City of spires, can you yet recall
the old man of the pack, the first of his kind
to come to your aid, and make your fate his own?
If remembrance persists, then grant me the words
to tell of old Maka's doom, his return to the wheel.
He spent his last days in pursuit of a foe
a traitor, a turncoat, the worst sort of man
who fled into the mountains to hide from his crimes
when he sold secrets for gold deep under the mountains
to the king of the dwarves in his glimmering halls.
Old Maka pursued him, for he knew the mountains quite well
and he took only one comrade, a boy from his pack
who was named Quinno, he was loyal and true,
the first of his pack to be born to our great spires
who had never seen the great grief of their old ways.
He would take no others down out from the city
out into the wild, out into the mountains
for he longed to forget them and what life had been
before the Collectivists came and brought them peace.
And worse than memory, worse than the thought of grim days
was the temptation he feared his packmates might face
to embrace the old customs, harsh as their lives were
for the beast in their hearts had then been unchained
and some of the pack were not yet calm in their hearts.
Quinno, he thought, would be free from temptation
he was raised with a pure soul, his heart was calm
he had mastered his instincts, he was no beast.
So they set out on their journey, out on the hunt
for the cowardly Laimok who fled from the spires.
They ran over the mountains, the snow-capped granite
they ran for long days, in snow and in rain
and pressed on without resting, duty compelled them
to force their weary limbs on for days without rest.

They came on the traitor as the dark night was falling
in a ravine, good clean water ran through it
fed by the snows as they melted away from the world.
Laimok saw their approach, he turned and he ran
he fled away on quick feet from justice and death
and old Maka pursued him, and Quinno made haste
to bring the death to the traitor that he truly deserved.
He ran for long hours through twists and through turns
there in that ravine, hemmed in on all sides
by unfeeling granite, cold and unbending.
At last he was cornered, he had no escape
Laimok felt terror, the stone was all around him
and he saw doom approaching, justice was near.
He knew knew that mercy awaited, not for his crime,
so he looked to his arms, the last of his hopes.
A thin little knife, it was rusted and bent
and a slim hope indeed, and beyond that
he had three deadly darts, they had been given
as part of his fee, a last line of defense.
These darts had been poisoned by some wicked craft
of the smoke-shrouded city, then they had been sold
to the dwarves under the mountains in the foul hope
that they might be put to ill use, they might cause pain
to an innocent man. Alas, for that hope was not folly.

As the comrades came closer he let the darts fly
the first did no harm, his aim was not true
for fear gripped his heart, made his skill fail.
The second fared better, it dug into the flesh
of old Maka's arm as he made his approach
as he rushed at Laimok, that much accursed traitor,
raising his spear, preparing to slaughter.
The third dart found a mark, but not the intended
it had been meant to take young Quinno's life
but old Maka perceived that, placed himself in the way
and was wounded again, the dart bit into his eye.
Old Maka felt pain, but hot wrath was beyond him
serenity ruled him, and he went to his grim work,
struck out at Laimok, who fell to his knees
and begged out of fear for undeserved mercy,
mercy he knew he could never expect.
Old Maka said nothing, he had no words
pain was grasping his mind, his eyes were cloudy
so he let his spear speak in place of his tongue
and it bade vile Laimok return to the wheel.

Then the old soldier, the father of the packs
fell down to his knees, then onto his back
and his breathing grew heavy, his vision failed
and he spoke out to Quinno who ran up to his side.
"I feel a great pain, my veins are afire,
my fingers are trembling, my heart is slowing."
Quinno's breath grew faster, he snarled out an oath
of vengeance and bloodshed, but old Maka growled
out a warning, forced silence upon him.
"Quinno, child, now bid your heart to beat coldly,
you anger must pass, you must conquer your soul.
You are the first to be free from our old customs
you must not turn back towards them for my sake
so be without anger, let serenity rule you."
Then Quinno's wrath gave way to his grieving
and his torrent of tears fell down on his mentor.
Old Maka felt that, and he spoke and he smiled.
"Comrade, why do you weep for the dying?
What good does it do them for you to shed tears?
And why are you grieving for an old dying man?
Old age is no virtue, our decay is no joy.
A quick death is best and the peak of our lives
when our skill leaves us, why cling to life?
Better to die with some strength in our limbs
than to draw matters out while our skill withers
and our mind leaves us, to die as a shell.
So my dear comrade, you see that your deep grief
is without reason, and it causes you harm
so set it aside, be free from your feelings.
Tears become anger in the fullness of time
so shed them no more, let your soul be empty
and let thought alone rule you, it must be so.
Leave my carcass to rot here with the stones.
I was born in their harshness, my heart cannot leave them
and shall never be free of the savagery here.
Go back to the spires and be free of all that
and let our people grow nobler in the spire's embrace."
Speaking those words he gave his last shudder
and his heart at long last ceased all its beating
and old Maka returned once more to the wheel.