A tea room, one might not think that they would find such a decorative environment within the Dojo, but then again we lived in a world full of mysteries, but no dragons. Ikka sat on a throne of linen, or something equal to its softness, but a comfy throne nonetheless. He rested his head back and observed in the beauty of the finely decorated room; which resembled a Victorian era design from the United Kingdom. Opal colors gently swayed themselves into the paintwork, giving the room such a delicate, and sweet tone.
Ikkadan's chocolate hue's relaxed for a moment, however, that only lasted for a moment. He would readjust his head and stare towards the still tea cup and royally designed tea pot, which rested on a silver tray. The reflection of the tray caused the boy to winch as he, for some unknown reason, could hear an unsettling whisper of familiar voice. It reached out to him, urged him into a sense of irritability with a dismembered voice, whispering: "Sniiiiiiitch" or something along those lines.
Ugh, what was that?
He would rub his hand over his forehead, stretching his fingers far enough so that he could just barely rub his temples. He sighed, arched himself forward and wafted, accidentally, the smell of the strawberry herb tea into his nostrils. That momentarily drop of his guard allowed for the sweet smell to infect his mind, ease his pain, but only for a mere moment. Ikkadan had already had a very worrying, sleepless night as he dreamt of flashes of memories that he didn't not obtain by himself. No, these dreams were emerging memories of how Iori cut the boy down and how Itami labelled the boy a snitch. Oh, how he hated her.
Earlier that morning Ikka had sent for his mother, writing her a note with his worries written down. Of course he was vague but not enough that she wouldn't be able to understand his situation. And what exactly was his situation?
Well, Itami.
That's what.
Ikkadan's chocolate hue's relaxed for a moment, however, that only lasted for a moment. He would readjust his head and stare towards the still tea cup and royally designed tea pot, which rested on a silver tray. The reflection of the tray caused the boy to winch as he, for some unknown reason, could hear an unsettling whisper of familiar voice. It reached out to him, urged him into a sense of irritability with a dismembered voice, whispering: "Sniiiiiiitch" or something along those lines.
Ugh, what was that?
He would rub his hand over his forehead, stretching his fingers far enough so that he could just barely rub his temples. He sighed, arched himself forward and wafted, accidentally, the smell of the strawberry herb tea into his nostrils. That momentarily drop of his guard allowed for the sweet smell to infect his mind, ease his pain, but only for a mere moment. Ikkadan had already had a very worrying, sleepless night as he dreamt of flashes of memories that he didn't not obtain by himself. No, these dreams were emerging memories of how Iori cut the boy down and how Itami labelled the boy a snitch. Oh, how he hated her.
Earlier that morning Ikka had sent for his mother, writing her a note with his worries written down. Of course he was vague but not enough that she wouldn't be able to understand his situation. And what exactly was his situation?
Well, Itami.
That's what.