-1A dark form landed on the majestic form of Notre Dame cathedral towering over the sleeping city of Paris. The light of the moon illuminated the figure's wild red hair and bluish skin as outspread wings folded themselves around a lithe, athletic female form. She lifted a clawed foot and rested it on the balustrade of the walkway between the two bell towers. Resting her arms on her elevated leg, she gazed out over the city, pondering her circumstances and the pitiful humans that dwelt here. She was sought, hunted, by two entities: one a human she'd once called an ally, the other a human known as the Hunter. She was more concerned with the Hunter, a vendetta passed down generation to generation since the 11th century. The incident leading to the Hunter occurred around the same time she'd become allied to the other human that pursued her, a man that had given her a name: Demona. He'd bestowed it upon her to honor her prowess in the battle that had allied the two, the battle that had made her former friend King of Scotland. It was a name that suited her well, in her battle skills and her deep loathing for the vermin that was humanity.
Humans had destroyed her clan, placed the six surviving members under a spell and left her alone to endure the centuries. Humans had destroyed her last small clan and betrayed her, hunted her, and drove her from one place to another to survive. She had been swallowed by her hatred for the species her kind, her clan had sworn to protect. More than that she was alone and considering gargoyles lived in clans, surrounded by family, solitude was no easy task. She had long since resigned herself to going throughout eternity alone, but still she longed for the company of another gargoyle. Her mind often wandered to the past, thinking of her mate, Goliath, forever encased in stone sleep. So many times she missed him, his warm embrace, his powerful form, that deep soothing voice. She longed for such companionship again, eternity would be less painful if she weren't alone.
A commotion on the street below drew her attention away from her dark thoughts and back to the present. She turned her eyes to the dark forms directly in front of the cathedral, a group of humans from the looks of it, dragging on of their own kind in chains. It made little difference to her what they were up to, they were only pathetic humans and if one killed another… well, it was one less human in the world. Yet, she couldn't quite drive it from her mind, the way they treated each other. How could Goliath have ever hoped humans would accept gargoyles when they couldn't even accept each other? Out of curiosity and purely because she had nothing better to do, she unfurled her wings and rode the air currents down to a rooftop where she could hear and observe the happenings without notice. It was a group of soldiers she saw dragging a thin male form toward a young man on a formidable black horse. The clanking of the chains around the ensnared male's wrists echoed through the quite streets as he fought against his captors. At first glance, she thought the male to be just another human, but then a pair of wings burst open as the captive fought tooth and nail. She uttered a low growl, her eyes faintly glowing red, as she realized it was one of her own they had in their grasp.
Clopin Trouillefou fought hard against the soldiers, struggling to break free, but, gargoyle form or no, he wasn't strong enough to escape four soldiers or the iron imprisoning his wrists. His deep black eyes met those of Christian Frollo, the illegitimate son of the late Judge Claude Frollo. The boy was in his twenties and had been summoned from Rome where he'd been attending school to take his father's place as Minister of Justice. He was Frollo's only child and sole heir, thus he inherited everything that had once been his father's, to include Clopin. The Gypsy King had been taken by a slave trader when he was twelve and, horrors of horrors, it'd been Frollo who'd bought him, no doubt as a way of getting to Adriel Trouillefou, Clopin's father and Gypsy king at the time. That was fifteen years ago and in all that time, Clopin had affected his escape from his master's clutches countless times. He was captured from time to time, but Frollo never managed to keep him more than a few days. The rebellious nature of the Gypsy's spirit never allowed him to stand for the theft of his freedom, he disobeyed Frollo at every turn. But for all his trouble, Frollo refused to execute the King of the Gypsies, after all death was a release not a punishment.
Christian Frollo was entirely familiar with the antics of his father's slave so nothing the Gypsy did came as a surprise to him. His father had made sure to teach him how to handle the heathen and what punishments were suitable. Many times he wondered why his father did not simply dispose of him and have done with it, but he came to understand as he grew older. Trouillefou was a proud man, not one to be dealt with lightly, and it was a tremendous blow to such pride to call another man "master," no matter how hard he fought. The knowledge that he was held in such bondage humbled and humiliated him, it was to the Rom's greatest shame that he was owned, no better than livestock to be traded and sold as his master saw fit. No doubt Christian's predecessor felt that as the so-called Gypsy King, Trouillefou had his uses, the location to the Court of Miracles for example. Christian was hardly surprised by the sheer loathing in those bottomless black eyes, the defiant scowl on his face as Clopin was forced to his knees before the brutish black horse the boy sat astride.
