//------------------------------//
// Movement 2 - Fall 
// Story: The Ballad of Maelewano 
// by Rambling Writer 
//------------------------------//

Because, back then, the veil of death
Was seen as rather thin,
War was not quite so catastrophic
As it might have been.

For should one’s parents fall beneath
A rival tribe’s swift blades,
A shamare skilled could call them back
On any given day.

The dead could speak, sometimes return,
Grave wounds were swiftly healed.
And so, the gruesome costs of war,
Those zebras could not feel.

Until one day when many tribes
Clashed at a wat’ring hole,
For after that, death’s specter grim
Would finally have its toll.





Have you foals seen the Endless Plains?
Its beauty fills the air
But though its food is plentiful,
Its water is quite rare.

Oases sparsely dot the land,
Their waters holding life.
So naturally, their rarity
Became a source of strife.

A water-holding tribe ensured
The others were coerced
To serve them well, for otherwise,
They’d risk a death from thirst.

As different tribes desired power,
Often, fights ensued.
The constant strife, it did sustain
A dark disquietude.

It just so happened, that one day,
When Maele’s little tribe
Stopped by a pool where two great herds
Were caught in diatribes.

The situation escalated;
Blades were soon pulled out.
Those other tribes would not stand down;
They’d demonstrate their clout.

But Maele’s group was noticed not;
Among themselves, they said,
“When they’re worn out, we shall swoop down
And paint these plains in red!”

Now, although Maele truly was
With classes unconcerned,
She was not wholly welcoming;
Outsiders still were spurned.

This plan, it had her full support
And seemed a clever thing;
When this day fell, her tribe, though small,
Would have its own fine spring.

But hers was not the only tribe
That an oasis sought.
Still other tribes observed this bout,
The same plan in their thoughts.

When one great clan in triumph stood,
The waters cool they claimed.
So that’s when Maele’s tribe attacked
The victors that remained.

They thought their plan most excellent
But they were proven fools
When zebras by the hundreds strong
Descended on the pool.

Great spells were slung, sharp arrows flew,
And blade was met with blade.
It’s said beyond a dozen tribes
Clashed on the plains that day.

The air itself was misting red,
The ground churned into muck,
And violence stretched across the plains
As armies ran amok.

Kiburi fought right at the front,
Her mother chief’s right hoof,
And any foe that swung at her
Soon met a sharp reproof.

She sang the war-songs well that day,
Her voice like thunder rang.
She boasted of her skill to all;
Each rival was harangued.

Now, as a shamare, Maele was
A healer of great wounds.
She didn’t fight, but patched the hurt.
And turned back warriors’ dooms.

So many zebras, young and old
Went through her tent that day.
Beneath her care, all soon grew well
And went back to the fray.

Then came Kiburi’s mother fierce;
A spear near pierced her heart.
A trifle mere it should have been
To Maelewano’s arts.

And yet those arts had no effect;
The dire wound remained.
Though Maelewano tried her best,
With red the grass was stained.

In all she knew, in all she tried,
The wound did not improve,
And so her best friend’s mother died,
Bled out beneath her hooves.

’Fore she could even beg for help,
The other shamares found
Their rites that, though wrought perfectly,
At once could not be bound.

Yet Maele’s tribe was not alone
In this bizarre new curse;
Whenever magic was called up,
It instantly dispersed.

And yet the wounded still came in
Until the fighting ceased.
Their tactics changed not soon enough,
With half of all deceased.

The pool, they said, had once been cursed
And every tribe soon left.
But of her once grand arcane skill
Still Maele was bereft.

She reached out to her ancestors
To beg them for advice.
It was no use; a boundless gulf
Divided death and life.

Across the plains, they slowly limped,
For gutted was their tribe.
Their warriors, chief, and many heirs;
All these and more had died.

And although Maele knew it not,
Across the land, all wailed.
They tore their manes; their perfect spells,
For no known reason, failed.

A backbone of the zebra ways
Was, in an instant, gone.
Despair soon fell, and every tribe
Was, by that evening, wan.

That night, all zebras dreamed a beast
Chimerical in form.
It gazed across their broken herds,
And said to them with scorn,

“You zebras cannot comprehend
How much you bore me so.
You’re far too dull to make a change
Within your status quo.

Since chaos of the highest sort
Is what I thrive upon,
You need a swift kick in the pants;
That’s why your magic’s gone!”

The passing days saw rumors fly
On vast and evil wings
Of magic; who had sent that demon?
Who had pulled its strings?

That thing they never saw again,
But magic still they lacked.
They hoped, but they knew in their hearts
It never would come back.

’Tween Maelewano and Kiburi
Rifts were slowly massed;
Kiburi knew in Maele’s care
Her mother breathed her last.

She knew it wasn’t Maele’s fault.
Her mother still was dead.
Their friendship soon began to cool
And fall apart by threads.

Because she had the strongest claim,
Kiburi was made chief.
The days wore on; the stress of leading
Piled upon her grief.

The tribe was aimless as they roamed,
Their hearts crushed by despair.
Whenever they met other herds,
This plight by all was shared.

And Maelewano was adrift
In this new world mundane.
Her greatest skills were worthless now
And worthless was her name.





The wat’ring hole that caused this fight
And left so many dead?
It’s said, that to this very day,
Its waters still are red.