Krysondra leaned back against the concrete barrier that separated I-35 S from the access road behind her.  Cars streamed past her, blowing her hair out in their wake – 75 in a 65 on 35.  Her skirt flipped South, too.  Her face was set in neutral, her large hazel eyes blurring in and out of focus as she held herself dim.  It was really just a matter of waiting – for the right moment, for destiny, for what was coming down the road.  Dim was just a matter, too – just a matter of still and quiet, there and not there, focused and unfocused.  Dim would keep her out of jail or some psycho’s car while she waited. 

The roar of the highway surrounded her, but she paid it no mind.  Night was here.  Music was here.  Light was here.  She couldn’t hear destiny coming with her ears covered in cars, but she could feel it coming in her soul.  Her bare feet rested on the hot asphalt for a moment longer.  Then, she pushed off of the barricade and dropped the Dim.  The corners of her mouth turned up, and her eyes widened, seeming to let out drops of Light before she became fully human.  Her toes came to a stop on the white line.  A car swerved as she stopped there, seeing her for the first time. 

She stood inside Austin City Limits as lights came up from it and reflected around the world.  She stood on the white line.  She smiled.  She waited.  It was time.  Her hair streamed, her long, silk skirt streamed, and the air around her streamed.  Even the hem of her cami-top fluttered against the flat of her pale stomach.  The roar of traffic rose, and her eyes reflected the approaching lights.  It was time.

The shadow of the day had long cast itself across the night sky, highlighting the noise of the Austin, Texas skyline.  The wind rushed forward, parting itself for a lone rider on a black cherry Harley-Davidson Softail Classic.  His wide frame sat stiff in its saddle, but onlookers would not be able to tell how badly his body ached from the long ride.  It was always more dangerous out at night where he was difficult to see, especially in his black leather jacket and dark jeans.  Staying in the right-hand lane was safer, but cars and semis still buffetted around him unawares.  The day had passed, and he needed to check in to his room at the Doubletree off of US-290 so he kept his grip at around 70.  A quick hot shower would be welcome to wipe away the grime from the road trip that stretched from Harper, through Fredericksburg and Johnson City, and in to Austin.  He had stopped off for barbeque and a beer at the Salt Lick in Dripping Springs, so he still had time to catch up with Rambler and Beth who coordinated the monthly Austin gathering of the Moon Hall gang.

With his thoughts on later events of carousing and shooting pool, he almost didn't see the distant figure up ahead, but he had always had sharp eyes and he eased off the gas about an eigth of a mile away.  At 55, he pull in to the shoulder and started dropping gears.  A young girl was revealed in the hazy headlights, standing dangerously close to oncoming traffic.  Her dark hair danced around her face, her features difficult to make out or distinguish what had drawn her out to this place and so close to danger.  A memory buried deep in his past recalled for a moment, causing him to sit stone cold as the motorcycle came to a stop 20 feet from this strange figure and began to idle in a deep rumbling staccato.

David was leaning back on the dark stone of a building not far from the white lines of I-35. He was playing his guitar and singing for the passers-by. He was singing Joni Mitchell's “Coyote”, and doing a damn fine job of it. He was singing the lyrics:

No regrets, Coyote
I just get off up aways
You just picked up a hitcher
A prisoner of the white lines on the freeway

When he noticed a woman standing in the middle of the highway. She straddled the white line of the freeway, and seemed to have no care in the world that she did. He sang his song and listened as a pair of quarters chimed into his hat – a gift from a passerby who either appreciated his singing or pitied his poverty.

Even in the dark, perhaps by the grace of the lights of cars, he caught a glimpse of her navel – just a flash of skin in the wind as her camisole gave way to the breeze created by the passing vehicles. He did not stop singing his song. The passers-by did not cease in their passing by. But there was something about her that kept his attention, and gave him a pause in the rhythm of the lyric.