"Tsk tsk tsk," Christian clucked, wagging his finger as he did so, "Not quite so clever as we thought, now are we, Gypsy?"
"Consider it a test run," Clopin sneered, practically growling the words.
"You realize you will pay dearly," his master said as he dismounted, "For such insolence."
"So what else is new?" the Gypsy King quipped.
Christian removed a whip from his belt, ordering his men to strip the man from the waist up.
Demona watched as the male gargoyle was stripped of his tunic, wincing in sympathetic pain as the whip cracked in the air as it came in contact with the captive's flesh. But the male made not a sound as lash after lash left their mark on his back, nothing to show his own pain save for a jerk of his body and the grimace on his face. He bore what must have been sheer agony bravely, not once crying out even as the coppery smell of his blood filled the air. Just as he was barely able to hold his upper body up any longer, the young human signaled an end to the beating, ordering his prisoner brought to a place he called the Palace of Justice. Swiftly and silently, Demona followed, determined to free the poor creature from the clutches of the humans. Though she admired his tolerance for pain, she couldn't help wondering why he allowed it, why he didn't simply free himself. He was gargoyle, he was stronger than those pitiful beings, he should've been able to fight them off with ease if only long enough to escape. He should simply have killed them than suffer them to treat him like some rabid beast, like they were his superiors.
Clopin uttered not a sound, offered no struggle, as the guards through him roughly into a cell once they'd arrived at the Palace of Justice. He'd seldom ever given Frollo the satisfaction of his pain, he certainly wouldn't give that brat any, but he lacked the strength to fight as he was tossed inside the prison like some rag heap. But now that the soldiers and Christian had left, he let out a soft moan, placing his hand gingerly on the wounds over his shoulder. He'd long ago learned to give no voice to his pain, to allow his mind to roam so as to minimize the pain he consciously felt. But once he focused his concentration on his fresh wounds, the pain came full force and he wondered he could bear it as did anyone else who'd ever seen the multitude of scars crisscrossing his back. He closed his eyes, trying to choke back the tears of pain that threatened, trying not to think too much on how he hurt. However, a sound put him on alert, his eyes snapping open and his bowed head lifting; it had sounded like claws clicking against the pavement. He glanced out the barred window, level with the street outside, and saw a form standing outside. The figure knelt down and, though the shadows of the night still distorted specific features, he could see it was female with what seemed to be bluish flesh. He back away slightly, issuing a warning growl, but she simply raised a clawed finger to reddish lips to quiet him.
"Let me help you," she said, keeping her voice low.
Not one to take anything at face value, Clopin was instantly suspicious; as a Gypsy, he never trusted anyone that was not of Romany blood. Truth be told, he didn't trust anyone, but he put more trust into his own people than outsiders and he wasn't about to accept help without knowing the price.
"And why would you," he began, quirking a curving black eyebrow, "help me, a complete stranger?"
"You fool," she retorted, "do you not accept help when it is so readily offered?"
"Not without knowing the price," he returned.
"Do you not realize," she snarled, trying to keep her temper in check, "I am offering you aid?"
"I am no fool," he answered, "likewise, I know that only seldom is anything offered for nothing."
"Do you want my help or not?!"
"I would indeed very much like to free of this place, but, if I may ask," he paused, taking a breath, "how would you propose getting me out?"
A smirk came across those blood red lips, a malicious gleam in her eyes as she prepared to answer that question. She grasped two of the bars tightly and pulled them apart, bending the worn metal and leaving a wide enough space for his slim body to get through.
"Now come," she uttered, reaching her hand out to clasp his own, "We must hurry."
She helped him climb through the opening she'd made, help he was grateful for considering how much pain his back was in and the blood he'd lost. He stumbled a bit as he climbed onto the street, the female tightening her grasp on his arm to steady him before leading the way to a dark side street so as not to be seen.
"Can you make it?" she asked him.
"Make it where?" he returned.
"To the cathedral," she answered, "Have you enough strength to get that far?"
Clopin nodded, relieved that she intended to bring him to a place as familiar and safe as Notre Dame cathedral. He'd taken refuge within its walls countless times since childhood, it was as familiar to him as the Court of Miracles. His strength was dwindling, but with the thought of the comfort and warmth of the church to keep him going, he had faith that he'd make it that far. It wasn't home, but at least within its walls no one could touch him and he was safe.