The young Gargoyle who called herself Guinevere stared out over the skyline with the same strange mixture of fascination and frustration she always felt when she regarded the humans.  They were such strange creatures, so filled with hate for her kind.  So small and weak.  And yet it was they who had become the masters of the world, not Gargoyles.

She shook her head.  Such thinking was self-destructive.  It was the kind of thinking that had created Demona, the person she had sworn never to become.  That thought often weighed heavily upon her mind, though she was beginning to think that the simple act of not wishing for it to happen might prevent it in the first place.

And here, she was so very alone.

She had a friend, after a fashion, in Jubilee, their extra-dimensional house guest, another person who knew what it like to be out of joint with the world around her.

And there was Icy, of course.  Her fellow teenager seemed to draw strength from her and she was willing to lend her support, however awkward and uncertain it might be.  At least someone here needed her.  Goliath no longer did.

She spread her wings, feeling the night's breeze upon them.  Moping around the castle would do nothing.  She needed something else to do.