Warning, gruesome scenes below, reader discretion is advised.
##Gadanar’s Journal.
Day 29
It is over. I never believed we would get that far, let alone win. It all started when that messanger from the north came. That was the last time he ever spoke, or was in one piece.
A foolish matoran, by the name of Pakamu, the operator of the Tundra Gate believed he could stand against the might and determination of the King of Sands. To be honest, I pitty him, now that I am looking at him. We left the day Carapar crushed the messanger. Two and a half thousand Motari started marching through the desert.
Pakamu, the Merchant King
For the first few days, sand pirates were smart enough not to attack us. We were well supplied at the time, full of energy and will to fight. That changed when the king decided we would walk eighteen hours a day, no matter the heat or the cold.
Then the pirates came. And then food left. Bloodlust and strength followed soon, yet not in our king. No, he had plenty, and who, do you believe, he beat it out on when there were no foes to fight? You guessed right.
It took us twice as long to reach the land where sands change into podzol, where brightness and heat of the day passes on to grey and cold. Then we saw the gate to Pridak’s kingdom. Cold, desolate wasteland of stone.
The Tundra Gate has seen better times. Even at this distance, the mighty fortress was rusted, old, uncleaned, in need of repairs. The Ihu Range behind it, with snow falling down, only made it look more desolate.
Yet it was not abandoned, oh, no. Only one sixth of our men survived, that was almost the same number as Pakamu had at his disposal. After six hours of constant march, we finally saw the enemy’s army. Rested, well fed, and ready to slaughter us all.
At least one thing the two leaders had in common could be observed in that moment. Neither would allow us a moment of rest. As soon as we crossed the horizon, Pakamu and his forces charged at us, with spears, shields, swords, maces and hatred.
Gadanar, chief General of Motari Armies
Carapar went charging through the enemy line like a knife butchered into a Muaka’s belly. Swinging that giant, heavy warhammer, crushing chests, legs and skulls of any matoran close enough to his wrath.
And after what seemed like eternity below a cold sun, amidst blood and smell of a loosing battle, the warlord and the rebel met. With a single swing, Carapar brought down the body of Pakamu’s Muaka, the head flying off someplace else. How big of a chance Pakamu had in the duel? Who would know? There was no duel.
Pakamu’s legs became soup the moment his mighty mount came crushing down into the dirt. Left hand gone soon after, never to be seen again, and his mask and face crumpled inwards.
The battle was over soon after, none were spared. And, needless to say, the Tundra Gate will never see it’s gates open again. Well, the Artakha will never see the gate itself, ever again.
What a wonder Pakamu survived the trip back, tied naked to Carapar’s new mount. How many had died because the medics kept him alive?
Who could guess Carapar would be so generous to give Pakamu a place on the front gate of the capital? Heh, I guess a better question would be: Who could know it was truly Pakamu, if not for the tales?