Scions Project

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Commissar.gif This article or section is EXTRA heretical. Prepare to be purged.

Small Book.pngThe following article is a /tg/ related story or fanfic. Should you continue, expect to find tl;dr and an occasional amount of awesome.

The Scions Project is a series of writefaggotry stories imagining if the Primarchs had children. Unlike Warhammer High it actually tries to take itself sort-of seriously, with the Primarchs children (or Scions) usually being generals in the Great Crusade.

Mother of Sharks, Chapter 1[edit]

Long ago, before the fires of the Great Betrayal forever transformed the Imperium, there was an age undreamed of. The Age of the Unremembered Empire. To live in this Age was to not know gods, To not know half-thought fables It was to know reason To live within the realm of wisdom But it was the time right before the fall Shadows of catastrophe loom And great beasts shall stalk the stars and under their feet Man shall be in his Darkest Age To live in this age was to walk under the fleets of the Great Crusade To see what could have been… Much of Imperial history has been lost. Tales of valor innumerable burned before they could be read, and the knowledge of the Primarchs' Scions was consigned to legend. Theirs the history of an Imperium, forgotten even as it died…


She walked up to the brazen doors, her booted feet leaving muddy tracks on the crimson carpet. The carpet her father had had imported from one of the old courts of Terra. It was older than her, older than him, older than the palace; it was in service before the boots of settlers even touched the surface of Nuceria. And she was grinding her heels in as she walked; letting the mud and shit from the streets get ground in to spite her father.

The doors ahead of her were solid bronze, polished to a golden sheen. They depicted the rise of the emperor on one side, and the triumphs of her father on the other. Before she got within a dozen feet, four robed eunuchs stepped forward and heaved the colossal doors open, revealing the opulent chamber inside. Domitia strode forward without sparing the servants a glance, because their brains were filled with more docility implants than any beast in the arenas of old, and those men couldn't remember what their name was, let alone their status as human beings.

Inside was high columns, higher ceilings, and the same red carpet that was getting harder and harder to muddy as her boots started to run out of mud. The chamber was no less than a hundred meters long, and at least sixty tall. There were several levels of stairs that led up to the throne set at the highest point of the room. The walls were bare stone and mortar, save for the rows of weapons claimed from untold worlds and warriors. There were the stuffed heads of exotic beasts, those of Nuceria, Terra, and other Xeno worlds. As she walked she saw boltguns hung on racks, each one that had belonged to one champion or another. There were weapons the like of which she had never seen, some which even looked too impractical to use, all hung for display, with no names or identifiers of any kind. Some of the veterans of the legion like to boast that they knew the stories of all of the weapons, but that was an impossible feat; because many were simply memento-mori's taken from wherever the red angel happened to spill blood. These items were just trinkets, in the form of the only things that Angron could appreciate, ones that could end lives.

Domitia walked up the first flight of stairs, then the second, then the third, paying no attention to the walls or the columns, or anything else that would have impressed a normal man. She kept pressing forward, to the second highest level of the room. As she reached it, she looked right at her father, who was slouched on the throne, his head leaning on his hand. He wore a richly embroidered tunic and a velvet cloak, exposing most of his obvious augments, as well as his tattoos and his menagerie of scars. The cables and pins that replaced his hair were oiled, and glinting in the torchlight. He looked at her and said, "You're not kneeling." His voice was just a little bit raspy, but still deep and filled with menace. As he said it, two of his guards stepped out from behind his throne, wearing the leather and chain of traditional honor guards, their halberds in hand.

She responded, "I'm your daughter, not your slave. I will not kneel." She made sure that her tone was strong and unflinching, but not challenging, because any challenge to her father's authority would end with her head rolling.

"All of my subjects kneel at my feet." He made the slightest gesture and his two guards dropped to one knee, "the blood in your veins does not make you different from them." The two guards slid lower and pressed the face plates helmets into the carpet, fully kowtowing. Domitia could not glare at them, because anything less than eye contact with her father would be a disrespect worthy of execution.

Domitia looked him right in his eyes and said, "I will not kneel." She took a warriors ease-stance, her feet shoulder width apart and her arms clasped behind her back. "My knees shall remain unbent before you, the captains, or any other man who claims authority over me." She never broke eye contact with her father. "Even if the Emperor himself were here, you would not give him the respect of kneeling?" the question was a goad and she knew it. This game they played, of testing the other's resolve was petty and she hated it, but she could not simply speak her mind to him, that course of action would bring about her demise.

She shook her head and said, "I would look him in the eyes and stand tall." She paused to breathe and collect her thoughts before she said what she meant, "He is no god, and we should not treat him as such. And if I would not give him that, I will not give it to you either." His face contorted for a moment, first it was a snarl of rage, but before it completed its formation it had twisted into a malicious smile.

"I have a task for you." The words were loaded with poison, and made the very air uneasy. Domitia dreaded what words would next leave her father's mouth, but she did not show it.

