Taller than your average man, with a ramrod straight posture to be expected of an ex-Marine and the deeply tanned skin of an outdoors type. His loping stride has that certain indefinable swagger combat veterans possess, and his eyes constantly sweep his surroundings with an almost paranoid efficiency. Just about the only thing non-military about him is his hair, allowed to grow long enough to be put up in a simply braid, the bits just behind his eyes efficiently plaited and tucked back over his ears. His predominantly Scottish-American heritage shows through in his long face and stocky frame, as well as his penchant for using interjections in place of real words (i.e. "Ach" or "Psht").Were Appearance:
Beyond the ImageLikes:
Tough women, dogs, strong leadership, clear orders, fistfights, arguing, and motorcycles ("Real ones, not those hair dryer things."). His guilty pleasures are iced tea and riding country roads.Dislikes:
(Big) cities, Yankees, crotchrockets, police, being put in charge, being told to stop bickering during a friendly debate.absolutely not's:
Pretty much anything in my Off's.Talents:
Brawling, physical intimidation, gun use.Character Traits:
Loyal, tough, ex-military, not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but not drooling either. A model Texan.Personality:
Taciturn and cold or jovial and witty by turns, he has a touch of manic depression. Not widely territorial, but what he holds dear, he'll die for. Likewise, he is unambitious, but when he wants something, get out of the way or get ready for a fight.
Coming at out of Central Texas, Henry had a fairly normal childhood, apart from that homeschooling thing. Ever the escapist, he lost himself in fantasy epics and science fiction, as well as irregular walks in the scrubland that stretched for miles around his rural home. Later in his adolescence, he did a few semesters at a local community college, generally earning B grades, and a couple of A's in courses dealing with culture and history. Still, while his parents were keeping afloat after putting both his sisters through the same routine, he decided that he would earn his way ever after.
Given his family's history of service, speculated to stretch back to the Revolution itself, it was no surprise when he joined up in his father's service: the United States Marine Corps. Managing not to get himself blown up or shot, or falling to the deadliest of Sand Land's dangers, extreme boredom, he returned to the States after two tours and flipped Uncle Sam the bird and got on with civilian life.
However, all was not well with our young Marine; like many other veterans, he had trouble adjusting to the normal routine of living in America. As a sort of therapy, he dusted off his old M class license and through himself into an environment more dangerous than any theater of war the US could offer: the highways of Texas. But even hours of riding down the Old San Antonio road would prove insufficient to end him.
After about a year of drifting hither and yon, an old squadmate called him up with a great plan: "Let's go cash in on Uncle Sam. Vegas, baby!"
Yeah, great plan. All he got out of two weeks of The Strip was a series of blackouts, hangovers, bar brawls, three parking tickets, and the loss of almost two thousand dollars all told. Oh, and a nasty bite from a lycan on a bet, the kind of gamble you only take in Vegas, while unspeakably drunk. He broke his "buddy's" nose over that one, seeing as how he'd started the whole mess.
And it only got worse, because after that, he wasn't exactly human anymore. A newly turned lycanthrope, unable to face his family because of the stupid nature of his infection, and when did it happen? Right when the local pack was falling all to pieces. When the only people who could help him were busy scattering to the four corners of the city and beyond. Still, never one to let adversity overcome him, Henry decided there was only one conclusion to reach: This Varian hombre was calling everyone to him, and those who didn't could either get dead or get the hell out of Vegas. He knew enough about lycanthropes to understand that not showing himself to the newly proclaimed Alpha would be as good as a spit in the eye, so he got an audience as soon as possible.
After a brief chat with the few Lukoi with any rank, the pack put him to work in an area he knew well, a mission that could be summed up as "Gather up the rogues. If they don't bend, fuck 'em up." Of course, they didn't send him out all alone, but set him to assisting the Bolverk as a strong right arm. This position became more permanent later when the pack made him Hati, Varian's bodyguard and a street enforcer.
Despite his relative 'youth' and inexperience as a werewolf, it made sense. His skills were well suited to the task; squad-level organization, a bit of wit, and a willingness to back it up with a gun or fist. After his adventures in the Land o' Sand, his ability to pick up on ambushes was sharp, turned even sharper with the heightened senses of his new species, making him an excellent bodyguard. Best of all he had no political or familial ties to get in the way of his job during the purges, and no resentments against Mengsk for his usurpation.
And hey, the pay didn't suck...