I tried to run away myself
To run away and wrestle with my ego
And with this flame
You put here in this Eskimo
In this hitcher
In this prisoner
Of the fine white lines
Of the white lines on the free, free way

He sang and finished the song. The girl moved on, and a motorcycle  made a dangerous stop – not 20 feet from the woman. The woman ... the prisoner, it seemed to him, of the fine white lines of the highway.

A Harley, Krys thought, watching the single head light that had cut from the pack to round her up.  The sharp, stiff sound of the idling motor drew her in quickly, and she stepped lightly across the pavement as the form of a dark man swam up from behind the light.  A dark man in a dark night on a dark bike bike headed off beyond the sunset - it could have made her shiver with the almost-cliche-ness of it all.  As she drew into him, her brown eyes turned almost brisk. 

I'm going wherever you're going.  She had the phrase prepared, but let it slip from her lips.  She flashed him a cute, quirky grin.  Unconcious, yet somehow tailored for this moment, this grin could have been endearing or reassuring or a thousand other things that girls will never say that they want to be thought of by strange men.  For Krys, it was just the sudden flash of joy in the night, of pleasure in the wind, of knowing on the breeze.  Without saying a word to the man, she bent over and popped out the footrest for the passenger that was closest to her.  Neither of them were really safe here.  The cars were breezing by as though people had suddenly decided to make whatever happened on this corner of highway Dim so that they didn't have to play a role - safer for them.  However, that sort of danger wasn't what Krys was concerned of.  This man, for the moment, was of no danger to her.  However, the metal chariots could easily outpace and force a single rider into the dirt, which looked remarkably like concrete in this case. 

Her movements had the air of business about them as she gathered the long brown skirt tight to her, rested a hand on the leathered shoulder, and swung lightly up behind him without so much as a "by your leave" or a "hey, mister, nice bike".  The length silk was shoved between her legs, between them, and her left foot shoved down the other foot peg, drawing a hiss of pain as her toe brushed hot metal.  Instead of drawing close to him in the spooning posture that was a couple's ride, Krys leaned back against the seatback.  Her hands found its edges.  She steadied herself, knowing that shoving a beast like this off the ground required precision, strength, and coordination. 

Her knees gripped him firmly, and her bare feet rested on the pegs.  She waited for him to check the balance and go.  This was not a place for small talk, and he felt tired beneath her.  Her voice, so often modulated to the intimacy of the mind, spiraled high with checked laughter.  "I'm ready."

David's songs were sung, and his day was done. He watched as the barefoot woman, who held herself as though she owned the world, slipped onto the bike, behind its anonymous rider, and might have said something. The noise of the highway precluded any such knowing. They rode away. He watched them ride. How fortunate it must be, David thought, to be a man on a bike in the middle of I-35, just in time to pick up a hitcher who wasn't hitching. A woman who seemed more than a woman. He hoped the man would be the sort that such a woman would want to know.

But in his final analysis, David had to accept that it was only a pair of paragraphs oft written in many books and in the pages of songs and scripts. The strong man of the road, riding high on his slim and heavy breathing steed, came upon, by happenstance, a girl standing, barefoot, in the middle of the road. She was wearing a gingham dress in the story that came to his mind. The horseman had pulled back on the reigns and slowed his steed to a stop – the pair standing beside the woman with dust in her hair, naked feet, and the look of wild understanding in her eyes. He reaches down a hand and she takes it. He pulls her up, not saying a word, and she sits behind him on the saddle. They ride off. Of course, such scenes seldom ride off into the sunset. They are usual breaches in the fabric of a story – mere vehicles that drive the characters down the fine white lines of the free way.

David reached deep into his jeans pocket and withdrew a folded, tattered piece of paper. Along with it, he brought the stubby pencil that had been his scribe and storyteller for so many months. He unfolded the paper, now nearly filled to overflowing with words and rhymes, guitar chords quickly scribbled, and solitary thoughts that he'd hope would turn into songs. He ran a pencil line along one edge, delineating a clean area for his next thoughts.

