Henry Helot

Stonebelly - Paternal Knocker gone Werewolf Runabout

Name: Henry Helot Concept: Paternal Knocker Auspice: Rahu
Tribal Name: Stonebelly Virtue: Justice Tribe: Stormlords
Chronicle: Wolves of Wayward Vice: Wrath Lodge: ???

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|.Health (+2 Dalu, +4 Gauru, +3 Urshul)|○○○○○○○○ OHGODIDON’TKNOWHOWTOCONTROLTHEWIDTHS|
.Primal Urge|○○|

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|%{color:white}SECRET WRITINGS%|.Hishu|.Dalu|.Gauru|.Urshul|.Urhan|

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|\2.Mental (-3 unskilled)|\2.Physical (-1 unskilled)|
\2.Social (-1 unskilled)|
|Academics|○|Athletics|○|Animal Ken|○|
|Investigation|○|Firearms (Rifles)|○|Intimidation|○○|
|Occult (Superstitions)|○|Stealth|○|Socialize|○|
|Politics|%{color:white}HANG’EM%|Survival (Rural)|○○|Streetwise|%{color:white}GANGSTERS%|
|Science|%{color:white}EGGHEADS%|Weaponry (Hammers)|○○○|Subterfuge|%{color:white}COMMIES%|

There’s a picture opposite me / Of my primitive ancestry / Which stood on rocky shores and kept the beaches shipwreck free / Though I respect that a lot / I’d be fired if that were my job / After killing Jason off and countless screaming argonauts


Here follows Baughb’s early morning backstory trials.

Henry was born, raised and by all accounts planned to die just past the city limits of Wendleton, Texas. Brought up to be an honest, good-hearted man by his grandparents in an old farm house surrounded, strangely enough, by farm and live stalk he suspected his life would be mostly keeping his head down and trudging through. And it was. His Pap died as he was coming out of high school and as Gran followed Henry discovered farming to be a family business or at least required more hands than two. Taking up a simple job in the city knocking heads of cattle with a sledge.

Well Henry’s a fairly average man, born into Wendleton, TX on October 27th in 1969 and living until recently on the outskirts of said town in a big farmhouse left to him by his grandparents. Grandparents as to say his family, growing up on that same farm raising live stalk under the care of his Gran and Pap. Soon after his grandfather passed on and Gran followed him that Henry discovered farming was a family business or at least needed more hands than two. Taking up a job in the city Henry found himself well suited to the slaughterhouse and spent the next ten-odd years knocking heads of cattle with a sledge.

Henry: raised on a farm, lived in a slaughterhouse, slept in a farmhouse, drank in a bar. Had a bad bad week wherein his life got shot full of holes and moved out of town as a wolf. Been a wolf ever since.

Once upon a time there was a man named Henry. Man-Henry was once boy-Henry and lived outside a town called Wendleton in Texas. He was raised by his grandparents on a farm where he farmed. Boy-Henry’s grandparents died, one then the other, and boy-Henry begrudgingly became man-Henry. Man-Henry took a job in a beef factory slaughtering heads of cattle with a sledge. He worked most days, slept most nights, and developed a taste for beer most evenings. He had a bad day wherein everything went wrong and his life splintered apart. Man-Henry became wolf-Henry and left Wendleton with his bar buddy Joel. Each day after was mandatory adventure.

Today is a wondrous day. Careening through the cosmos, the Earth hurdles around the Sun, rotating on an invisible axis causing radiant light to filter through muddy layers of atmosphere into a beautiful array of colors that play lightly on morning clouds. A small bird alights to the slender branch of a young Sycamore bending gracefully over the rippling waters of a mossy swimming hole. Nearby forest trees wave the chilly evening goodbye, rocked by a playful gust of wind. Up the hill a quivering fawn bounds across the overgrown farmland of a wooden house as a hare burrows madly in the dirt. The home sighs and settles as if relaxing after worrying away a tense night. Sweet melodies of a woman’s voice trickle down a flight of stairs, soothing and assuring. At the top of the stairs, in a large bedroom, beneath a fluffy blue comforter a man opens one bloodshot eye. It’s 4am. The blinding sun is burning a mark into his cheek, the woodland animals are gibbering away, the old house is creaking like it’s on it’s last legs and his radio is blaring Mexican nonsense music into his ear. It is any other day.

Henry Helot slumps out of bed and into the bathroom. He washed his face in the sink and looks into his own tired eyes. He is 37 and looking the part. Bags under his eyes and salt in his hair. He brushes his teeth and spits. A farmhouse with no farmer. His grandfather was farmer and taught him how but Henry is no man of the soil. Henry has a city job. Not in an office or behind a counter. Henry bludgeons head of cattle with a sledge in a slaughterhouse. At least he’s still working with animals. Boots on and down the stairs, gulping at a mug of yesterday’s coffee. He doesn’t think about the coming day. Everything’s set on routine and thinking just makes it linger. Tuck your head down and push through. No music in the truck, no conversation before work. Henry pulls on his black rubber overhauls and gloves and picks up his tool, positioning himself at the front of the conveyor belt. Through the side door Henry sees sleepy eyed cows being unloaded from the back of a truck. He slides the metal grate in front of him up as another man takes position one belt up. A buzzer sounds sharply from above and the cattle can be heard grumbling forward. Henry puts the neck of the sledgehammer in his right hand and waits.

At 3:30 Henry pulls off his splattered work clothes and heads to the showers. The pipes groan and cough before belching up the steaming water. His boss claps him on the back and says something about work and overtime and commies. Henry nods. He’s got a few hours of down time now. Maybe he’ll go to a diner to get some chow, maybe he’ll go home and fix up the porch overhang that’s been leaking. Maybe he’ll catch a movie while in town or pick up a book or lounge in the park or go swimming in the creak or buy a hooker or go shopping for a new radio. Maybe he’ll sit in his truck and wait until he can go to the bar without feeling guilty.

At the bar Henry puts his coat on the stool to his right and gets a beer. The bartender sets down the drink and moves away to talk to a woman. At the new pool table in the back a young college yuppie talks loudly about his philosophy of being a wealthy college yuppie. Henry picks up the paper and rereads a line in an article a half-dozen times before putting it down. He doesn’t remember what it said. He orders another beer. A man walks in briskly and sits on the stool to Henry’s right on top of Henry’s jacket. He orders a beer that’s not on tap and pulls the jacket out from under him and tosses it under the bar. Henry looks into the foam of his beer and thinks about the foam cows get at the edge of their mouths. The man pulls from his drink and looks up at the yuppie then to Henry. “When that guy wraps his Porsche around a lamppost, his repairs will cost about the same amount as his ‘education’… but not quite as much as his bar tab,” he says. Henry smiles and looks the man in the eyes. Joel was always good company.

Henry Helot

Wolves of Wayward Baughberick