She answered his veiled threat quickly, to diffuse the feeling of verbal venom present in the room. "Why else would you summon me?" Her father fixed her with a glare for that quip.

"There is a war band of the Xenos species referred to as 'Orks' headed towards the Imperial controlled star RU12-37." He shifted in his seat, so that he was leaning forward as he continued speaking. "I want you to take the Hammers of Nuceria chapter, as well as the auxiliary companies of that chapter. Take the strike cruiser Hand of Malice and set sail at once." He brought his hands up and laced his fingers together, trying to tempt Domitia's eyes into breaking contact with his. They didn't. "Kill the Orks and bring back the head of their war lord."

Domitia did a quick calculation. That chapter was decimated, and had little more than four companies. Little more than four hundred marines to deal with a horde of thousands, maybe even hundreds of thousands of Orks. It was suicide to accept. "Very well father, when next I set eyes on you I shall have another victory to my name." it was impossible to miss the smirk behind her father's hands, she knew he was sending her to her death.

"You have forty eight hours to muster your warriors and ship out of orbit." His smirk grew to a malicious grin and he added, "take a second longer and I'll have you shot for treason." She wanted to scream and rip him off of the throne, to kill him and disband his legion, permanently ending his legacy. But she didn't. she bottled the rage, and saved it for when she would need it.

Domitia turned her back to her father, and slowed her pace as she walked away, to send as much tacit disrespect to him as she could before leaving his sight. Once she was about two thirds of the way to the bronze doors, she quickened her pace, and finally started to show visible signs of her discomfort and distress. Again the eunuchs opened the doors for her, but as soon as she stepped out, someone called to her. "Domitia!" She did not slow her pace, but she did look to see the scarified face of Khârn, rushing to meet her. She sped up, having no wish to speak to her father's lapdog. He ran to her and grasped her arm, "Domitia listed to me for-" She cut him off by smacking his hand off of her arm and cocking her head to face him without stopping. "I have nothing to say to you." She kept walking.

"Domitia! Stop for a moment, I need to speak to you." She did not. He ran in front of her and held his arms out from his sides, blocking her path. "I will speak with you."

She stopped and studied him for a brief moment. He was dressed simply, in a red tunic and loose breeches. The only ornamentation on him was the gold stud set into his brow, identifying him as the captain of the first company of his chapter. It was set next to his two other silver studs. Domitia had the honor of carrying a bronze stud, as she was a Primarch's scion, but it was not something that brought her pride like Khârn's row of metal. The concern on his face seemed genuine, and he, like her, was not one for speaking with no purpose.

She looked him in the eyes and said, "If I had reason to speak with you, I would." She started to push past one of his arms and she continued, "As my days are now numbered I desire not to waste a moment." He pushed her in front of him, many of his muscle augments bulged through his skin as he did. "Your father does not want you dead." Khârn was trying to reassure her, but she did not want his words.

"Do not speak as if you know his mind." She tried to shove past him again and he resisted her again. "You are a Terran, he would no more trust you than his cup bearer." She snarled at him and kept taunting, "Even if he favors you, you're no more than a trusted hound to him. That's how he sees people, as pets to whom he is master." She spat that last sentence.

Khârn replied with measured words, "He is trying to make you stronger, to temper you in bat-" Domitia shoved Khârn as hard as she could, using her scion's strength and all of her augments to do it. She managed to knock him down and send him sliding for many feet before the thick carpet slowed him to a stop.

"Strength!" she yelled stepping towards the fallen man, "Is hardly something I lack." Several figures in the chamber were looking at her and Khârn, none spoke. "I am strong enough! This is no trial!" She screamed at the prone man. "It is no secret that he wants me dead, this is just an assassination wearing the uniform of a sortie!" she kicked Khârn in the ribs and yelled something unintelligible at him. After that she stormed off. Restraining the urge to rip his throat out with her teeth.      Her room was on the far side of the palatial compound. It was little more than a bunk to sleep on, a portable wargear locker with attendant servitors, and a simple cogitator terminal. She ripped the door open and slammed it behind her as she entered. She screamed through clenched teeth and slammed a fist against a wall, denting the sheet    steel. She clenched all of her muscles and seethed for a few moments before throwing herself on her bunk, exhausted by her looming mortality. She lay there, contemplating just waiting for two days without moving, and just allowing her father to take her head from her shoulders for it. But that means that he wins.

The niggling notion writhed behind her thoughts of giving up, stoking her rage and building up her motivation to die on her own terms, out of spite if nothing else. So she stood up, and walked to her cogitator, and started typing in commands.

-Hammers of Nuceria chapter-

-Prepare for deployment within 36 hours-

-Gather at Ultantor shuttle yard and wait for further orders-

At that she stood and programmed the same orders into her locker, and it started to hum and whir as internal program engines called for servitors to carry it to the shuttle. She turned and set out for the shuttle yard, a fire already burning in her heart.

Gallery[edit]

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The Scions, in all their varying portrayals.