The second day

The drums thump throughout the city square. Priest loves his damned drama. The executioner was already standing near the block. He took care to sharpen the axe for the better part of the day. He needs to get it done in a single hack. The last executioner, ten years ago, became infamous for how long it took some of his victims to die. The young soldier (hah...) isn't like that. Death shouldn't be too unpleasant, in his opinion. Torture doesn't belong anywhere in the world. He tastes the herbs in his iron mask, through his torn cheek. He would know.
The priest has started his usual spiel. A damned shame he didn't become an actor, the man could carry a crowd. The usual bits were there, of course, about how a corrupted soul can never be cleansed (the holy books don't agree, but who the hell reads the books in this city?), how death is only a temporary mercy, and how her head will serve as a warning for all other monsters here to prey on our children, rape our men and corrupt our women.
The executioner snorts behind his mask. Disrespecting the priest isn't a very clever thing to do, but his mask covers his face entirely, other than his single remaining eye and the milky white of his blind one. He gets good mileage out of of his good eye. Nobody endures his stares. He wishes he was allowed to wear a shirt during these executions, though. He has a massive, well-muscled body, to be sure, but he's not nearly as proud over the hideous scars. People start talking when they see them, and he does everything in his power not to hear it.
Sometimes he succeeds. Mostly he hears the children whisper, that damning silence of people making sure you can't hear.

He sighs when he hears the prisoner coming out of the dungeon. A very young drider, Sydney Aestinus. He wishes he hadn't heard her damned name. Now instead of a drider, she's *Sydney*. Something with a name, something that had hope for a future, something that doesn't want to die. They bound her legs together, forcing her to a crawl. She still does everything in her power to escape, but it's no use at this stage. She was to be left hungry, to stop her from fighting. Nothing but water, and the occasional bit of bread. The executioner gave her a last meal in secret, however. As said, death shouldn't be too unpleasant. He only hopes she liked chicken.
Sydney's hair flicks around, and she still struggles and screams. Pleads for mercy, promises to never return, sometimes just screaming. It took some doing to get her up the stairs, but she's very young. Probably not even out of her teens. When she looks at the executioner, she falls silent. Words don't come to her any more, fear swallowing up any last bit she had to say. The executioner took a deep breath as she was forced to the block. She's been crying all day, but the tears don't come any more. He hated those the most. Some death row prisoners just give up, accept their fate and do it all with a stoic expression and calm body language. Some are left laughing, thinking they'll wake up any moment, hardly even aware. Some find the time to mock the priest, the people, the executioner. They bring in some pretty good zingers, and the executioner doesn't stop himself from laughing. A clown deserves a captive final audience. Even if the audience coughs and wheezes after every laugh.
But this drider is the worst type. Not only do they know what's coming, they aren't ready for it. They're still hoping some hero is going to burst through the wall to save them, or that they'll escape using some quick trickery they'll think of any moment now. They don't know how to get out of this, and the truth of the matter is that they know they won't.

Her head is on the block, now, and she stops struggling entirely. The executioner has to wait for the drums to stop, or else the priest will get angry. He raises the axe above his shoulders, and begins aiming at the neck. His legs begin to shake from the weight of his own body and the axe.
Stop drumrolling, damn it.
Please.
Then, silence. The collective gasp of the crowd.

And the crowd goes wild.

