It's become commonplace between them. A ritual, of sorts. To tend to one another long after the day had drawn the proverbial curtains on their duties. With it came the natural intimacy that only exposing one another could provide. For Soraka, it's the pale line that traces its way below her rib-cage. For Draven, the gore and viscera that smears against calloused flesh. A damning mark that he had slain the wicked today.
"Half of this isn't yours, is it, dear executioner? I'm having trouble discerning what is a tattoo and what is a wound." The celestial works her hands into the thick of it, a damp rag finding purchase against hard muscle. Her chin rests against the nape of his neck, voice low and lips curled into the barest of smirks.
"This? C'mon, starshine. When it comes to men, in my own category! The category of Draaaaven, and the only thing Draven doesn't do is bleed."
It was amusing – to think that, once, such closeness to a man of his status would have disgusted her. Once upon a time, she sat in the lofty heavens, pure but stupid. She wonders if a part of her holds some of her celestial idiocy. But she remembers the wolf's face, and is reminded of the evil that dwells in the heart of men.
To exact violence was never an easy decision. But it could be the correct one, realizes Soraka. To stand idle was to let innocents die. To stand idle was to be cruel.
She wonders if Draven thinks the same. He was violent, yes, but his choice of prey was far from guiltless. The camaraderie between them was simple. A classic tale of polar opposites. Push, pull. Light, dark. Ionian, Noxian. Life, death.
The executioner seizes under her, cursing Soraka below his breath before he grapples at his back. Stubbornly does she push away his hand, thumb pressing into the meat of his wound so that she may test its heat. It elicits another curse, softer this time. This time, Soraka laughs, realizing that perhaps he really is human after all. "Let us get you patched up, then …"