There are times when the world is aware of itself
There are times when it moves with blindness and faith
Here a woman has taken a chance on the road
Unaware of the eyes that have looked on her face.

It wasn't very good, and it didn't say what he wanted to say. But, he wrote the words as though a commentary in a journal or a diary. It was his way to remember.

David gathered his 4 dollars and 76 cents that were offered him in his Red Sock's ball cap – yes, someone had given him a penny. But, well, beggars can't be choosers , no matter if they worked for their keep. He rolled the cash down into his pocket, slapped the ball cap on his head, zipped his guitar in the leather case and hefted it over his shoulder. He grabbed his back pack and slipped either arm into the straps – they held his guitar in place. It was a trick of the street.

David walked down the street parallel to I-35 and stuck out his thumb. He continued to walk as he hitchhiked. You learn quick, on the street, that nothing is ever for certain. Tonight, the girl with no shoes would ride. David doubted he would have as much luck. There are never wild maidens riding horses and rescuing hapless men.

But it wasn't long before David snagged a rider. It was an older, fairly beat up ford, and the guy inside wasn't what you would call easy to look at. David ripped his backpack and guitar from his back and tossed them into the back seat.

“Where ya headed, man?” David ask.

“Only as far as Guadaloupe,” he said around the stub of a cigar in his mouth.

“Works for me,” David said, then leaned back into the seat.

The ride was harsh. That's the only word that came to David. But it was solid, and the ride to Guadaloupe was finished in less time than any normal driver would have accomplished.

His mind snapped back in to the present as the young woman approached his vehicle.  He took a moment to take notice of her dark auburn hair, the way her smile curled at the corners, the straps of her top resting gently on her bare shoulders and the way it accentuated the lines of her body without screaming for attention like the way many girls dressed these days, her long flowing skirt gathering in the swirls of dust, and the bare feet that walked without hesitation over the rough gravel and glass strewn about the highway.  As her hand lightly touched his shoulder, he began to rev the engine back up and she straddled the back seat.  This wouldn’t be the first time he had picked up a stranger and it was always a curiosity to see how long their journey’s coincided.  Most of the time they would get to the club and someone else would be traveling in a direction more to their liking.  If you needed to get to the end of the earth, somebody from the Moon Hall gang would already be going that way.

When her legs squeezed together, that was his queue.  He took a moment to test the motorcycle balance to compensate for the additional weight until he could lift his leg off the ground.  Looking in the side mirror, he spied an opening far back in the flow of traffic.  He hit the gas and the back wheel spun for a moment catching on loose gravel before the motorcycle lurched forward suddenly.  With several broad strokes, they accelerated along the shoulder for a few moments before he leaned in to traffic.  Just as her arms reached around him for safety he gunned it, leaving a thunderous cacophony in his wake.

Roughly fifteen minutes passed and his need to shake the dust off from the long trip grew in anticipation.  He could feel his passenger’s presence and it had that familiarity and excitement that two experienced riders shared through the bliss of the wind and feel of the road.  This knowing transferred through touch and posture; just like him this was obviously not a foreign thing to her.  The evening sky held the humid energy of possibility.


When the exit came up, he signaled for it and hit the ramp at full speed.  The access road was not as busy as the interstate and he swiftly merged three lanes to the right.  He slowed and sifted gears down as he passed Pappadeaux across the street from the hotel and leaned in to the turn at La Posada Dr.  They immediately took a left in to the plaza of the Doubletree Hotel Austin.  He noticed a few bikes parked nearby, this hotel was quite popular with the bikers that had their fair share of money to go around.  They slowed to a stop underneath the colonial awning which shook with the reverberance from the back of the motorcycle.  He set the engine in to idle and swung his left leg out to stabilize the vehicle before kicking out its stand.  Leaving the keys in the ignition, he cut it off and swung off the bike without wincing as the ball joint from his left leg settled back in to its socket.  He turned slightly to the strange girl, removed his sunglasses, and looked coolly at her face which was partially obscured by hair.  “I’m going inside to check in”, he said gruffly for he hadn’t properly spoken for a few hours.  The leather gloves slid from his hands revealing well-worn fingers and large knuckles as he placed them on the seat before walking through the double doors in to the hotel atrium.

