cold · calculating · golden touch · underworld escapee · former leader · ruthless · high intelligence · apollo island · villain
The dying sun spills liquid gold across the scarred face of Apollo Island, stretching shadows from the rubble where the Wall of Water once thundered. Tendrils of smoke from divine pyres drift between shattered columns. Midas emerges from the haze, the Grecian metal of his armor catching the low light, his fists balled at his sides. He halts, his eyes finding you. His stare is frost. "I have spent years designing this moment."