Every story starts...
In the days of old when dragons soared and knights and kings fought mighty wars, there lay a land, quiet and pure with villages quaint and humble. Lords kept land and farms growing with help from not so fortunate folks. Servants, slaves, call them what you want, they were treated poorly and never alowed to leave.
A young girl with silver locks and gleaming violet eyes Awoke. The musty air of the little wooden shack she had grown to call her home carresed her senses thickened by the morning mist. It was time to arrise and begin the days chores, so was the way of her life.
She stretched, her aching frail body, just starting to strengthen from continuous labour, crackled and poped. She stood slowly and approached the little wooden door, bound by old horse ties. She sighed deeply, inhailing large ammounts of dust, enough to make a normal man choke, and opened the door, prepared to begin the day.
The sun had not yet risen above the treeline, the sky a dusty purple fading into blue, and jet jst enough light leak out to see the shapes of the other huts. She had time to sneak away for a few moments, her special place in the trees was hidden from sight of the main manor making it safe enough to visit in off times.
Sore and still sleepy from the night she climed up to her spot, a little nestled in spot between two large branches, tied and held together by scraps of cloth, bits of rope, and any little threads she could get her hands on. It wasnt much, but it was the only thing she could call her own.
The morning breeze rustled through the branches causing a lovely light hum, mixed with the chirps of birds it sounded like music. She began to daydream about the world outside the farm. Of adventures of pirates and wizards, or great adveturures who travel across great lands searching for dragons and treasure, And then.... a sad thought crossed her mind. She remembered her mother, or at least the woman who raised her. She didnt know her parrebts, and was raised by a widow allong with othef choldren her age.
The widow was younger, surely no older than 40 years when she was a child, although she cpuldnt remembet too well anymore. The widow was the one who named her.. "Mira" meaning to reflect ones self in ancient tongue. It was the best gift she had ever recieved.
Mira's family, strange as it was, was happy for a time. She had no sibblings of her own, but loved the others as if they were. Life was hard, and ghere were manny hungry nights, but they always survived.
Mira remembered the night it all went wrong, the night she got wrapped into this terrible life. It happened so fast, it was almost a blurr in her mind. The horrible night began ever so calmly.
A Voice beckoned from a distance. IT was not a good voice... It was him. Master Dante, the person who bought Mira. Her daydreaming would have to stop. She was already late for work and sure to take a beating.
Thats all she thought, run to the feild and hopefully play it off. He wasnt the smartest of souls but was quick with the whip. She pleaded with whatever gods would listen for this to not end in bloodshed.
She had seen him kill two others for simmilar reasons. He was wealthy enough to replace anyone he wished.
There he was, pirtched on a cream coloured horse, dressed down with his fine leather riding gear. He was alone, scowling like a demon, still as a statue. Her time may be running out...