Waka tapped his flute absently against his upper arm, arms folded over his chest in contemplation. One moment he'd been dozing peacefully(eighty feet or so off the ground, in the crook of a tree, but he'd never been known for doing things the way most sane people would), and the next he'd woken up his his beautiful clothes gone (replaced by something awful in grey) and in a place he didn't recognize. All he had left that was truly his was his flute.
Very strange...and the announcement was more so. It made almost no sense whatsoever; most people would have discounted it but Waka noted it and was a little alarmed by his lack of understanding as to what it meant.
But then again, nearly the entirety of Waka's whole life had been what people would call strange. He was certainly bemused by this unprophesized turn of events, but where others would have been so baffled as to be rendered immobile by their own confusion, he would take action. Possibly this was somehow the will of the gods(although he would expect the gods to have better taste in clothing), but that didn't change the fact that somewhere Amaterasu might be floundering about in dire need of a prophecy that he wasn't there to provide - or, worse, that she didn't need one and was barreling headlong towards her inevitable collision with Yami, source of all darkness, without him. Possibly she might not even need his help for that - she WAS regaining her powers at an astounding rate - but if she did and he couldn't be there, then...
Whether or not he could forgive himself would be irrelevant, since Yami's victory over her would more or less spell out the end of the world.
That meant he shouldn't waste any time here if he could help it. Shaking off his lethargic musing, Waka moved resolutely to the (strange, just as everything else) door and, after a moment's study to figure out how it worked - whatever happened to sensible paper screens? - tried the handle.
Locked. Well, that was a simple enough problem to deal with.
Waka twirled his flute between his fingers expertly before snapping his hand around it, the other hand stretching forth, calling upon its inherent magic...
Waka stood silently before the door for a long moment, studying the empty air where the blade of his beloved Pillow Talk should have been gleaming, and allowed himself some quiet, private gratitude that Issun wasn't around to see this particularly inglorious moment.
Very strange...and the announcement was more so. It made almost no sense whatsoever; most people would have discounted it but Waka noted it and was a little alarmed by his lack of understanding as to what it meant.
But then again, nearly the entirety of Waka's whole life had been what people would call strange. He was certainly bemused by this unprophesized turn of events, but where others would have been so baffled as to be rendered immobile by their own confusion, he would take action. Possibly this was somehow the will of the gods(although he would expect the gods to have better taste in clothing), but that didn't change the fact that somewhere Amaterasu might be floundering about in dire need of a prophecy that he wasn't there to provide - or, worse, that she didn't need one and was barreling headlong towards her inevitable collision with Yami, source of all darkness, without him. Possibly she might not even need his help for that - she WAS regaining her powers at an astounding rate - but if she did and he couldn't be there, then...
Whether or not he could forgive himself would be irrelevant, since Yami's victory over her would more or less spell out the end of the world.
That meant he shouldn't waste any time here if he could help it. Shaking off his lethargic musing, Waka moved resolutely to the (strange, just as everything else) door and, after a moment's study to figure out how it worked - whatever happened to sensible paper screens? - tried the handle.
Locked. Well, that was a simple enough problem to deal with.
Waka twirled his flute between his fingers expertly before snapping his hand around it, the other hand stretching forth, calling upon its inherent magic...
Waka stood silently before the door for a long moment, studying the empty air where the blade of his beloved Pillow Talk should have been gleaming, and allowed himself some quiet, private gratitude that Issun wasn't around to see this particularly inglorious moment.
"Oh, how charmant," he muttered.
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