He'd missed dinner again. François sat up limply in bed, sending the empty flask he'd just finished rolling to the floor, and groaned; his body felt like a mass of damp twigs, rubbery and painful and barely held together with twine. His head pounded, but he knew the direct cause of that malady. He'd begun drinking his dinner the day after he got out of the stocks and hadn't stopped since, and thus remained in a permanent state of mildly unpleasant intoxication. It dulled some of the pain and some of the furious anger; of course, he had to obey that idiot blowhard of a sergeant, even if by all rights of birth he belonged in the cavalry!

Not that he wanted a spot in the cavalry (sitting up on a horse, charging right at the enegy, a glinting target? No!), but he clung to the 'sir' in his name like a raft going down a waterful.

Pain grew boring after awhile. François made his way over to the basin on his table and splashed water in his face, then ran a hand through his hair, slicking it down. Soon it would be long enough to tie back. In the meantime, it was a nuisance, like everything else in the army. What he needed was some fun. His luck in the barracks had been nil; few of his comrades-in-arms seemed to see him as anything but--his lip curled. He didn't want to think of the possibilities. Back home, he'd--

Not wanted to think of how others really saw him, either.

Besides, he missed a woman's touch.

Shrugging a cloak on over his scarecrow's shoulders, he paused for a moment to investigate his clothing. He wasn't wearing the uniform, but his customary black; it wouldn't really help him to fade into the night, but the conceit pleased him. And at least his doublet was clean. The bastard sergeant who'd bashed his nose in (he paused to prod it, gingerly) had ruined his uniform with blood, but the laundresses would take care of that.

He did not want to face his reflection in the bronze mirror by his bed, so he pulled up the hood of his cloak and slipped away down the hall. Outside, he quickly found his way to the garrison gates, and hailed the man up top to raise the portcullis and let him through. This was done with a nod and a wink; everyone knew where a man was going when he asked for out, and it wasn't to desert; nothing but bleak hills in the area, no town for miles. What there was, was the collection of tents and one ramshackle house that held the camp-followers.

François made his way to the house, scanning the sunset-lit tents, aglow from the inside, as he went. But everyone in the barracks knew Madam Emerson kept her whores the best, and he really didn't need any more diseases.

He knocked at the door, and the woman greeted him, her eyebrows giving nary a twitch at the sight of his ruined face (his nose, still swollen, was complemented by a pair of fadingly bruised eyes). "Your best," he said briefly, and settled down to wait, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and the air of one accustomed to being well-treated. Ironic, all things considered.

Maggie squeezed the sponge, closing her eyes as the cool water trickled down her back. Her daily bath was a ritual she both enjoyed and carried out meticulously – Madam Emerson prided herself on the cleanliness of her girls, and Maggie was not one to disappoint. She splashed some water from the shallow tub in which she sat over her thighs and stomach, then paused as someone rapped upon the door.

"Yes?"

"Customer, Maggie. Make yourself decent."

"Yes, Madam!" Maggie chirruped. She stood, the water sloshing about her feet, and reached for a cloth with which she toweled herself dry. Quickly, she pulled her skirt and blouse on, considering the corset then deciding to leave it – it probably wouldn't be staying on long anyway. Loosening her hair from the pile atop her head, she caught her reflection in the tiny mirror one of the girls had tacked to the wall. She had no rouge at the moment, so she settled for biting her lips and pinching her cheeks to add the desired rosiness to her complexion.

Now ready, she straightened her back, went out into the hall, and traipsed down the stairs. She crossed the foyer towards the waiting gentleman and managed to keep her face expressionless, save for an inscrutable smile as her eyes ran over him. As far as she knew, no battles had occurred save for a minor skirmish, but this man's face looked as though it had been through a whole war – and lost. And yet he lounged with an almost cat-like arrogance, posturing himself more like a king than an invalid. With luck, he'd pay more like the former than the latter.

"'Allo love," she cooed, one hand on a generous hip. "You look like you've 'ad a day. What say we make you a bit more comfortable?" She turned towards the stairs, glancing over he shoulder with a coy smile, indicating that he should follow.

