<div align="center">(http://ro.nevermorecity.net/maxbanner.jpg)</div><br/><div style="text-align: left;"><strong>Name:</strong>  Maxwell Garamonde<br/><strong>Scion of:</strong>  Thoth<br/><strong>Location:</strong>  O'Bryan's Nine Irish Brothers (Irish Pub)<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>  Edith Geir<br/><strong>Wearing:</strong> A charcoal Seville Row suit, matching vest, gold tie and pocket square.<br/><strong>Time of day:</strong>  Mid-afternoon</div><hr/><br/>Maxwell scratched his neck with one hand as he pushed his way into the pub. It was a convenient place for him to think things over; it reminded him a bit of home. He normally would have moved directly to a lonely, small table off in a corner of the establishment, had he not had a flash of images flood his mind. His eyes narrowed at the target of his attentions. It was only a split second, but it was more than enough time for several images to strike him in rapid succession.<br/><br/><em>White. Slump. Fox. Eyes. </em><br/><br/>His path diverted immediately, taking up a seat beside Edith without so much as a smile in greeting. "Despite what happened, you're still a Scion; you will find a way to succeed, I'm certain," he intoned, his Scottish heritage accenting his words.<br/><br/>He simply raised his hand to the barman, who passed along a pint of some dark ale, seeming to ignore the strange look that the other Scion was giving him. After taking a thoughtful draught from his beer, he finally turned toward her, a small, satisfied smile on his lips.<br/><br/>"It was actually rather obvious," he answered, before she could even ask, "you're lovely; far too lovely for a place like this, yet you're not here to garner attention. Oh, no, quite the contrary, you had a long night. You didn't sleep well. You're tired, yet it was something that happened within the past twenty four hours that has upset you. You're slumping with exhaustion, yet your eyes are still without dark blemish and your hair isn't particularly out of sorts, so you've not gone<em>too</em>long without sleep."<br/><br/>Only slightly pausing for breath, Maxwell continued. "Also, you keep a pet fox hidden in your bag. Most who notice there's an animal at all likely assume it's a small dog or cat; some strange affectation, yet not the way you show affection to the creature. No, this animal is a gift, likely from your parent."<br/><br/>He looked down briefly, then back up to her eyes, still rattling on. "You're dressed fashionably, yet not impractically so; you're ready in case of any ambush. Stilettos don't do well in the face of titanspawn, I'm sure, so you've gone with durable boots that could give support to your ankles in a fight or flight situation. In your case, it could be both, as I'm assuming Freya is your mother. Your hair is quite flaxen; unnaturally so, yet it's clearly your natural colouration -- your roots would be showing if there were any dying involved, and clearly your mother has been keeping you busy."<br/><br/>Maxwell drained the last of his beer, putting the pint glass aside; this pause in his speech coincided with a passing patron, so they wouldn't overhear the conversation.<br/><br/>"Now, as William, another of our kind, has gone missing and with the other strangeness about, I assume the two of us are very much on the same page and it was inevitable that Fate would have our circles coincide, eventually. I'm Maxwell Garamonde, private investigator. Good afternoon."