MIRABELLA

[MIRABELLA]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=style, width: 300px; background-color: #7e1627;][cs=2]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=style, width: 300px; background-color: #7e1627;][cs=2] mirabella

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=style, width: 300px; background-color: #0F104B;][cs=2] female. shifter. store keep. twenty-three.

My name is Mirabella. Though I suppose you could call me Mira if you were inclined to. I'm not much really, quite scrawny and short, with freckled skin, and I'v been told that my eyes are too close together. My hair on the other hand is my treasure, soft and a wealthy golden color that tumbles down my back near to my waist and gives me a certain glow if you're far enough away you can't see my face. "It's how we'll draw the customers in!" My father always says. Having me stand on the streets with my hair flipping about in the wind and drawing unsuspecting men and women to their doom. Not literally of course, but my father could sell you a dirty glass and have you feeling like you're going home with treasure. I was born and raised in the squaller of London. I'm a gypsy you see, by birth, not by choice. And have been branded a miscreant from the moment I took my first breath. In London we're treated horribly, as though we have some wild disease that will infect and kill everyone. And we probably do, it's called fun! Though those London snobs wouldn't know what fun was if it bit them on the nose. I dearly miss my childhood, running through the streets with the boys, beggind men and women alike for a pence or a pound, anything to put a spot of tea in our pots and a bit of bread and cheese on the table. I would look up in awe at the tall women with golden hair like mine, and the ruby and sapphire dresses. Those that sparkled with gems and pearls. Made me wish I was one of them. Now I know what you're thinking, why would a gypsy have golden hair? It's simple! My father told me that when I was born I was blessed with bright, golden hair to bring good luck to our family! That one day I would use my hair to bring about a great wealth to them. Though my presence was enough, as they always said. Yet, I've always had this nagging feeling in the back of my head. That maybe I wasn't gifted at birth... Now's not the time to think about that. When I turned ten, my father announced that we would leave the streets of London and join his brother's Caravan on the country side! I was excited of course, I truly loved being outside the city. Inside it was always so crowded, and the smell was the worse, but outside you could run through the grass barefoot and not worry about getting dirty, or stepping on or in something unpleasant. And the rain felt wonderful in the country, less muggy then in the streets where I grew up. But the country wasn't always a peaceful place. We had run ins with the Queen's Guard more then once, and they were terrible to us. They taxed us, stole things from our caravan and threathened the lives of the older boys. And always, their eyes strayed on the women and girls for too long. Mother would hide me inside the tents whenever the guards came around, so they wouldn't see me. But I would watch them. Aside from their dark, lecherous looks, they were quite intriguing. It's what got me into writing you see, these adventures we had in the country, traveling all around London and neighboring counties. Sometimes we'd travel for days without seeing a city wall, or the comforts of an Inn. It was just our group and any stragglers we might pick up. Then when we reached the gates of another town, we would turn around and begin our slow trek back towards London. I think father and my uncle couldn't bare to leave the city for good. They were men of good standings in the city. Though they were gypsy's, they were respected by many highborn Londoner's. As I was nearing my 13th birthday things began to change around me. The other mothers in the group would keep their children away from me at certain times, and the men would always watch me when I went about my business in the camps. I pretended not to notice, but it started to become painfully obvious when they began to argue with my father about me. My brother stood up for me for awhile, but even they were hushed as my birthday neared. The night before my father took me from the camps, claiming we would have a night out to see the stars. Happy for the reprieve from the looks and fear I seemed to cause the rest of the group I ididn't question his intentions. That night I laid peacefully in the grass, watching the clouds fold over the stars, and send our pocket of grass into complete darkness. The moon was at half mass, it's light dim as we neared Autumn. To my left, my father leaned against a rock, his sitar in his hands and humming a soft tune as I slowly fell asleep. This peace was something I truly enjoyed. And then it hit me. A pain that started in my toes and grew in size as it traveled up my form. At first I was terrified, unable to let out a scream as I held my breath, unsure what would happen. My father was by my side in an instant, holding my head in one hand and muffling my screams of agony with his other hand. I was hurt, confused, disbelief flooding my eyes with tears as I stared up into the eyes of my father, the man whow was killing me. The pain continued for what seemed like hours, I grew too weak to scream at one point, letting the spasms in my muscles run over my body. My father never left my side, never stopped humming the same tune as I gave into the pain and let it take over my conscious. In the morning I awoke to feeling quite odd, hardly able to open my eyes, and feeling quite dizzy when I stood up. After a few moments it amazed me that I was even still alive, I had honestly thought my father was killing me. Sniffint the area around me, I stretched my legs in front of me, listening to each bone crack and pop into place. Pleasure filled my aching body as I streched my back legs, yawning with contempt as I tried to sniff out my fath... My brain was still trying to catch up to my body. My heart began pounding in terror as I tried to look down at myself. Finding it nearly impossible to see anything aside from my furry paws and wildly flicking tail. Wait, paws? Tail? I opened my mouth to scream and was only able to hear a roar escape a rather sore throat. I collasped to the ground, whimpering and rolling about, trying to figure out what was going with me. Perhaps it was a dream? Maybe in the afterlife you turned into a... What the hell ever I am. My whimpers didn't die down for a long time, all the while I rolled and stretched, trying to get my normal body back. Soon my father showed up, I suppose he left me when he saw what kind of hideous being I turned into. He stopped when he spotted me, though he didn't look confused, more like concerned, as though he didn't know what I was going to do to him. I rolled to my side, getting up on my paws and whining at him from where I stood. He stared at me a moment longer before stepping closer and closer, til he rested a hand on my nose. When I look back on it now, I realize how silly I had been. I guess since my parents never told me what was going to happen, I had a right to act like a fool that first day. Ahh, memories. I guess you're a bit confused, I'm a shifter, a human who is able to shift into the form of an animal, my animal of choice is a lioness, quite small when it comes to the actual animal. My father says when I was baby I was cursed by an elder, to turn into a mammal on my thirteenth birthday, because of my golden hair, she thought I would be nothing but bad luck, so she cursed me to be bad luck. I suppose it's not all bad. Nowadays my father has given up his nomadic life and settled into a small shop on the lower end of London. It isn't the richest part of town, but it beats living in the dirt. Even at my age I still work with my father, bring in customers to his store and being rewarded with a couple pounds every once in awhile. I've had to give up being dirty in the streets, and I don't wear the ruby and sapphire dresses I looked up to in my youth, but I get to walk the streets of London without too much criticism thrown my way.

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=style, width: 300px; background-color: #0F104B;][cs=2] sweet. quirky. passionate. persistent.

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=style, width: 300px; background-color: #7e1627;][cs=2] ashe. kristen bell.

[HEY, HAY.]