The Writings of a Dreamer

The enemy warriors tore down the street, rampaging or killing everything in their path. They were as loud as thunder, and they were headed for Ratala’s house

10 years later

Ratala sat in the dining room of her parents’ house. They had very important guests, and Ratala had to act formal. She HATED acting formal. Her mother hated the fact that Ratala always ran wild, and the fact that her Father encouraged it. Ratala did not know why her father did encourage her. She would soon learn.
She was thinking about this as she sat there in her latten dress. She hated latten fabric. It was smooth and pretty but itchy. And all latten dresses must go to your toes. Ratala hated that kind of dress. Short dresses were her kind. She did sometimes wish she could wear boys’ clothes but she never mentioned it to her mother. That wasn’t the kind of thing you asked the Governess of Vtasla.
All of a sudden, Ratala heard a strange thing come from her mother’s mouth.
“Where is your son? You said you brought him to meet Ratala.” Ratala was astounded. She new that she was twelve and that was the age girls started meeting boys they might want to marry, but Ratala had never thought she would have to do so herself. She dreamed of becoming a Warrior. Not a housewife.
The boy who walked in was about 13 or 14. Ratala was glad to see that it was one of her friends. He often ran around with her outside and complained just as much as she did about formal occasions. He rolled his eyes at her when no one looking. She struggled to hold back giggles. Maybe she wouldn’t mind as much if this boy was her husband. He wouldn’t make her stay cooped up inside. He new she wouldn’t want to.