People seem smaller when they're dead. And not just because of the missing pieces. Just... in general. Like something very important just up and left. The basket is covered with a blanket, as to not offend the more precious spectators of an execution. The body, however, is carried off by the two guards that brought Sydney in. The executioner would carry it himself, if it wasn't for the fact he's shaking as is, even with the axe as something to lean on.
His body hurts. It's always bad after an execution. He has to stand proud, after all. And pride is so damned tiring.
He hated going down the stairs. Going up was, surprisingly, easier. It took more exertion, sure, but his step just has to go up. When you go down, he needs to be careful, and if his ruined ankles make a bad turn, he's down before he knows it. After a few months of suffering, he eventually found the best way to go down was sideways, like a crab. Step by step, using his "walking stick" as support. It's still quite scary, but it gets him down. He sits down in his chair, exhausted. Not even a minute passes before he hears that high-pitched voice coming from the undead girl opposite to him. He didn't come back down after storming out yesterday, but it was late, regardless. Nobody came to check on him.
"Are you alright?"
He stared at her, with the mask this time. Too tired to go home for the shroud. His face is going to itch all day, even if it's better for him. The mask means both his eyes are visible, the useless one, too.
"That drider... I heard her screaming the whole way. I always thought they were brave, you know, nothing's more stately than a drider."
He continued staring, although he can't hide his minor interest. He's too tired to speak, anyway, and the mask is even worse for his breathing.
"They're big enough to be bossy, and they make most of our armor, too. My coat, for instance!"
Without a second hesitation, she takes off her coat. Her shirt is far too tight to be decent, in typical monster fashion.
"Drider silk! Very expensive, but I'm pretty important, you know. Well, kinda. I know people that know people."
"S-shut.*hhh*" He can't even reach the "up" part of his talk. The mask makes it so hard to talk.
"Got it, chief!"

"So, I see that you're not wearing a shirt, today."
And there it is. He hates it when they see his scars. No patrols, today, but he has to be here. Now this girl knows how hideous he really is.
"Can I... Do they still hurt?"
He grunts as he aims at his worst wound. The one at the side, where his ribs were smashed by the carpenter's hammer. It's still an ugly red dent in his flesh, healed as badly as legs. Worse, even.
"C-can I..." She starts again. She's hesitating, but the executioner already knows what's coming. No. He can't cover up, he doesn't have extra shirts here, and the stairs are too much of an ordeal, no matter how much she pisses him off today.
He clutches his axe a little tighter at the reminder. He hated the fact that she was right more than what she said.
"Can I touch some of them?"
What?
The executioner cocks his head to the side, letting the gesture show his confusion. His more visible eyes show some of the surprise as well, even if the mask is all-covering, otherwise.
"It's just... I think scars are beautiful, in a way. Proof you've survived things. My kind doesn't get scars, unless its from a holy weapon. We're either pristine, or dead."
She wants to...
His wounds feel like they burn, now that his attention has been drawn to it, but...
Can't do that.
No.

"Lothair." He grumbles through the mask.
"Huh?"
"Name's Lo-Lothair" He falls into a wheezing cough as he finishes his name.
"Why did you..."
"You wanted t-to*hhh* wanted to know."
"But that was yesterday, and I thought I pissed you off too much!" She steps back a little, thinking about something or the other.
"Lothair." She says the name, as if she's testing out how it feels on her tongue.
"I like it!" She says with a higher pitch. Excitement?
"What's yours?" the executioner asked. He takes a deep breath, after, trying to enjoy the lavender in his mask. He doesn't succeed, it hurts a bit too much.
"You want to know?"
He probably shouldn't, but... He'll know the name when he gets the official report, anyhow.
"Lemia. Lemia Hallen. At your service" She does a little curtsy, despite the lack of fabric to do it with. If she still had her coat, she might have managed, but with just the short shorts and the thigh-highs... The thighhighs cling to her flesh almost a bit too much, too, the fat bulges ever so slightly at her thighs, where she leaves the little gap.

The executioner looks away.
"So... Now I have your name, can we have a proper greeting, at least?"
Lothair grunts in confusion. Proper greeting?
The undead girl sticks her teal hand through the bars, twitching her fingers in a sort of "come closer" gesture. The executioner doesn't come closer quite yet.
"A handshake, Lothair! Classy people do that when they meet people!"
'people'. There's a key word. Is she really somebody he can consider a person?

Her hand felt a little cold. But, not uncomfortable. There was an off sort of warmth, too. Like her body heat wasn't lower but 'deeper'. Her skin was cold, but somewhere in that palm was a heat. He noticed her hand was more still than most, no heartbeat to shake it. They shook hands through the bars, the executioner leaning against his "walking stick" as he did so.

He went to bed staring at the hand that touched her. The first time he touched anything that didn't recoil at the touch in several months, since his old cat died. Nobody got him a new one, so...
He still remembered the chilly touch, and he misses it already.