If genres are suburbs, then Seed of Dragons is the campfire you found burning deep in the forest — after the bomb dropped, electricity died, and you wander the wastelands of the apocalypse.  

Seed of Dragons kindles on ground ancient and strange.  The charred bones of Beowulf lie to your left.  Burned by the dragon in the last battle.  Pay homage if you like.  Light a torch, ask his courage for the quest.  He may grant it.

At the edge of the firelight a lean stranger smirks.  Eyes so dark blue they seem black.  A frame the color of old granite, in form a cut-out grey against the darkness.  He’ll request a Shakespeare riddle game.  If you win, he may offer a gift.  Don’t lose.

Walk past the line of trees  — skirt the cliff-edge — and follow the plunging path.  Down, down, down.  If you slip over the edge you’ll fall into that primeval and unbounded abyss where dwell things greater and subtler than any mind grasps.  There is no bottom.  The seekers throw themselves off and trust the fall, but few return.  (If you DO make it back, come to the fire and tell your tale.  Stories like these keep the fire burning).

We keep seats at the fire in honor of our heroes: Tolkien, Wolfe, Lovecraft, The Grimms, others.  There’s a seat for you, too.  No story sings without speaker and hearers.  That is how we keep the fire burning.  It is very dark, but you are among friends.