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The rising sun warmed him, and the wind caressed his face. His lover's arms encircled his waist in a tight embrace, her body pressed against his strong back. The two soared through the air on the back of the stone sphinx, caring for nothing but each other.

It was an amazing adventure to bring them here, and back together at last. Many strange and fabled places were traversed, and their vast array of obstacles and tribulations overcome. No step taken came without danger, and every moment would be retold for many an age.

The Prince marveled at his fortune, and that of his beautiful princess, in the face of such strange and wondrous adversity. Even with all his cunning and skill, it was fortune- fortune, it must be!- that had been the deciding factor. Nothing was easy, and if not for the Prince's sharp mind and fast hands, as well as the guiding hand of Fate, death would have borne on swift wings to him and many more.

By blade and foot, he escaped dungeons, scaled towers, fooled traps, and overcome the many deadly warriors Assan had put between them.

Magic had played a key role, too, for the many wounds the Prince had accumulated; Had it not been for the restorative elixirs he discovered, he would have surely perished. If not for the draught of Ahriman's Oil left to moulder in the scaffolding of his prison, he mightn't have ever escaped in the first place.

For all that Fate had given him, the Prince was grateful. Every chance he found, he took it, and thanked Ahura for his hand in all the Prince's fortunes. Never did he believe- even for a moment- that it was merely him that helped him win back his love from Rugnor.

"You saved me," the princess murmured breathlessly, holding her love tighter. The Prince turned in his seat, still firmly holding the reins.

"And I love you stronger than ever." He smiled warmly.

In that moment, all was perfect. It was something that could have lasted forever, such was the powerful, enduring love between them.

Fate, however, had other plans. The sky darkened unnaturally, the sun seeming to dim and shrink away. The Prince tightened his grip on the reins, as did the princess's own hold about his waist.

Wind, cold and violent, tore through the air around them, buffeting them from all sides. The Sphinx wavered, but dutifully maintained its course.

Thunder rumbled in the distance and the sky began to tint a sickening green. The blood drained from the Prince's face. This was no simple storm; fell magic was at work here.

With that realization came a deafening boom, drowning out all with its unearthly clamor. The gusting strengthened, and the Prince felt it as if it were a wholly physical thing.

A incredibly powerful gale pushed the Prince from the Sphinx as if it were the hand of a giant. The young hero held on with all his will and might, but it was not to be. Another wind came and plucked him away, sending him hurtling down into the dark.

As the Prince fell, his eyes strained to keep focused on his young love, who watched on as her prince fell further and further away from her.

In a land very much apart from the home of the Prince, there came a crack of thunder and lightning in the night. A comet shone in the sky, burning with a fiery, blue flame, before plummeting into the endless dunes of a merciless desert.

The next day, a stranger came to the gates of a secret village.

It was typical for the guards of the Village Hidden in the Sand to receive visits from wanderers from the desert, but there was a particularly unusual visitor that day. A young boy, carrying a sword and a scabbard in either hand, approached the west entrance.

He was tall for his age and gangly, naked save for sweat and caked-on sand and grit. His fierce grey eyes glimmered beneath a slick brow. His lips, cracked and dry, were parted in a pained grimace. The breath gushing out through his gritted teeth and nose sounded harsh and forced- a sign of extreme exhaustion.

The guard present laughed derisively at the sight of this weird and wretched child. With nary a sound, the boy rushed at the cruel man, swinging the sword he held wildly.

It was all the man could do to keep his head, such was the ferocious onslaught of the feral boy. No sound passed through the young assailant's mouth save the gush of painfully labored breath, all his will focused in attacking and attacking and attacking without pause.

This continued on for a while, until the guard had managed to get some real distance between him and the boy's merciless swinging. With that, the strange attacker collapsed, still holding the sword tight, blood seeping between his bony knuckles.

Chuckling, the guard threw his canteen at the child. When it had almost reached him, the boy swung fiercely at it, lodging the blade in the container.

When he realized that water was leaking out from the object his tormentor had hurled at him, the boy hurriedly put his lips to the keen gash, swallowing several mouthfuls of cool water.

With the boy so occupied, the guard rushed him. The child warrior was no fool, and had dislodged the canteen with a flick of his sword and began to bring it to bear as the man closed the distance.

Steel met steel, the boy's sword striking a small dagger the guard had produced from his sleeve. A flurry of violence ensued, the sand awhirl with danger, blades flashing about in slashes and stabs, checks and feints, blocks and swings. From that small amount of water he'd swallowed, the boy was renewed. His attacks were stronger, his hands and feet faster, and his movement more efficient.

In a matter of minutes, the guard's compatriots entered the fray, most spectating, some taking part in the action. Even then, the fight was at a firm impasse, with the guards being faster and more numerous, the boy countering with a longer, sharper weapon and a white hot determination to survive.

The "battle" waged on until dusk, when the guards became bored and had to change with the night watch. They left the boy there, still very much alive, though certainly much more tired.

All assumed the rabid child would be dead by morning from such exposure to the elements, and this was a rational conclusion. Some held doubts in their minds, though, including the first guard; if such a wild boy could stand the merciless climes of the desert of Wind, what would make the night any different?

What happened during the night, none could say. However, when the morning had come, the boy was gone. No corpse, no sword- not even the scabbard the boy had dropped in the middle of the fight.

The day guard had chalked it up to the shifting sands burying all.

Then came the rumors.

There was a strange boy in the city, stealing bread and water, hiding in shadows and clambering over buildings as easily as walking. In some of the rumors, he had claws as long and as sharp as knives. In others, he could choke the life out of a full grown man. In still others- these tales more interesting than the rest- the boy had a sword and knew how to use it.

Now THAT is how you start a story!

How about it? I think this is a good start, wouldn't you agree?

Review and give me your humble opinion.