Hi all, I'll be playing Betty Hamelin, a professional accountant and newly-changed Bastet.<br/><br/>(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v200/Prakkie/Betty.jpg)<br/><br/><strong>Background</strong><br/>Betty life used to be regular as clockwork; a nine to five job as an accountant, an hour at the company gym every day after work and her free time spent on such hobbies as reading books, keeping up with the news and studying minimal art. On Saturdays she would visit her family, mom, dad and brother, according to a kind of system, mom being the most visited because otherwise she would start making phone-calls and drop in for unexpected visits. The rest of the weekend she'd spend either at art-galleries or the golf-club, doing the bit of ‘networking’ she obliged herself to do and cleaning the house because though she had money enough for a cleaner, she never did like leaving a stranger into her home.<br/><br/>A few weeks ago, Betty's life got seriously shaken up when she found out she was a Bastet, a Werecat. She didn't see this as an immediate problem, figuring it was something she could live with - much like other people lived with diabetes. The real trouble began when she killed her boss, a typical male chauvinistic pig, for not keeping his hands to himself. Since then, she's been on the run.<br/><br/><strong>Appearance</strong><br/>Betty is short (she compensates with high heels) and very fit though it’s hard to tell underneath the three-part suit: pin-striped black or grey depending on her mood. Her skin is dark, but not too much so, indicating mixed descent. Her hair is black and frizzy when left alone, she carefully irons it every morning. She wears very little make-up, just as much as necessary.<br/><br/><strong>Personality</strong><br/>They say a house says a lot about a person. Betty’s house is<em>neat</em>. Clinically neat to the point of it being hard to tell if anyone lives there. It’s decorated in a stripped kind of modern way; black tiled floors, white walls, leather, metal and glass. The only real color is in the few formalist artworks on the wall, bright blue, yelow and red, though there’s also a pure white Nicholson she’s very proud of having. There are never any clothes thrown over a chair. There’s never a coffee stain on the glass table. And books, when not in their case, are stacked neatly, at straight angles, the larger books at the bottom, the smaller on top.