Malcolm Wallace
Background: Prince Malcolm of Glasgow first rose to power during the early 17th century. He has been ousted twice from the position, once in the late 17th century by a coup lead by a cabal of Ventrue backing a Malkavan, the second during the Great War by Sabbat opportunists. Both times, he returned, using a combination of ruthlessly efficient tactics and an uncanny knowledge of the city's layout to lay waste to his foes. Another time, early in the 19th century, he and the city's entire population seemingly disappeared in the face of a wave of Gaoru activity. Five years later, the city's court was back to business as normal.
Among the Courts of Avalon, Prince Malcolm has been an enigma. He has undoubtedly fulfilled his duties as a vassal of Mithras, travelling to London to renew his vows each century, and answering his liege's calls as and when they come. However, London's kindred, especially it's Ventrue, the childer of his liege, have found themselves decidedly uncomfortable in Malcolm’s domain. Two of his elders, his Seneschal and his Toreador advisor, are rumored to have ties to Mithras's enemies, and the French influence on the city and it's vampiric court are undeniable. Too, Malcolm himself is a Brujah, and thus at de-facto odds with Ventrue. However, he has never been anything but polite and welcoming to his fellow liegemen despite a number of confirmed plots against his reign.
The current crisis has taxed his resources and coping skills: His legendary (for a Brujah) self-control has been particularly taxed by the constant demands of the self-styled Ventrue Primogen, Cyril Masters. He has, however, been entirely welcoming to the refugees, all the while encouraging, in ways subtle and not-so, to act proactively toward their triumphant return.
Appearance: Malcolm is every bit the noble Scott, pressed into a modern mould. He is always impeccably dressed in modern formal wear by Scottish designers, with a Scottish theme. Somehow, his family's tartan figures into his attire, either on his tie, socks, his breast handkerchief, or somehow else. He stands a strapping 5'10", and has never lost the bearing of one who is equally comfortable commanding men, or lopping off their heads with a ludicrously large sword.