Krys could have ridden behind this man until the ends of the earth.  Her arms encircled him, and her hands rested lightly on the leather above his hips.  She arched her back so that she could see over his soulder.  They slipped quickly in and out and around, heading to his final destination, and she rested against him.  Grit bit at the pale skin left uncovered by her attire and position.  They took the exit, and she read the signs along the way.  La Posada.  Pappadeux.  Doubletree.  Bikinis. 

The Doubletree appeared to be fully booked.  There were some other bikes parked to the side, but the man quickly steered them to the front.  He lowered the bike to rest and went in to register.  Krysondra shifted her weight and slipped to put her bare feet on the ground.  She stretched out a bit herself, letting the warm silk drift down to cover her skin.  A drop of blood beaded on her right leg.  Something must have gotten kicked up somewhere.  It wasn't important.  It would dry.

This was obviously not the least expensive accomodation that money could buy.  It wasn't the least expensive bike.  It wasn't important, and she didn't see quite how it fit with his hands.  An incongruity that the night would explain, or perhaps he would when he returned.  Krys paced a bit under the awning.  It really wasn't safe to leave a bike like this out with the keys in it, and she didn't want to walk too far from it.  Since he had brought her with him to the hotel, he obviously wasn't entirely tired of her company, and he seemed a right enough sort.  So, it wouldn't do to let him screw himself over like that.

The lights ilumminated them both as he stepped back out of the doors.  He was taller than she was, and she had ducked her head, intentionally hiding in her hair a bit.  Yet, she peered up at him from beneath her lashes like a shy child.  She thought that he had nice eyes. She smiled, once more the small child.  Then, she tilted her head back, letting her auburn hair fall away from her features.  She stepped to meet him and offered a hand.  "Krys.  I'm Krys."  She spoke in short bursts of words.  "Really Krysondra.  But Krys for kicks.  Thanks for the ride.  And you are?  If you don't mind me asking..."

"Austin, the name's Austin" he replied taking her fingers between his thumb and hand.  "Krys,” he mulled the name over on his tongue, “I’ve got to go shake some dust out of my skin from a long ride.”  His eyes peered in to hers, almost penetrating those long lashes.  “Afterwards I’m headin’ to a dive down south to catch up with some heavy rollers.  There’s a couple restaurant bars around here where you can cool your heels ‘til I get done.”  He paused for a brief second, “Or here’s just as good a place as any if you keep to yourself like me.”  With that, Austin pivoted and with one fluid motion, settled back on the bike lowering it slightly to the ground with his bulk.  He turned the key, revved up the engine, and tilted his head slightly behind him for an indication of preference.

Krys stepped up to the back of the bike and grinned at him.  "Diving down south.  I think I can manage that.  Something about the moon that just tells me that this isn't a night to stay in."  She laid a hand on her shoulder and hopped onto the back of the bike.  "But I'll borrow a bit of your space for the wait.  I've got some thinking to do."  She shook out her hair and wrapped her arms around him lightly.  Her feet could use a rest, and all of her best thinking happened while she was in the shower.  Perhaps that would carry over to him being in the shower and her sitting calmly in a breakfast nook of some sort.  At least she could wash her face.  That was the problem with what she did.  There was no money involved.  "And I have always depended on the kindness of strangers."

