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[B]Name:[/B] Sophie Joyeaux | [B]Age:[/B] 101 | [B]Species:[/B] Werewolf | [B]Gender:[/B] Female 
[B]Appearance:[/B] 
Lycanthropy turned what was once a rather stout and homely girl into a furry little bullet that packs a punch. Standing at just 5', Sophie's height is balanced (or counteracted, depending on how you want to look at things) by a surprisingly voluptuous body for a werewolf. She is nowhere near as lithe or wiry as most of her brethren, but she is strong for her size, and her diminutive stature makes her quick and agile. Her eyes are the same color as the streaks of violet that appear to color her hair in a certain light. Siad hair was once thin and ratty, platinum blonde and prone to unsightly matting, but after being bitten, it took on the same snow white shade as her fur. All of it is nearly untamable as Sophie herself.
[url=http://i16.photobucket.com/albums/b19/Rei_Zero/f66f2863ea97b9966905dda73a9d0909.jpg]Beast Appearance[/url]
[url=http://milyknight.deviantart.com/art/Ambrosial-422527334]Pretty Photo Credit[/url] 

[b]Personality[/b]
Ask, and Sophie will gladly tell you she's survived this long because of luck and a healthy dose of charm. It isn't that Sophie is stupid, quite. She isn't, and has never been. It's only that she's very easily excitable, far too trusting, and a bit naive. She's also quite impatient and more reckless than anyone with as many teeth and claws as she has should be. All of this has amounted to getting into trouble at every turn, including the trouble that has landed her in the realm of the semi-immortal. 

Even so, she is kind, loyal, and courageous (the best way of saying foolhardy anyone can bestow on her), and would gladly give the shirt off her back to anyone who could stand to talk to her for more than a few moments before becoming overwhelmed. 

[b]History[/b]
Sophie was born in Paris, France, just a few hours before the signing of the Treaty of Seville. Her father, an English-born politician, moved his family to Great Britain just two years later, as an ambassador of sorts. 

Sophie's life was neither blessed nor difficult, neither outstanding, nor plain. It was, however, almost soul-crushingly boring, at least to a girl who was found more frequently being scolded by her mother and older sisters for having torn another hole in her petticoats, or eating entirely too much, than, say, singing or dancing. She was fourteen when her father died, and her mother decided to move them all to the young Americas, setting out with Sophie's elder sisters, leaving young Sophie behind with a British governess and her ten-year-old brother, Jacques. 

Two nights before they were meant to have joined their family by way of the Pacific, Jacques got cold feet and ran off on his own in the middle of the night. Sophie, always up for an adventure, chased after him in slippers and a nightgown. She had just decided to take a short cut through the frosted wood outside the village in which they were living, when a very large dog-thing ran up to greet her. If it ever occurred to Sophie to be frightened, she did not have the time. 

When she woke again half a week later, she didn't take the time to grieve, either. It would be wrong to say Sophie was fearless. It would be fairer to say she was forever finding silver linings, and was more than delighted with a new and exciting life, though she quite grew to miss her family, as well. 

Constant wandering found her joining the Scotland pack fifteen years after the turn of the century. A bone-deep charisma, inherent loyalty, luck, and a willingness to try virtually anything once advanced her quickly through the ranks, though her own fear of responsibility has kept her from attaining anything near Alpha ranking. 
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