<hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/2/27/Maxbaine.png)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Max Baine<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>Sweetrock (Vice President)<br/><strong>Date:</strong>May 4th, 1876.<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Morning.<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Casino Morongo<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Open, Graham<br/><hr/>Most of those at the Casino so early were gamblers coming off an overnight run and miners with bloodshot eyes and a hangover that made their heads ring.  It was still early – not by an army man’s standards, to be sure, but early for the miners who saw their time in Gamorra as precious holiday from the perils of their day-to-day existence in the Maze.<br/><br/>A suspiciously sober bartender offered Graham a place at the bar, and the barman nodded, pouring up an ale that smelled… like ale.  Not a twice watered down, warm as piss excuse for ale that had been found in most of the bars in Shan Fan, but a genuine draft that must have arrived via coach from some distant rail, then been cooled again locally.  It seemed like genuine civilization, so far out in the west, and the barman offered Graham an equally cool smile.<br/><br/>“Start you a tab, mister?”<br/><br/>Behind the barman and Graham, another fella stepped into the Casino Morongo.  Max Baine drew heavy, angry sorts of stares from most of the miners in the place, the kind that suggested they’d care to bury a pickaxe into his backside as soon as share a table with him.  He wasn’t just a man who rubbed people the wrong way – this was a man who was genuinely, deeply hated.  He offered a small smile in return for the local color staring him down.<br/><br/>“Gentlemen,” he announced.  “I’d like to welcome you to the newest acquisition of the Sweetrock Mining Company.  First round is on the house.”<br/><br/>“What?” said one of the miners, rising from his table.  He picked up the glass, throwing it the ground.  “I’d sooner drink dog piss.”  He pushed over the table, growling.  “I used to like this place, too.”<br/><br/>He wasn’t the only one to share the sentiment – just over half the patrons were rising to their feet, leaving half-empty glasses and unfinished meals on their tables.  The man at the door lingered by it, miners growling and staring as they filed towards the door.  He didn’t flinch, didn’t step back, no matter how close they came to him.<br/>