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Takiishi’s robes rustle beside him.
He blinks open his eyes, slowly, tentatively. The sun has yet to find him, but his body knows it’s time to wake. Knows if he doesn’t wake himself on his own, his familiar will do it for him.
And there’s nothing worse than a wake-up call from a loud-mouthed snake.
Takiishi squints at the pile of fabric at his bedside as said snake slithers out. His black scales make him easy to hide, but his bright teal eyes easily give him away—at least to anyone remotely intelligent.
Takiishi’s been saddled with this familiar since before he was even recognized as a proper mage, not to mention Necromancer, but Yamato may be the only reason Takiishi's more than just a killer.
Things would be easier if he were.
But he’s not, and as Yamato slithers up furniture and around Takiishi’s neck, he considers himself something grateful. His life is annoying enough, raising the dead, but it would be even more annoying alone. Without Yamato, whispering in his ear every morning, calling him beautiful.
Whatever that means.
“G’morning, Takiisssssssshhhhhhi.” Yamato hisses, “Ya want some breakfassssst?”
Takiishi rolls his eyes. “Make me something, then.”
Yamato’s tongue darts against his cheek, then slips away, across the room and towards the stove.
While he clatters around the kitchen, Takiishi huffs, then hauls himself out of bed. He’d rather laze around, but Yamato wouldn’t allow it, no matter how hard he’d smack him.
Takiishi drags his cloak across his shoulders with a groan—the hood smells like him. He can’t decide if he hates it, or something worse. He wonders if weaknesses were the fate of Necromancers. If all of that time spent on blood magic has made him soft. Fragile.
“Breakfasssssst time!”
Takiishi sighs. A problem for another day.