wrenched off what remained of his restraints as though they had been made of wet paper.

Vulkan had hoped that by saving their lives he would be welcomed into their society, but in revealing his true, terrible potential it seemed that an even greater wedge had been driven between them. The superficial respect with which he was treated was brittle and edged with suspicion, as though he was an unstable explosive that had to be treated with extreme care. Even at the feast held in honour of his victory he could sense their fear. Despite all attempts to communicate with them, to explain that he was their protector and that he would not hurt them, it seemed that Vulkan was unable to wipe the image of his butchery from their minds.

With each passing month the population of the village dwindled as families left for other settlements across the wastes, until at last Vulkan bitterly accepted the inevitable, and headed out into the wilderness himself. For many decades Vulkan journeyed across Nocturne, from its mist-shrouded mountains to its storm-tossed shores and beyond. In that time the only places in which he did not set foot were the human settlements, even when he saw that the Drukhari had returned to raid and plunder.

The coming of the Imperium to Nocturne did not go unnoticed by Vulkan, although he could not have guessed their reason for doing so. With practised ease Vulkan evaded the search parties through the broken terrain, but knew that he was being driven ever-upwards. There, at the very summit of Mount Deathfire, the truth of his lineage was finally revealed.

All of his life Vulkan had yearned for the acceptance and kinship of his peers, and with the arrival of the Imperium it seemed that he was at last being granted his wish. Not only did he have a family – his father, the ruler of the galaxy and his brothers, the primarchs – but also a whole army of gene-sons awaiting his command in the form of the 18th Legion of the Astartes.

While all of the legions had good reason to celebrate the finding of their primarchs, the newly renamed Salamanders had particular cause. In his absence, their unnerving blood-red eyes had been taken as a sign of weakness in the gene-seed, and even a mark of the malefic by the superstitious. When Vulkan was at last found it became clear that these quirks were merely a part of his genetic legacy, such as the enhanced canine growth in the Russ line or Curze's greatly enlarged pupils, but even this could not completely dispel the suspicion with which their appearance was beheld.

### The Great Crusade

*From the bridge of the Blackened, Vulkan’s eyes flickered between the rapidly scrolling telemetry and the hololith displaying the ship they had so recently boarded. Slowly, almost languorously, the ork cruiser began to drop down the gravity well towards the planet far below. On Cythrax Kelon they had used bombardment cannon to pulverise the greenskin’s hives from orbit, but with stocks of the specialised munitions running low, a far more elegant solution had presented itself; to use the enemy’s own ships against them.*

*Vulkan’s face – his new face – itched unbearably where the fresh grafts were still knitting, and he forced himself not to scratch as the long minutes wore on. He noted the trajectory of the vessel begin to drift from its intended target – a welcome distraction - but remained sanguine. Such was the destructive potential of a burning mountain of metal moving at terminal velocity that a direct hit wasn’t required to obliterate the city. Even before the impact, Vulkan was devising strategies of how best to use the remaining ships of the former ork fleet. He wanted to see the world burn.*

Upon returning with his legion from being presented to the Emperor on the nearby world of Gorthan-Liess, Vulkan surprised all by decreeing that their Fortress-Monastery would be built upon Nocturne’s moon of Prometheus rather than on his homeworld itself. Though he claimed that it was due to the dangerously unstable nature of the planet, it soon became clear that he felt nothing but contempt for the world that that had brought him such pain, and the people that had turned their back on him, despite how he fought and bled for them.

Even while the Fortress-Monastery was being constructed and Vulkan learned of the many facets of the Imperium and its enemies, the Salamanders were called to war. What was intended by Imperial strategists as a simple defence of a system threatened by an ork fleet turned into a thorough blooding, as the Salamanders, eager to show their capabilities, tracked the xenos raiders back to their spawning-worlds beyond the borders of Imperial space in the Cythrax cluster.

Over the course of that first protracted campaign Vulkan shaped his legion’s aggressive, straightforward fighting style. Operating so far from Imperial space stretched their supply lines, but decades spent in the volcanic wastes of Nocturne had turned Vulkan into a master of self-reliance. Though the more advanced weaponry still had its place, he taught the Salamanders the simple pleasures of fire, of using smoke to obscure their advance, and the destruction that could be wrought by a simple warhammer. Committed to waging total war, the Salamanders systematically exterminated every ork and purged their worlds with flame to ensure that they would never again be able to pose a threat to the Imperium.

