He is a body of endless aches and marrow-deep, innumerables sores. This, he's needed.
It's nice. Dipping lower, lower into the scalding of the bath water, a rocky sigh, low and thick, slips right out him. Ah. It's hardly been a minute since he's been back, and with a swiftness tremendous enough to startle, he had made like a bandit and stole for the bathhouse. Inside, he basks in the swaddling of the fragrances, the herbs, the sweet oils, and even the soaps made of olive for those with the coin. God take him. At once, it's like all of the toils of the road would leave him...! The door cricks. He cants his head. He can't be bothered. "Haven't started servicing as a bath wench coming in here, have you?" Henry jokes lazily; it's all molasses. "Hoping not. Considering your hands, not sure I can take another battering." / OPEN.