Major Channing is the Gamma of the Woolsey werewolf pack. He holds the rank of Major in the British Army, and is Commander of the Coldstream Guards. He also has an interest in mathematics, and serves as bursar to the pack.
Channing can best be described as a cad, or perhaps a rakehell would be more appropriate, given his origin. He is a consummate aristocrat, though this does not mean he is anything like a gentleman.
Before he was turned, Channing was a sculptor of some repute. Being one of the artistic types vampires prefer, they attempted to recruit him. He instead joined the military and was turned into a werewolf during the Napoleonic wars. He was metamorphosed between 1803-1815.
He has a frosty relationship with Lady Alexia Maccon due to an almost fatal social gaffe on his part on their first meeting.
His full name is Channing Hector Blyth Channing of the Chesterfield Channings.
The following quotes from The Parasol Protectorate novels give some insight into Major Channing, but are not required reading for the character. Your character sheet, supplied at the con, will have all the information needed to play this character.
The gentleman in question was both tall and broad, although not quite to her husband’s scale. Lord Maccon was Scottish-big; this gentleman was only English-big—there was a distinct difference. Also unlike the earl, who periodically bumped into things as though his form were larger than his perception of it, this man seemed entirely comfortable with his size. He wore full officer formals and knew he looked good in them. His boots were spit-shined, his blond hair coiffed high, and he boasted an accent that very carefully was no accent at all.
Major Channing was uncomfortably good-looking – a strapping blond with icy-blue eyes, marked cheekbones, and imperiously arched brows. He was a true soldier to the bone, which might not have been so bad a thing had not his nobility of profession been augmented by an arrogance of manner and toothiness of accent so extreme only the bluest of the blue-blooded individuals out to foist such upon others.
Major Channing Channing of the Chesterfield Channings was a man who spoke the Queen’s English with that unctuous precision instilled only by generations of the best schools, the best society, and an overabundance of teeth.
No wonder he was so very full of himself. One would have to be, laboring all one’s life under a name like that.
Channing Channing of the Chesterfield Channings smiled his perfect smile and twinkled his blue eyes in a way Alexia was certain he believed to be alluring.
“Are you philandering with me, sir?” She was imprudently startled into asking. ‘Would you like me to be?’ he replied, grin widening. Well, that certainly settled that. This was no gentleman.
Everyone in the courtyard stopped what they were about and turned to look at the statuesque lady currently engaged in whacking their third in command, Woolsey Pack Gamma, commander of the Coldsteam Guards abroad, with a parasol.
“Grab the ruff like so. Don’t worry, pull as hard as you like, you can’t hurt him. And in Channing’s case, even if you could, he likely deserves it.”
Duels were illegal and had to be stuffed under carpets at great expense to avoid scandal. Channing had a vast collection of lumpy carpets.
Major Channing, Alexia had discovered much to her shock, was interested in figures, and as such was bursar to the pack. It seemed odd for a man of breeding and snobbery to dally with mathematics, but immortality did strange things to people’s hobbies.
“He was a splendid sculptor before he turned. Did you know? We all knew he had a good chance of having excess soul; vampires and werewolves were vying for his patron. Such a sweet young talented thing.”
Never before had anyone described Major Channing Channing of the Chesterfield Channings as a decent fellow
Major Channing might be a pain in the proverbial posterior as a pack mate, but he was an excellent officer with a reputation as a fire-eater, and he had the respect of both soldiers and fellow officers. He’d died fighting Napoleon, and his soldiers respected him for that, if nothing else. Not many werewolves were forged in battle; most started out as some species of theatrical.
Before anyone had a chance to react to the weapon, Poche, seized with a sudden bout of unwarranted bravery, charged at Channing. Without breaking stride, the werewolf swiveled his head down and around, opened his prodigious jaws, and swallowed the little dog whole. ‘Really, Channing,’ remonstrated Alexia, ‘did you have to eat the man’s dog? I am convinced you will experience terrible indigestion.’
Monsieur Trouve took off his frock coat. It was far too wide for the werewolf, but he handed it over for modesty’s sake. With a nod of thanks, Channing put it on. It covered the necessaries, but was far too short and, coupled with his long, loose hair, made him look disturbingly like an oversized French schoolgirl.