“I may be a werewolf and Scottish, but despite what you may have read about both, we are not cads!” Highland werewolves had a reputation for doing atrocious and highly unwarranted things, like wearing smoking jackets to the dinner table.
Lord Conall Maccon (Earl Woolsey) is the Alpha of the Woolsey werewolf pack and head of the Bureau for Unnatural Registration (BUR), an arm of Her Majesty’s government that deals with matters of law and order among the supernatural. Lord Maccon is the highest ranking Alpha werewolf in the country.
Born around 1673, he was formerly a Highland Scottish laird, turned into a werewolf in his mid thirties and became Alpha of the Kingair werewolf pack. In 1853 he successfully challenged the “Mad” Alpha of the London based Woolsey werewolf pack, considered the most powerful Alpha in Britain at the time.
Conall is married to Lady Alexia Maccon (nee Tarabotti), and the couple are expecting their (unexpected) first child. He is openly affectionate with his wife, but argues with her as part of their close relationship. He is caring and mother-henish with his pack and values loyalty highly.
The following quotes from The Parasol Protectorate novels give some insight into Lord 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.
“Mark my words, I will use something much, much stronger than smelling salts,” came a growl in Miss Tarabotti’s left ear. The voice was low, and tinged with a hint of Scotland.
Lord Conall Maccon, Earl of Woolsey, was yelling. Loudly. This was to be expected from Lord Maccon, who was generally a loud sort of gentleman – the ear-bleeding combination of lung capacity and a large barrel chest. Lord Maccon wasn’t simply big; he was also tremendously solid, like a walking, talking Roman fortification.
He was so very large and so very gruff that he rather terrified her, but he always behaved correctly in public, and there was a lot to be said for a man who sported such well-tailored jackets—even if he did change into a ferocious beast once a month
Lord Maccon had never before seen her cry. It did the most remarkable thing to his own emotions. He became irrationally angry that anything might make his stalwart Alexia sad. He wanted to kill someone, and this time it was not at all tied to being a werewolf. It couldn’t be, as, held tightly in her arms, he was as human as possible
Lord Maccon, being Lord Maccon and good at such things, then changed, right there in the Thames, from dog-paddling wolf to large man treading water. He did so flawlessly, so that his head never went under the water. Professor Lyall suspected him of practicing such maneuvers in the bathtub.
He was not drunk in the halfhearted manner of most supernatural creatures, wherein twelve pints of bitter had finally turned the world slightly fuzzy. No, Lord Maccon was rip-roaring, tumble down, without a doubt, pickled beyond the gherkin.
Lord Maccon believed that if his trousers were on his legs, and something else was on his torso, he was dressed. The less done after that, the better. His wife had been startled to find that in the summertime, he actually went around their room barefoot! Once — and only once, mind you — he even attempted to join her for tea in such a state. Impossible man. Alexia put a stop to that posthaste.
It was universally held among the drones that Lord Maccon had a particularly fine physique, and there had been quite the scuffle over who would be allowed to dress him in the evenings. After Floote assumed that role, it became a trickster’s challenge to ascertain who could arrange such little incidences as would cause the Alpha to bluster out into the hallway in the altogether of an afternoon.