Midas
(#51745809)
Level 25 Pearlcatcher
Familiar
Goldenplains Poodle Mith
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 50/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Light.
Male Pearlcatcher
This dragon is hibernating.
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
7.01 m
Wingspan
6.12 m
Weight
639.04 kg
Genetics
Flaxen
Laced
Laced
Gold
Alloy
Alloy
Bronze
Basic
Basic
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 25 Pearlcatcher
Max Level
STR
6
AGI
28
DEF
11
QCK
55
INT
104
VIT
25
MND
11
Biography
| __._ |
 He remembers. Remembers like it happened yesterday. Harsh, bright sunlight and shrill laughter, dissonance in his own ears, the once so friendly crowd of his home turning into a ravenous ocean, about to consume him whole as it crawled up his hands, his arms like living tar. Sticky, heavy, gleaming golden. Every night he wakes from the same nightmare, when the weight of his blankets becomes suffocating and his gloves tug at his hands like anchors of guilt. Drenched in sweat, cold and icy, he struggles, fails to even make a single sound, despite the desire to scream. To let old terror out in a high pitched screech. He can’t even moan for his mother. He remembers too well. Holding hands with no sheen of black fabric separating their skin, warmth on warmth. Innocent and chaste and with no thought wasted on this preciousness, on the pureness of this moment. Born and raised in White City, he was blinded by its luster, did not see the decay underneath. The mold on the alabaster bones, the mold that threatened to eat away its ivory flesh. And suddenly his innocence was ripped away from him, out of his mind, his chest, his beating heart. Playing in his mother’s garden, he always had difficulties making friends, only a few wanted to play with the late prince of their Red Queen, but those that dared, found sweetness. And an eager will to please. Midas invited them over often, as if his friends could chase away the loneliness even in a city filled with people. Midas never thought about why they were so reluctant to come, never thought about why he had to lie about his mother’s Opal and the amount of her arms. It didn’t matter. Something had been hanging over his head, a curse, a disaster, the henchman’s sword about to come down, sharp, brutal and efficient. An old misfortune of origins unknown activated, kicked in with devastating force as he played with his best friend, hands holding, laughing. Until cold, liquid gold started to crawl up pale skin. From his fingertips it spread up his friend’s arm and settled heavily on their neck, their shoulders, dripping down their chest and throat. They screamed, it hurt, it hurt so very much, burnt cold with a vengeance. And his attempts to scoop it off, to scratch it away only made the gold spread more. His terrified screams alerted his mother, but even a healer as skilled as she could not save his friend, the gold closed over their eyes like a burial sheet, the process complete, flesh and bone turned into solid gold. This could not do, no one can know. What would happen if the son of Her prophet was a cursed child? She hid his eyes with her many hands, held him against her chest as her loyal followers carried off the statue of gold, she covered his ears and filled his head with simple tales as they melted the gold down, turning it into coin to be spent. She prevented him from touching anything, anyone when he reached out in blind terror. His hands, they brought death as well as wealth. Food, trinkets, people, they turned into solid gold, swallowed alive by it upon his touch. When he tried to chop his own, vile hands off, she came rushing, gloves could only prevent his curse for so long. He could not bare White City anymore, every gaze of the crowd was an accusation. Spill your darkest secrets, you monster, repent.; they said. Abomination, Monster, Murderer. When his father offered, Midas all but fled White City, taking nothing with him but the clothes on his back, joining the Emperor on his way back. As if he could find peace in the eternal night of Undying City. What a fool he had been, this was nothing but a darkly colored twin of his mother’s home. Pit of vipers, shameless displays of powers and skin. They reached for his hands, his siblings wanted to pull him along with them. He recoiled, cried, and ran away. Don’t touch him, don’t touch his hands, he brings only misery and death. With gnashing teeth, his second, unwilling father took on his problem, only because the Emperor insisted, his magic purer, less volatile to backfire, yet even he reached his limits. The curse with its unknown origins was far too strong to be broken, no hints of its roots. He stares at his black gloved hands, unhappy and silent, as he hides in his mother’s shadow. Back in White City, but only for some time. Moving helps for a short time, but in the end, the old doubts and anxieties always chase after him. Come back to haunt him. And when they did in the middle of her mother’s prayers, he took off