Full name: Maxwell Lessard
Nickname: Max
Age: 22
Height: 6ā2ā
Build: Heavyset, broad shouldered
Eye colour: Blue
Hair colour: Blonde
Origins: Maxwell Lessard, or better known as simply āMaxā, is the illegitimate son of Leandra Lessard. Although they never spoke much about his father as it was always an uncomfortable subject, Leandra had led him to understand that he had been a werewolf. The short love affair resulted in Leandra being disowned. After being written out of the finances, she had nowhere to go, and so turned to the slums of Lutetia City. This was no place for a pregnant woman, and Leandra sought help from her brother, whom she had always been close to. He too turned her away, leaving her desperate and disheartened.
Begging was not profitable when taking into account the lost self-respect. But for a while, joint with the pickpocketing, it was enough to sustain her. However, after being brought up in a wealthy household she had acquired skills which were desirable. Being particularly talented in the arts ā mainly the visual arts and music ā she was able to scrape a living through tutoring. With a reasonably steady income and plenty of pity taken, she was able to rent herself an extremely modest room above the Vargeras scene.
Max was born healthy. Within the next three years Leandra had worked her way up a little in the world and was able to rent, and eventually buy, a small house in Mervilleux. Maxās upbringing was not a deprived one. He was mostly happy; though he harboured bitter feelings towards the family and father he never knew for the strife they had caused his mother over something which he considered trivial. The relationship between him and his mother was always a close one. She often suffered bouts of depression and was sickly. She relied on him quite a bit.
Leandra Lessard passed away when Maxwell was 17, suffering from a disease that had been spotted too late after helping clear up after a flood.
Maxās reaction was to fly off the rails. The next year he spent getting into trouble. He mainly blamed his uncle for the weak state of his mother, even though she had been sickly ever since she was a child. All sorts of sour thoughts dominated his mind for a while. He spent some time trying to track down his uncle with no luck. The same went for his father. What few friends he did have found that they were frightened of him now that only the darkest of ideas held any meaning to him. He was alone. Totally.
Sometimes, Max liked drinking down in Vargeras. This marked the year since his mother's passing. Heād made a few acquaintances when searching for his father and liked the general dangerousness of it. Though it was more likely that he was searching for his identity, for something to define him. One night, in a dingy bar owned by what he understood as one of the more lowly packs, he ended up getting himself irresponsibly involved in a spot of brawling. It was safe to say he was crazily out of his depth. He could handle himself reasonably well with his knives and fists, and might make a somewhat formidable figure by these skills and his sizeā¦ if this were not Lutetia, supernatural stronghold. Max was thrown out onto the street. No help was offered, just a few curious glances. He had to drag himself back home.
And still, he kept returning. Scenes such as that werenāt uncommon, though none hit him as hard ā mentally and physically ā as the first one.
4 months after first wandering into the Vargeras scene, Max found himself in The Den. He felt that his presence was causing quite a bristle. But for some reason unknown to Max, the atmosphere was ordered to calm and he was allowed to stay, thanks to the pack leader, Baron. He began to frequent The Den, and eventually made friends. This change lit up a new path for him, and he left the sulking and sorriness for a lighter way. His time at The Den and eventually, the job offer, brought him closer to becoming his normal self again.
Over the following years Max was to become more accepted within the pack, and involved in more of their business, their secrets. And yet, he was still painfully ordinarily human. He felt useless. All suggestions of them turning him were met usually with a sort of amusement or indifference. Max knew that others could be turned to join, though it was rare. Was he thinking too highly of himself? Did he really mean little to them? Just a pet. As his time amongst the pack nears 5 years without any progress on the issue, he begins to grow impatient and distant.