François looked her over, his eyes pausing over the swell of her breasts beneath the thin stuff of her blouse and the curve of her hips under her skirt. She had a beautiful face, too, and all set up along the knowingly innocent lines of a true-born whore. Her hair was abundant and red, like Lucy's. He shook his head a little at that, but the reminder would make the anger that always coupled his coupling even more bitter sweet than usual, so it was far from a detractor.

That smile she threw over her shoulder, and that slightly condescendingly motherly comment--they riled him. After pushing himself off the wall so that he tilted to one side, building momentum, he caught up with her in two swift steps. His hand snaked down to her waist and then to the soft curve of her hip and buttocks, and he squeezed.

"No, I think I'll make you a little less," he said in her ear, as they made their way up the last of the stairs. His hand moved quickly up her back to bunch in the thick, springy curls at her nape. He tilted her head back and bent to draw a trail along her throat with his tongue, enjoying the power. With other women, he had to put on a pleasant face, to woo them. Whores knew what was what. And even they felt a thrill of fear when around him, he was sure.

He hoped.

"Your room?" He looked up for a moment, searching her face for the desired emotion.

Moving rapidly, he caught up and grabbed her, groping her and pulling at her hair as he breathed into her neck. Maggie, while surprised, let it happen. He was one of those types – the ones who liked to be in control and make sure she knew it. She made a note to scream a bit later on. They usually liked that. But if he really hurt her, all she had to do was call – Madam Emerson made sure her girls had a fair modicum of protection. So long as didn't cross the line, he wouldn't be thrown out on his arse.

She widened her eyes and shivered as he let his tongue trail down her throat, then added a whimper as an after-thought. "It's over here," she whispered, indicating the door to the right down the hall. Perhaps more than a whore, Maggie was an actress – her stage just happened to be the bedroom. Pulling away, she held the door open, revealing a small chamber with a straw-pallet bed taking up most of the floor. Scarves and bits of discarded cloth in attractive colors decked the walls, and somewhere, a stick of incense perfumed the air. "Sir," she breathed, head tilted demurely down but eyes flickering up expectantly.

"Miss." François searched her face for sincerity and found just a touch of it, which meant she was an uncommon actress. Leaning forward again, he seized her by the jaw, his fingers rough against the soft stretch of skin between her throat and chin.

"What's your name?" He studied her curiously, almost dispassionately. His eyelids remained studiedly at half-mast. François always tried to appear slightly unconcerned about the world around him, mostly because he cared so desperately what it thought of him. With a soft and stertorous sigh that came half from his nose, he moved closer to her, his body against hers. Expeditiously, he undid the laces on her blouse and slipped a hand inside. The feel of her skin was pleasant, and he lingered over the downy, solid flesh over her diaphragm before moving up to her breasts.

"I'm François, by the way. Now, I was wondering, do you happen to have leather cord and a copy of the Vulgate? I lost my last."

In fact, he had no idea how the Bible might come in handy during sex, but a few began to occur as he stood, half-smiling, his lips painful weals against a tautly cadaverous and painfully bruised face. It was funny, he thought. Every encounter with a whore, every full-fleshed body and every scent--they all began to blend together after awhile. Trying to be shocking was almost worth it just so he could find something new with which to mark the general meaninglessness of each encounter.

Maggie moaned softly as his fingers moved over her bare flesh, her own hands coming to rest on his slim hips. Maggie liked to be touched – it rarely mattered how hard or by who . She simply needed physical contact, the sensation of warm flesh connecting with her own, as much as she needed air and water.

"I'm Magdelen," she replied by way of introduction, eyes flickering over his battered face. She found herself curiously wondering just how he had come to appear so abused.

His request was... odd. Confusion flashed across her face for a brief moment. "No bible..." Magdelen attended Church regularly and saw herself as Christian, but she found the possession of a holy book to be a little silly when she lacked the capacity to read it. "...But... there's a chest, beneath the bed..." Over the years she'd built up an array of accessories to her trade. Most men merely wanted a warm body with which to lie, but some – like this François (whose name she kept in mind, so that she could scream it later) – had more peculiar appetites.