Wow Spook aka Keltic Rave has finally managed to upload and write somthing new. All be in awe!
Disclaimer: Once apon a time there was a guy, named David Twohy very smart, super hero even. He created what is known as Pitch Black, then a girl came along and tried to make money off of his work. Well all the lawyers got involved there was a humoungus huffle buffle and the girl died. I'm not that girl i own nothing and am only borrowing Riddick the bad ass that he is for a short while to be returned just the same escaped convict that he was when i borrowed him. Get it? Got it? Good. On with the show thingy.
AN I don't have a beta so any mistakes that you find in plot/grammer/spelling are my own.
Survival Instincts By Keltic Rave
The slam, a pitiful hellhole where darkness reigns. The weak who's blood stains the floor an invisible crimson. Well invisible to those who are idiots enough to not get their eyes shined.
I, Richard B Riddick have spent many years of my life in hell holes. Hopping ships and prisions from one to another, to tell the truth this one, this slam where you are told you will never see daylight again is the worst. There is the usual cries of the insane, and plenty of dangers for those who make enemies. But the eternal dark, that is the worst. It was what decided my mind about the surgery. The dark so complete it eats at ones mind. Trains you to be hyper alert 24/7, moulds you into a deadly predator or just another statistic of the death rate in jails.
Experience has sculpted my reflexes. Survival instinct has sharpened those reflexes to the human extreme. And those reflexes have saved my life more than a couple of times. The hairs on the back of your neck stand, the tensing of the stomach muscles for no apparant reason. In the slam those are signs of threat, of danger and spilt blood to come.
You learn to use your senses to dampen the beat of your own heart, to listen for others, to smell fear and sweat, blood and tears, to feel the slightest presence of wind on your skin, where in the confinment of a closed room none should be.
You learn to sculpt weapons from things that are not. A piece of metal loosed from a bolt, a bone from a earlier victim. You learn to make use of your surroundings or live in constant fear, of dark and shadows. A bitch to some higher up criminal.
Survival instincts make or break you in the slam. You learn to cope or be driven insane by the pitch blackness. Higher thinking shuts down as the primitive side takes over, the animal side.
It's all about the survival instincts.
Disclaimer: Once apon a time there was a guy, named David Twohy very smart, super hero even. He created what is known as Pitch Black, then a girl came along and tried to make money off of his work. Well all the lawyers got involved there was a humoungus huffle buffle and the girl died. I'm not that girl i own nothing and am only borrowing Riddick the bad ass that he is for a short while to be returned just the same escaped convict that he was when i borrowed him. Get it? Got it? Good. On with the show thingy.
AN I don't have a beta so any mistakes that you find in plot/grammer/spelling are my own.
Survival Instincts By Keltic Rave
The slam, a pitiful hellhole where darkness reigns. The weak who's blood stains the floor an invisible crimson. Well invisible to those who are idiots enough to not get their eyes shined.
I, Richard B Riddick have spent many years of my life in hell holes. Hopping ships and prisions from one to another, to tell the truth this one, this slam where you are told you will never see daylight again is the worst. There is the usual cries of the insane, and plenty of dangers for those who make enemies. But the eternal dark, that is the worst. It was what decided my mind about the surgery. The dark so complete it eats at ones mind. Trains you to be hyper alert 24/7, moulds you into a deadly predator or just another statistic of the death rate in jails.
Experience has sculpted my reflexes. Survival instinct has sharpened those reflexes to the human extreme. And those reflexes have saved my life more than a couple of times. The hairs on the back of your neck stand, the tensing of the stomach muscles for no apparant reason. In the slam those are signs of threat, of danger and spilt blood to come.
You learn to use your senses to dampen the beat of your own heart, to listen for others, to smell fear and sweat, blood and tears, to feel the slightest presence of wind on your skin, where in the confinment of a closed room none should be.
You learn to sculpt weapons from things that are not. A piece of metal loosed from a bolt, a bone from a earlier victim. You learn to make use of your surroundings or live in constant fear, of dark and shadows. A bitch to some higher up criminal.
Survival instincts make or break you in the slam. You learn to cope or be driven insane by the pitch blackness. Higher thinking shuts down as the primitive side takes over, the animal side.
It's all about the survival instincts.