I take no credit for the above image. It is titled "Busride Bini" and is the work of HeartJuice. Follow the link provided to view the artist's DeviantArt site.
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Allen Henrick
0 · 272 views · located in 
The Infinite Void
a character in “The Multiverse”, as played by Steppin' Razor
Description
He looks unkempt but of a sturdy constitution, nonetheless.
I take no credit for the above image. It is titled "Busride Bini" and is the work of HeartJuice. Follow the link provided to view the artist's DeviantArt site.
I take no credit for the above image. It is titled "Busride Bini" and is the work of HeartJuice. Follow the link provided to view the artist's DeviantArt site.
Equipment
He is most likely wearing clothes and may be carrying something. You should look.
History
Once upon a time.
So begins...
Allen Henrick's Story
- Seen 62 Times • Page 1 of 4 • 1, 2, 3, 4
Allen Henrick strolls in the front with hands jammed in pockets, hunched slightly forward and quietly whistling. A gentle smile plays across his face after his eyes light upon the magnificent stretch of the bar. This is where he heads, every few steps a few pieces of dried mud flaking off his heavy boots and crumbling into dirt.
Allen Henrick pauses just long enough to fish a hand rolled cigarette out of a case, slipping the poorly made concoction into his lips. Right before he strikes a wood match on its tiny red and white box, before he applies the resultant flame to his bent cigarette, he notices someone pass through his personal space and move ahead of him. Continuing on he shakes out the match and tosses it on the floor, a a quiet chuckle escaping his lips.
Allen Henrick eases onto a recently vacated barstool, still warm, the previous resident's empty, smudged glass still resting in front of him. A slow sweeping of the hand moves it away, in front of one of these other fine patrons of Gambit's and away from him. After spinning around on his seat, facing away from the bar, he uses the extra space behind him as an elbow rest. "Aaahh," he quietly says to himself, ashing his cigarette on the floor and kicking off a little of the dirt on his boots.
Allen Henrick takes a good ten to fiften seconds to watch where he was swatting things, making sure he doesn't miss a single curve or flash of skin...then finally offers an amicable smile and tilts his head in apology. "Right, right, babs," he manages, a huge showing of decorum and effort by anyone's standard, maybe. At this he takes a couple more drags off his fag, some of the ashes spilling down the chest of his coat. But he doesn't seem to mind.
Allen Henrick smiles to himself, just a bit, but doesn't look back over at the liquor-hungry woman. He leans forward a little and loosens his boots, twisting them back and forth, and, in turn, lets them fall with a dull *klunk* haphazardly to the floor. A sigh of relaxation escapes him when he leans back, his feet stretching from within the confines of their bunched up, holey old socks.
"Now them there," he begins, very quietly yet still conversationally, "just don't smell right, yeah? 'S what I think."
"Now them there," he begins, very quietly yet still conversationally, "just don't smell right, yeah? 'S what I think."
Allen Henrick lightly shakes his head, shaking some ashes off onto one of his tumbled over boots. "Not quite right."
Allen Henrick leans a little to his side, towards some gentleman who rose to flirt with a nearby girl, and smoothly cups the victim's drink to hand, curling his fingers around it and bringing it near. In one smooth gulp the drink's life has become a dim, empty one, void of any whiskey. He hides his replacement of the empty glass with a hearty stretch and celebrates by lighting up a new cigarette.
Allen Henrick tilts awkwardly from on his barstool, trying to attain a better viewing angle of the bookish woman mumbling so conservatively to the snappy dresser. Well, it is probably very snappy in these parts. When this thought crosses his mind he finds it worth pondering a moment, almost causing him to lean right out of his seat into a back end of a trashy wench.
“
'Pologies, kid.
”
Allen Henrick shuffles out of his room, not bothering to fix his matted bed hair or twisted coat, both his boots untied with laces dragging. Slow, lethargic steps carry him down the staircase while he squints his eyes and looks around. My, but the place was bustling with activity. "Agh. Musta' nodded off." He had no recollection of getting a room. The only explanation was that he fell asleep and someone helped him into a room. Again.
Allen Henrick leans against the rail leading up to the rooms, squinting his eyes and staring around. Judging from the time he was asleep for quite a while. He recognized a few of the people down there. The creep couple, the proper gentleman. An uncovered yawn escapes him and he rolls with it, stretching his arms out, arching his back. Feels good.
Allen Henrick stumbles down a couple of steps, tripping on his bootlaces, catches himself, then more carefully walks the rest of the way. After approaching the bar and sidestepping in and out of numerous peoples' personal space, he decides to sit at a nearby table instead. A bit crowded, and he didn't want to knock over some poor little girl. There were a lot of them here, after all.
Allen Henrick pulls an empty chair at his table closer with the toe of a boot, then klunks his dirty boots atop it's seat. He whistles a cheerful tune while retying his laces, having to stop and fix the final bow several times, having trouble getting it just right with his large fingers. "'Ello, a bit of service maybe?" he asks aloud, while switching to his next boot. He glances left and right, craning his head. How the hell did you tell who worked here?
Allen Henrick shrugs lightly to himself and finishes tying up his laces, replacing the other chair at his table with a slap of the foot. He relaxes again at his table near the bar and pats down his coat, managing to find his box of wood matches but not seeming to locate whatever else he was looking for. [/i]"Oy, son a'," he starts, but simply lets the statement go and offers a defeated grimace, instead. He could check the lost and found.
Allen Henrick sets the matches on his table and looks towards the bar, where this Kisa person is standing. After some careful deductions and thinking, he figured there was a good chance she worked here. "'Ey! There, love! Over here!" he noisily bellows in his deep voice, arms waving dramatically over his head. He does not bother standing up though.
Allen Henrick takes a moment to rudely ogle her and check out her entire body, then puts on his most presentable social face, which will just have to do since he looked like a vagrant. "Yes, thanks lay. Lost a smoke case I had, yeah? Think I might dropped it at the bar last night. Can't remember all that well..." he shrugs to her, palms turned upwards before him.
Allen Henrick leans forward, a bit surprised, arching an eyebrow. "You have 'quite a few'? Has a bunch of hand rolled ones inside. Sort of worn, yeah? Or just give me the one with the most smokes, lay," he adds, thinking this might be a reasonable solution.
Allen Henrick takes it, looking a bit questionably at the _origins_ of this handkerchief, but accepts it nonetheless. He sniffs it a couple of times and squints at the woman. "Think I'll be alright. Smells like a circus, though," he states, then adds, almost by way of apology, "Without the goats, 'course." The handkerchief goes into his coat pocket, a cigarette comes out from the case he isn't even sure is his, and he lights one up merrily.
- Seen 62 Times • Page 1 of 4 • 1, 2, 3, 4