An entry in the travel diary of the starchild …
The executioner and I have come to be friendly with one another.
I write this as I feel the slumbering weight of his strong body against my side, the countrysides of Noxus rolling by our caravan's window.
He is undeniably Noxian. This, I've found, is rather hard a trait to ignore. Draven, as he is called, is big-headed, proud, violent, and very, very dangerous. Those axes of his and their bite on my palm are testament to that.
But he is kind enough to me, in a rather Noxian way. When he meets my needs, it through demands. He bullies others if it means that I will have food and shelter, and I am not yet sure if that is a desirable trait.
I have come to believe that Draven is someone that does things not out of the kindness of his heart, but for something in return. I believe that something is my companionship. I find it hard to believe that many others, Noxian or not, are even able to put up with his arrogance and force of personality.
But there are times when he looks at me and I feel his gaze soften, and it is as if my entire is on fire. The thought of him sends a rapid thumping through mortal bone, a rushing of blood that lights each nerve ablaze in righteous desire to help, to foster the good I see in him.
And it scares me.
But it also makes me feel inexplicably, inexorably alive.