#thread: primitiveside01 (Riddick)

[immortalmuses]

As Vaako dodges back from Riddick's advance, he's brought up short by the sheer rockface of the sinkhole's wall behind him. Grunting, the Necromonger can't help but have an incredulous thought --This Wasn't Supposed To Go This Way.

It's a familiar refrain, by this point. Ever since Riddick revealed himself on Helion Prime, his mere presence has sown chaos among the Necromonger Fleet, undermining the Faith and hurtling members of the Elite towards their untimely deaths. Some part of Vaako admires the ruthlessness with which this Furyan is able to exploit weakness (even if it is among his own people), but By The Underverse, how is it possible a single Breeder can stymie so many of his Dame's his well-laid plans for Ascension?? He Isn't Even Purified!

Baring his teeth, Siberius lifts the familiar heft of his war axe, its multi-bladed head within easy range of Riddick's carotid artery. But in the same instant, he feels the unsubtle nudge of a sharp point slipping past the plates of his armor, Riddick's own weapon seeking the vulnerable gap between his ribs. The Commander stills, his eyes narrowing.

"A Necromonger does not compensate." He grits out, though a traitorous whisper at the back of Vaako's mind reminds him: Zylaw. A Lord Marshal forged by paranoia... and for what? For the sake of Prophecy? Scowling at the Furyan, Siberius assesses their position and mentally weighs his odds on bleeding out before additional Necromonger soldiers arrive. It's... not favorable.

He might be faithful, but Vaako isn't a fool. He slowly eases his weapon away from Riddick's neck, adding "... and you, Breeder? I admit, I hadn't expected you to run from a fight."

INTIMIDATION AND VIOLENT RP PROMPTS @immortalmuses sent weapon from vaako.

They were stuck together for three more hours at least. In Riddick's evasion attempts, he'd ruined both their ships. Now it was a matter of not murdering each other in the sinkhole they'd fallen into long enough for Vaako's so-called rescue party.

A shadow crosses over Riddick. His goggle eyes covet the weapon casting it: this cumbersome and spartan two-hander. Another creation of this necromonger pomp and circumstance that, truth be told, tickled him. Murderers pretending to be better than the average con. Gussied up in their tech and their sacrament and their ritual.

Riddick preferred to be plain-faced about his depravity. Off-grid, off-putting. Spare him the bullshit creeds to feel good about killing. Can't shame the shameless.

This amusement slips into his natural pout, looking as pleased as the cat that caught the canary when it should be the other way around.

"Compensatin' for something?" A metallic ringing — his blade glancing up the necromonger's weapon before tucking neatly, lightning quick, in that sweet little nook where that armor doesn't cover a joint. The promise of blood for blood, but until then, he maintains.