In the frigid land of Arctic cold,
A player named Tack did build his hold.
Near snow-capped mountains and icy shores,
He crafted structures, but nothing more.

His land was bleak, his builds were rusted,
A junkyard frozen, lonely, busted.
No life or warmth, no color or cheer,
Just metal scraps and snowflakes near.

Tack was a player, but not much more,
His strategy was one big bore.
He'd build and grind, every single wipe,
Creating a place that felt like tripe.

His peers would raid, or steal or fight,
But Tack just built with all his might.
His rusted creations never to last,
A lonely player, forever trapped in the past.

And so the story of Tack goes,
A rust player, no highs or lows.
His legacy, a snowy junkyard near,
A place where no one dared to come near.