Board Thread:Konoha Logs/@comment-26510601-20160314132554/@comment-26510601-20160314195651

A sharp rap on his door was heard in the middle of this before a cold, stern voice called out.

“Ieyasu, it’s in the fucking wee hours of morning; shut up, boy!”

After a moment of silence and Ieyasu doing what he could to conceal what sensitive emotions he still held deep within his heart, the young lad spoke up, “Yes dad, by the way…”

“What is it?”

“I wanted to ask if I could go out and train.”

“After breakfast, you’ll need some protein down that gullet of yours if you want to get bigger muscles.”

Afterward, a brief silence came about before Hirotada’s heavy footsteps could be heard traveling back down the hallway. Ieyasu exhaled sharply, looking around the room to see his delusions were still untrue. Just like a nightmare, the body, the blood, and the killer’s weapon were gone as though they were never there.



The boy drew himself up from the ground, Ieyasu looked around his room before lighting a small candle under the hood of a lamp. His room quickly was filled with this dim, flickering light, but it was enough to clearly see what was around. Aside from a simple dresser, and some framed paintings displaying vibrant scenes of past wars and battles during the Sengoku Jidai, there was nothing else in this small room. They were fascinating to the young boy, inspirational even as poetic words written in kanji told of these warrior’s tales and how they won the battle on those very days. Best of all, they held a sentimental value to Ieyasu as they were the last momentum of his mother’s work. The last good memory he had of her, through these paintings.