While the sun was winding down, and the day grew short
atop itself, Balkey kicked off his loiterwall. His eyes bounced
around the folk on the street; he was collecting his plan
when they pierced his periphery: a small collective among
the throng of locals: a party of dolls from the front, led by
the men of the Head Pin. These were the Rags from yesterday;
the poorer-than-peasant class, survivors of the Ridge Wars,
wide eyed, taking in the humanity around them. Distant fear
in their headpools was all Balkey saw – them from a world where
you need more than your fists.
Perhaps Bix had died in one of them battles, the far kind. Balkey
didn’t care where his father was truly, but these Ragdolls were
what he should be thinking on. They needed home away from
hearth of the sun, and food, and drink, and most of all, peace.