Her pure Soul
Lyca, Srael, King? Ishmael frowns, he strongly urges the need to set the craven through a hell of a dissimilar torment.
If not all, he in the least needs to crack open his skull with a bare fist.
Lyca knits his brows, seemingly displeased with Ishmael's unconcerned, prideful—still eyes.
He swallowed every of his scornful remarks, unquestionably possesing the scene where Ishmael's countenance would eventually morph to being fearful, reverent to him; crying out for mercy.
"Shall not you yield the manner to acquit oneself." His voice threatening, he trembles in anger.
"I'm Your King. And the eyes of yours shall never behold the scrutiny of your Majesty." Arms unmoving, upraised about in the air, he steps closer to Ishmael. His demeanour vicious.
Bored stare of Ishmael. He feels not threatened to the slightest. Then comes after, the furrow of his forehead, bewildered as Lyca's eyes; broadened, reddened, blazed.
Arms spread still, Lyca crooks his fingers towards the palm, he clenches both of his fists, the large and barbaric chains wrenching Ishmael—dredging his flesh. He screams in agony, chains ruining his brawn.
Ishmael senses his body nearing to rip him apart. "Make it stop!!" He screams, blood seeping out his thorned flesh. Ishmael grumbles, tearing. It burrows deeper and deeper...
The chains comes crushing asunder. Ishmael slides down the rack, plummeting down on the ground.
Lyca holds his head, groaning in pain. The force he exerted, a lot than he could presently handle.
Ishmael breathes heavily, raggedly. It was not the very first he had almost come close to death. Though, the torment in those triffling seconds was anything but comparable. His gaze adheres to Lyca, clawing his head, his back arched down, as he groans in strain.
The insane scene he went through left the truth scarcely credible. What in the hell was he?
A scant moment later, Lyca gets a grip to his senses. The energy of Ishmael's soul wrought havoc to his own.
Lyca glares down at him—straigtening his frame. "Subservient! Bow down to me!" He commands in a rough, hoarse voice, crammed with authority.
"What if I don't." Ishmael in a fleeting moment grabs a stilleto lying on a creaky, dusty desk. Lyca stills, lifted chin, unmoving. Ishmael spikes at his neck, drawing blood.
"Speak, where and why am I here?" He warns him, forcing it in his flesh. He examines the colour of his blood, certainly it is red. The blood of a human.
Lyca for a moment had a perplexed face. Unpurposeful to see through the scene. He raises his hands, indicating Ishmael having the advantage. Then his lips cracks, curving the ends up. He laughs...maniacly.
Ishmael clenches his jaw, gnawing the sharpened blade deep into his neck.
"You think you are all majestic and mighty?" Then he delves the blade deeper, causing Lyca to suck in his breath, ceasing the snickers.
"Answer me!" He demands in a low guttural voice.
"Neva," Lyca voices, having Ishmael stiffened up.
"How do you know her?" He hardens his hold on the stiletto, gnawing him.
Lyca smirks, sensing him dense. "Have you not blundered in your pursue of the young lady?" He chortles.
"Did you harm her?" Ishmael inquires, has Lyca been spying on them. What did he need from him.
"No, I dare not. Perhaps I made an effort to hunt Neva Evara far on the ocean, during which time the young lady ran away from you." Lyca laughs sinisterly, contented at piercing Ishmael on the aching heart.
Ishmael swallows the sorrow formed—summoning back the unpleasant scenes that enfolded with Neva.
She refused to recognise him, she abhorred his presence, she butchered her promise.
He ventured every possible route to get to her. She was there before him, a miracle. All his needs, all his wishes. Even so, she faded away and he attempts to discern her; All over again.
He loves her; he'll love her for as long as his soul lives. He'll seek for her; for as long as there remains a faint air for breath in his lungs.
Lyca was aware of everything.
"How were you informed which cruise was Neva in?" Ishmael inquires, he has had not a slight figure—Neva voyaged through the ocean.
"Do not belittle oneself Sam Ishmael. Her lover Sam Is–...ahh I dearly deserted the name he now lives to validate his presence." Lyca chuckles, intensifying bemused in Ishmael.
"I can see you are very amused." He hums under his breath. "Agent Czar, the young man is strongly resilient. The life of my warriors were forcefully, brutally finished." Lyca exhales deeply, professing his grief.
Ishmael remains vigilant, his gaze sharp. He has been neglecting the agony rushing through every bones of his. The tormented flesh streaming fresh—warm blood.
"Was she wounded?" Burying his anxiousness, Ishmael asks. Hush quiteness follows from Lyca, a delighted smile brushing over the lips.
"Speak!" Ishmael warns, Lyca seemingly had some mysterious strength. He had to be done with the mad-man soon, though he came off a weakling, he could regain his force, the area had to be Lyca's—his thugs at any moment might overwhelm him.
"I dearly wish I were aware. I do not own any concept if she's fine or if she's harmed." He honestly declares, Ishmael deepens the blade to his skin, causing Lyca to grit his teeth from the ache.
"How did you know about it all? Have you been having eyes on us?" Ishmael inquires, the words he needed to hear from him, where did he possibly find all of the informations.
He should be a fool for not keeping a skeptism over his words, staying stiff and not evading the place. He's conscious, Lyca's something more than the eyes could reach. And he subconsciously deemed all of his words to be veracity.
Lyca smirks, "I do not need those invaluable approach. I have dreams, vision."
Ishmael raises a brow, "Stop crapping out!"
Lyca sighs defeatedly, as if he had already been apprised of the approaching scene. "I never did utter falsely."
"Why did you send men after Neva?" Ishmael wonders to himself, haven't Lyca considered summoning backups. If he's all the mighty King he says to be, then why does he seem extremely unguarded, was he in-fact scheming something?
"I'm in need of her soul. Her pure soul." Lyca laughs out loud alike a lunatic, deafening Ishmael. He was not in the wrong, Lyca was deranged. He wants Neva's soul? Where the hell does he aims?
"Fucking Craven! Shut up!" He shouts at Lyca. "Do you know where Neva is?"
Lyca's laugh leisurely dies down. "My power, they are bitterly narrowed. I had dreams of her for times the rare."
"Then it ceased on the 30th of the end month." He transmutes a displeased demeanour.
"How do I get out of here?" Ishmael asks at end, roaming his eyes about.
"Have you indeed believed I truthfully answered all your ponders, and ingest your insults then depart you unscathed." Lyca chuckles, Ishmael clenches his hold on the stilleto.
"I do believe, you and your people fond over the life of a King. It has to be lowly to be killed with a mere stir of my hands, won't it?"