affame_le_geant_the_tin_man's_heart fyn gula keggi truus pulled back on the leather reins hard, slowing the ostrich team down. he shouted something in his unique language that the strong-legged birds understood as "stop" and the caravan gently lurched as it drove upon the slushy, unplowed snow of the roadhouse parking lot, and then ceased movement altogether. the bianca strada was famous for these out-of-the-way inns, nestled between villages, places for weary travelers to bed down or grab a bite along the way to somewhere else. this particular one, "the tin man's heart" was located approximately a hundred kilometers from montamore, which was at least three hours away. keggi jumped down from the driver's seat and tied the two lead ostriches by the harness to a the iron rings of two parking posts. he noticed someone had scratched, "death to cayris" into the support beam with the blade of a knife. he smirked. he rubbed the backs of each one of his birds and congratulated them for their teamwork and speed and then stepped over to the middle car. poj had already opened the door, preceded by the sweet redolence of shabaz smoke. "good call, keggi," poj said stretching. there was a noticeable change in the weather as he looked around. steam was absent when he talked. the morning chill usually present was gone as if jack frost was detained by the initial concentrated efforts of the faeries of spring. "this place has killer omelettes." poj, in the heights of shabbification, was immediately drawn to the presence of an unusual wooden cart parked along several other non-descript carts. the norm in kemulya was a gypsy-style carriage pulled by a draft horse or donkey, but this peculiar cart was obviously foreign, rynomarian, poj thought, and when he pointed it out to keggi, he agreed. as cayris stepped out of the middle car, they were walking over to it. "what's up?" cayris called out. he felt the warmth in the air and the snow at his feet was somewhat cushiony, yielding soft to his footsteps. small blackbirds flitted about in the branches of a line of maple trees that bordered the parking lot and one could not be sure if they were curious of the new arrivals or reconnaissance spies sent from proina to report on the activity of "the insufferable hunger of the damned." "check this cart out." poj said. the structural design was the usual boxstyle, but the colors were a psychadelic splash-mix of swirling abandon. it clearly belonged to a "frafkuel," especially considering it was being pulled by a huge flock of seagulls that were tied together in an elaborate configuration of macrame-style knots and sleeping soundly, some two-hundred of them roosting on the spanish-tiled rooftop of the roadhouse. frafkuels were what we in this world commonly call holy men, those neutral, peace-loving people who live to serve, and guide others with a combination of spiritual wisdom, common sense, and clairvoyance. it was taught to kemulyan schoolchildren that baeroun himself was the original frafkuel, but that's knowledge that will be discussed at another time. "obviously, a rynomarian frafkuel." cayris said, joining poj and keggi as they studied the intricacies of the decorations. "interesting that one would be here when we are at our lowest sense of unity and highest time of need." "well," poj said, "even the devil asks questions." cayris had that "what the fuck?" look on his face, but then he remembered poj was shabbied and dismissed it. the revolutionaries in the third cart of the caravan were expected to remain, breakfasting on deer jerky and twig tea. and so, cayris, poj, and keggi went inside the tin man's heart. 030317 what's it to you? who go blather from