Austin pulled out of the awning with a roaring bang and curved around the side of the hotel and parked close to the side entrance of the hotel.  Cutting the engine again he paused for a moment to let Krys off first.  This time he took glasses, keys, gloves, and one of the large saddle bags from the side.  “I’m not really sure which parts you hail from, but ‘round here no-one’s a stranger, you get the kindness you give, and there’s always folk you can depend on when you need them the most,” he stated in a very manner of fact tone of voice.  Although there was always the rough crowd, those tended to be the younger and wilder or just plain crazy types.  The sentimental side of him hoped that wasn’t where her destiny lay.  Often the girls who ran with those types eventually found themselves staring in to traffic headlights on the side of a dark highway.

They soon found themselves at the assigned room and Austin dropped his plastic keycard in to the door.  Never good at these sorts of things, he had to run it through a few times before the door latch whirred back mechanically and he was able to quickly drop the knob down and push in.  Austin made his way past the mini kitchen and bar on his right, couch and table in the parlor area, to the door near the back.  This was always the perfect place for four to five close friends to keep their whistles wet after the bars closed.  “Make yourself comfortable,” he said before he opened the far door and entered the bedroom area.  Without thinking, he tossed the dirty saddle bag on to the closest bed which had the comforter turned down exposing the white underside and white sheets.  Austin rummaged around in the bag and took out a change of clothes and some personal effects.  Near the bottom, the gleam of metal flashed for a moment before it was obscured by the leather jacket he tossed on top of the bag.  He spread his clothes out on the other bed closer to the bathroom, dropped his effects off at the sink, and closed the bathroom door behind him to take the highly anticipated shower.

The gargoyle had been shadowing her.  Moving silently, like a whisper of shadowy wind, he had tracked her, and would continue along her path until she decided to stay put.  She was more than human, that much he could tell, but as far as her accomplice was concerned, he had no need to frighten mere mortals, so there was no point in throwing his demonic bulk in front of the Harley and crumpling it like a sheet of paper so he could finally stop this game.  Whether or not she knew he was there, he did not care.  In fact, it made things easier.  Though he was unsure how he would be introducing himself...practiced as he was in the dark magicks, the curse bestowed upon him prevented him from looking like anything inconspicous for the long term of eternity.  So, much to his dismay, the bulky creature had to learn how to be stealth and patient.  He flexed and unflexed his massive bat-like wings, whose skin was thick and mottled like stone.  He paused for a moment, and observed himself in a puddle of what looked to be gasoline or oil.  He frowned at the reflection staring back at him.

He was a creature with a long, tooth-filled snout, with two especially large canines protruding obviously from his upper jaw, and two more jutting out from his lower jaw, which was longer than his upper, giving him an especially hideous and disfigured underbite.  His nostrils were reptillian, mere slits that took in scents, his eyes were on either side of his head, burning crimson pinpoints set back in skeletal sockets.   Two large horns were mounted upon his head, pointing forward so that goring one's enemy was possible.  His frame was rather large and well-muscled, though his stone-like skin made him appear more monsterous than fit.  His hands were adorned with four fingers each, they were long enough to wrap around a large oak tree, and the claws upon them were sharp and keen.  His legs appeared to be stubby in comparison with his upper body, and were attatched to two oversized feet with cruel talons.  Though he could walk on both of his legs, he was more comfortable on all fours.  The two bat wings unfurled completely as he straightened out his whip-like tail.

Why he had been following her?  Even he did not know.  Certainly there was no intent to harm her, or he would have done that long ago.  He just felt...drawn, bound, even forced to follow her.

The gargoyle clambered down, landing atop of the hotel without make a single noise.  He could not follow her inside...not without starting a comotion, at least.  So he would wait.  He did not need to sleep, and he had a feeling that his patience would pay off soon enough.  He simply had to keep waiting, patiently, as he had always done, and if nothing ever came of this, well...

He was used to being dissapointed and crestfallen, at this point.

Fwap. Fwap. Fwap came the beat of angry wings. Fwap. Fwap. Fwap came the thunder of ancient anger and sorrows. Heavy wings beat the air and worried the swallows that scurried from the sacred hollows of the temples. Fwap. Fwap. Fwap rang the beats of the leather wings of eternity.

