Death at the Sun Dunes

Then there was my straight, pointy "witch" nose, as my Dad teasingly called it; I inherited from my father's Mother. I always thought it was very upperclass looking with a grand profile. But now after twice broken, who knows? But never once did I take my father's offer to heal it. It seemed too easy. My Aunt once told me I was just being rebellious and trying to be the opposite of what my parents tried to be: perfect. Of course, my nose caused many jokes behind my back at the NYPD academy. (I was home-schooled so I never learned how to handle such behavior.) I let it continue. Tried to ignore the whispers. Even though I was never very muscular, no one ever mocked me within human ear range. I guess, the scar, my long kinky black hair which always looked wild and wind-blown, and an unusual dark circular mark around my left-eye was enough of a deterrence. Most people thought it an unusual tattoo, an attempt at some sort of Cajun fashion trend perhaps. Many New Yorkers mistook me for a Cajun even though I looked nothing like one, but I didn't alter that perception either for fear of being found out how much I really didn't belong in their state on their planet in their Realm.

I remember my Father once called my mark: Dragonseed. But he would explain no more. "When you turn 25 earth years, we'll discuss it." Frustrated with the secrecy, I responded in an overblown angry yell, "Damn stubborn old fool!" Regrettably, the last thing he ever heard from my lips. Isn't that always the way?

And now, here in this place I thought I would never visit, all I wanted to do was find my father.

Surprisingly and to my great horror, the masked rider suddenly loomed within several yards directly in front of me, almost as if he teleported. Maybe I was so busy scanning the area for a quick escape route that I did not notice him approach. I mean, I knew that Blood Horses were known for two things (their three eyes and their fierce shark-like teeth), not for a fast cheetah-like speed, nor for a quiet tiger-like approach. Shit! So how could this rider have run so quickly... shit, shit, shit! The rider must have been using magic.

Why did it have to be magic?

I never expected sorcery from one lone unknown person in this strange place. Magic was a major sore subject in my family, since my spell casting never really developed; it was not to the satisfaction of my father. Just my luck to be the son of some sort of Master Sorcerer Supreme. (Luckily, I quickly picked up weaponry from my mother, Earth-born. Sadly, she died last year defending me... I wish she were still here.)

I took a step backward, half in shock, half in fear. Maybe this approaching rider was a friend not-yet-made? But I knew better. Surprisingly, all of those "home school" (training) sessions my father and mother gave me as a child rushed to the surface as I steadied my weight with a slight crouch and placed both hands on my sword like a batter before the big pitch. The palms of my hands were slightly damp and itchy; my knuckles were reddening from their tight grip around Duskwilde's hilt. Needless to say, this was my first encounter with anyone actually trying to kill me who was not Earth-born. I still didn't know what I had done.

"You have one more chance, Outlander. What is the answer to the riddle?"

I stammered, confused and frustrated, "W-what? Ans--" I guess he didn't like the answer to his question; but then again, I was never very good at riddles.