With the ork threat eliminated, the legion was ready to turn its attention to bringing the lost human colony worlds into the Imperium. However, such was their success in the Cythrax cluster that their services were requested for similar actions against xenos empires across the galaxy. Buoyed and flattered by such unfamiliar adulation, the Salamanders ventured once more beyond the borders of known space. From the initial boarding actions against orbiting warships through to tunnel-fighting in cave systems, bunkers and sewers beneath destroyed cities, the Salamanders brought death to the foes of humanity.

Sadly, never had the adage of "out of sight, out of mind" been more accurate. Upon returning to the Imperium to attend the Emperor at Ullanor, it became clear to Vulkan that the bulk of humanity knew nothing of the sacrifices his legion had made to keep them safe. Even many of his brother primarchs seemed unaware, or downright dismissive of the Salamander’s achievements. Many boasted of the numbers of worlds brought into the Imperium and the multi-million strong parades of celebration held by grateful populations liberated from the tyranny of alien invaders, and yet there had been no cheering crowds waiting to thank them for all the potential invasions they had averted.

*"You've spoken of your extensive experience against the orks, “bruh-ther”,’ drawled Fulgrim venomously, "but if it's as great as you claim then why didn’t father ask you help him against the hordes he defeated on this very planet? But then... you were never father's favourite, were you?" This evening of feasting alongside his brother-primarchs should have been a time of joy, but Vulkan found little of the camaraderie and fraternity he had expected. He pushed back the chair and left the table, only to find that Fulgrim was following him, and was not done with his taunts.*

*"The instant our father detected my presence He diverted His fleet to Chemos to find me Himself. He did the same when He went personally to Prospero, Fenris, Caliban, Chogoris, Baal, Macragge, Nostramo, Deliverance, Colchis, Barbarus, Olympus, Medusa... he even stood beside Angron in battle the first time they met! But not you, Vulkan. Haven’t you ever wondered why our father sent Dorn and I to collect you rather than go Himself? Even from light-years away he could tell you were broken... not worth His time."*

*Vulkan felt the urge to punch Fulgrim rise – to break that perfect nose all over again - but before he could do something he would regret, Rogal Dorn stepped between them and leaned in to whisper something to Fulgrim that even Vulkan's superb hearing couldn't catch. Later in the evening Vulkan asked his friend what he had said to cause the Primarch of the Emperor's Children to storm off in such a rage, but the only response Dorn would ever give was to say "I told him the truth."*

+++

Vulkan remained in the forge for a year, watching how the blacksmith crafted items of great artifice, and he might have stayed fettered longer had it not been for a raid by Drukhari slavers. At the first sign of attack the villagers gathered their children and hid, but if any thought at all was given to Vulkan, it was as a sacrificial lamb that might distract the raiders from a more thorough search. However, when the villagers eventually emerged from hiding they found Vulkan standing proudly amidst scores of broken Drukhari bodies. Without a word he dropped the bloodied blacksmith’s hammers he had used to such brutal effect, and pointedly wrenched off what remained of his restraints as though they had been made of wet paper.

Vulkan had hoped that by saving their lives he would be welcomed into their society, but in revealing his true, terrible potential it seemed that an even greater wedge had been driven between them. The superficial respect with which he was treated was brittle and edged with suspicion, as though he was an unstable explosive that had to be treated with extreme care. Even at the feast held in honour of his victory he could sense their fear. Despite all attempts to communicate with them, to explain that he was their protector and that he would not hurt them, it seemed that Vulkan was unable to wipe the image of his butchery from their minds.

With each passing month the population of the village dwindled as families left for other settlements across the wastes, until at last Vulkan bitterly accepted the inevitable, and headed out into the wilderness himself. For many decades Vulkan journeyed across Nocturne, from its mist-shrouded mountains to its storm-tossed shores and beyond. In that time the only places in which he did not set foot were the human settlements, even when he saw that the Eldar had returned to raid and plunder.

The coming of the Imperium to Nocturne did not go unnoticed by Vulkan, although he could not have guessed their reason for doing so. With practised ease Vulkan evaded the search parties through the broken terrain, but knew that he was being driven ever-upwards. There, at the very summit of Mount Deathfire, the truth of his lineage was finally revealed.