Naked soared the mindless fury of the demon who'd escaped his inhibitions in a flash of a simple talisman. Heavy beat the leather wings of an evil unleashed by a sorcerer greater than the soul of even the greatest of the advocates from hell.

Fwap. Fwap. Fwap rang the heartless song of an unseen host of heartless enmity so great that it took the very mind of Horse – the last of the greatest advocates – and turned it blind to mercy.

Fwap. Fwap. Fwap rang the beaten wind under his darkened wings and his unquenchable thirst to obey his new master.

Horse hovered over Austin – crossing its city limits – and heading directly toward the great danger that would divide heaven from hell on Earth.

This was no longer a game. No longer a force that he could command or control.

Fwap. Fwap. Fwap. His mighty wings carried him to their destination. Down – below – he saw her and the others.

She must be killed. She must be stopped. There was no room for error.

Horse had lost his own mind and knew only one thing – obey only one command.

“Kill her.”

The motorcycle stopped. The man had left. She seemed alone. Horse was too preoccupied to notice the gargoyle ...

And all that had driven him to honor vaporized under the spell of a great wizard ...

The gargoyle raised his head as he heard the beat of leathery wings.  A demon, of course, what he was doing here, he did not know.  Something told him, -urged- him to stop this particular demon.  It was the same force that drove him to follow this girl, it was the same faceless, yet almighty instinct that had dictated his actions as of late.  He could taste the malecontent dripping from this creature, the faceless instinct told him that this creature was a threat to the girl.  This creature was to be destroyed, or at the very least, hindered.

The gargoyle was perplexed, and almost began to ponder exactly what the benefit was in risking himself to protect an entity that was completely oblivious to his own existance.  However, he heard his own voice within his head, and he uttered a single word to himself.  The power of his own voice, the very urgency was enough to shatter his musings, and forced him to intervene.  It was a simple word, its meaning unmistakably clear.

Protect

With that, the gargoyle, no longer caring whether or not he was seen, no longer worried about his own personal well-being and preservation, kicked off of the hotel's roof, causing deep gashes through the stone and steel.  This, of course, created quite a bit of racket, but he made no effort to conceal his presence any longer.  His heavy wings quickly caught the wind, and he barreled towards this threat, his claws ready to rend, his demonic instinct to slaughter being intertwined with the much more noble moral choice to sacrifice his own physical stability for another.

Horse, always a Daemon of honor, was lost in the maelstrom of some wizard's power – some demon of another sort who collected and commanded beasts and creatures to his will. Horse – who had always and ever loved the spirit of Krysondra – was now pitted against her. His blind rage placed in his mind by the accidental awakening of a violet talisman. He held it tightly in one hand while blindly following its command.

She must die. She holds too many secrets that will change the world as we know it ... whispered the talisman – commanded the wizard.

Horse, ancient and powerful, was the wizard's best choice for the matter. Yet Horse would never, of his own mind, harm anything innocent. But now – by some magic greater than his own – Horse was robotic in his mission. His mind frozen, his heart left un-beating, his eyes not his own.

Then he saw a body, lifting from below him. A Gargoyle. In his world, in his reality, the Gargoyle was a creature of protection and observance. Yet Horse was not of his own mind. It was held, squeezed, in the hand of a wizard greater than all other wizards.

Horse spied the Gargoyle and turned his attention to him. He changed his elevation and plunged down toward it. His eyes aflame, his heavy talons open, his heart beating against leather and steel.

Somewhere inside him a small voice begged. No. This is wrong.

The gargoyle veered upwards, bringing his heavy, keened claws up in such a way, so that as soon as he was in range, they would gore the opposing demon quite nicely.  He loved hand-to-hand combat, and of his thousands of battles, he had not lost a duel once.  For some reason, the possibility of failure climbed into his head.  He quickly shock it off, he was a warrior.  Win or lose, he would not die without fulfilling his duty, to protect.  So if he had to die...

This demon would die with him.