Lady Alexia Maccon

Lady Alexia Maccon (The Countess Woolsey) was born without a soul. The scientific term for this is Preternatural. Her physical touch negates any and all supernatural states. A werewolf or vampire will once again become human for the duration of her touch, and a ghost will cease to be, as their entire existence is a supernatural state.

In her role as a member of The Shadow Council, she is Preternatural advisor to HRM Queen Victoria, and has a particular friendship with her fellow council member, Lord Akeldama. Married to LordConall MacconAlpha of the Woolsey Pack, the couple are expecting their first child, which will be neither werewolf nor preternatural, and has been the cause of some concern among the supernatural set.

Lady Maccon is no-nonsense, believing that her soulless condition would ordinarily lead to a lack of ‘natural morals’, Alexia has taken manners as a substitute, and treats rudeness and impropriety the way some treat immorality. She quite likes food, particularly treacle tart, and always carries a parasol made for her by Madame Lefoux, replete with hidden weaponry useful against machine, vampire, and werewolf alike.

Lady Maccon is quite tall, being not much shorter than her husband, has strong features, an Italian complexion from her father, a prominent nose, and dark eyes. She speaks English, French, Italian, a little Spanish, and a little Latin; is extremely interested in scientific discoveries and the latest fashions from Paris

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Lady Alexia Maccon Character Sheet

8iebknaytThe following quotes from The Parasol Protectorate novels give some insight into Lady Alexia Maccon, but are not required reading for the character. Your character sheet, supplied at the con, will have all the information required to play this character.

Many a gentleman had likened his first meeting with her to downing a very strong cognac when one was expecting to imbibe fruit juice – that is to say, startling and apt to leave one with a distinct burning sensation.

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She was the type of woman who, if thrown into a briar patch, would start to tidy it up by stripping off all the thorns.

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The Vampire moved toward her, darkly shimmering out of the library shadows with feeding fangs ready. However, the moment he touched Miss Tarabotti, he was suddenly no longer darkly doing anything at all. He was simply standing there, the faint sounds of a string quartet in the background as he foolishly fished about with his tongue for fangs unaccountably mislaid.

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“That woman,” Lord Maccon spat, ‘is definitely alpha and most certainly female.”
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She would have colored gracefully with embarrassment had she not possessed the complexion of one of those “heathen Italians,” as her mother said, who never colored, gracefully or otherwise. (Convincing her mother that Christianity had, to all intents and purposes, originated with the Italians, thus making them the exact opposite of heathen, was a waste of time and breath.)
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“Please, Lord Maccon, use one of the cups. My delicate sensibilities.” The earl actually snorted. “My dear Miss Tarabotti, if you possessed any such things, you certainly have never shown them to me.”
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“Lady Maccon.” “By George, Biffy! How the deuce can you possibly tell that there is Lady Maccon?” queried the other top-hated gentleman. “Who else would be standing in the middle of a street on full-moon night with a raging ruddy fire behind her, waving a parasol about?” “Good point, good point.”
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“What the hell is that?” yelled Lord Maccon. He was glaring at her coffee-colored skin, discolored between the neck and shoulder region by an ugly purple mark, the size and shape of a man’s teeth. “That is a bite mark, my lord,” she said. Lord Maccon was ever more enraged. “Who bit you?” he roared. Alexia tilted her head to one side in amazement. “You did.” She was then treated to the spectacle of an Alpha werewolf looking downright hangdog.

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Alexia wondered what it said about her character that Ivy had genuinely believed she would intentionally go climbing about the side of a floating dirigible.
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Someone was trying to kill Lady Alexia Maccon. It was most inconvenient, as she was in a dreadful hurry. Given her previous familiarity with near-death experiences and their comparative frequency with regards to her good self, Alexia should probably have allowed extra time for such a predictable happenstance.
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Alexia had found pregnancy relatively manageable, up to a point. That point having been some three weeks ago, at which juncture her natural reserves of control gave way to sentimentality. Only yesterday she had ended breakfast sobbing over the fried eggs because they looked at her funny. The pack had spent a good half hour trying to find a way to pacify her. Her husband was so worried he looked to start crying himself.
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As with most things in life, Lady Maccon preferred the civilised exterior to the dark underbelly (with the exception of pork products, of course.)
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