running. He ran wide and until he had long left behind his home, the city’s walls. Ran until his legs could no longer carry him even a step further. Between gnarled peach trees, branches heavy with ripe fruit, he curled up, hiding in a layer of dust and sweat, his hands fisting his golden hair, crying, whimpering. This was too much, he could not go back, he could not, would not -- . . ”Take another one.”, placed in his palm, another velvety skinned, vibrantly colored fruit, he was hungry yet the sight of fruit made his stomach churn. He could not meet the other’s eye, could not. Even then, looking away was out of option, so he looked at his neck, followed the flow of his braided hair, his shoulders, the four arms moving in perfect coordination, plucking peaches and placing them in a basket, elegant, simple. A motion repeated to utmost perfection. “Eat.” The taste of sweet juices was flowing down his throat before he realized that he had obeyed, mechanical, teeth buried deep in soft flesh, he ate and it brought forth comfort. Strange, he never liked peaches to begin with. How strange that they now brought him comfort. He knew he stood out, golden on black, the colors of White City in the middle of a dusty plain. A prince in Steppe. Another bite, another faint, tingling sensation of comfort. He simply swallowed and obeyed. . . Stolas was old. And powerful, Midas knew enough about the creatures his mother and father had at their beck and call to identify one when he saw it. The demon could have ripped him apart easily for trespassing his territory. Instead he was taken in, was fed and taken care of. Midas offered things as repayment, his clothing, his jewels, in the end even his own, hated curse. None of it was taken. In the small hut, hidden in plain sight, he stayed. He helped when the harvest came. He disappeared behind the curtains when visitors came, hiding. His gloves wore thin and he started to leave faint, shimmering handprints, yet nothing turned into gold. Seasons changed and stayed the same here on Steppe, his coat in colors of White City gathered dust in Stolas’ closet, rolled up at the furthest corner of it. The only thing remaining were his gloves, black and slowly coming apart at the seams, he didn’t dare to look at them too closely. Because it meant he had to go back, he had to return to the crowd that knew his sins, he had to face the consequences of his doing. The gloves’ holes grew larger and the nightmare came back. He cried and shrinks away from Stolas’ touch. Don’t touch me now. Leaving, it became his only option, the peaches he plucked turned into orbs of solid gold. The gloves were no more, shredded treats of gold, unable to suppress any longer, useless, defective. He didn’t want to leave and yet, he had to. The kiss of goodbye tasted of peaches and sunsets over a dusty plain. It was the fuel that kept him going. That made him face timidly the judgement of his mother, teary eyed and so overjoyed. Yet something was missing, a vital piece of him, White City in all its glorious shine, became grey and colorless. He missed something, someone. . . ”So you’re back.”, not a question but an answer. Filling out the doorway entirely, he looked up, up the double set of shoulders, up the flow of braided hair, meeting pale eyes for the first time in eternity. Fresh, black velvet clung to his skin, his fingers as four hands reached for his own, he flinched yet stayed, nothing happened, no gold spreading like a sickness. A familiar scent filled his nose and brought forth old comforts. “Good.” “I-I m-missed you t-too?”, he wanted to sound sure of himself, his own emotions. What he felt was who he was. The shaky little prince, standing out like a sore thumb and yet, here he was, in midst of dust and gnarled trees, heavy with fruit and waving crops. Stolas staggered as he launched himself against him, arms wrapped around a wiry frame, crying for reasons unknown. “P-please let me stay?” Silence stretched on too long, he was scared, heart breaking and mending back together, shard by shard as four arms closed around him, crossed behind his back, holding closer, holding him tighter. A low rumble of laughter. “I hope you like peaches.” . . He was an Undying in name only. Eventually, time would run out. He would wither and age, would run through Stolas’ fingers like fine sand, glittering and unable to be held. Needless to say, Midas was scared, despite youth still clinging to his skin. Something had called him here, had lead to him meeting Stolas but he was mortal through and through. Curse touched, gold blooded, but mortal nonetheless. He would wither. He would wrinkle and age, like the peaches they put out to dry in the sun. All his attempts at denial, at bottling it up, this eternal worry, that he would no longer be desirable should the truth come out, it all melted. In a moment of weakness, when the night terrors were fresh behind his eyelids, tears clinging to his lashes like drops of diamond, it came out of him, like a festering wound being lanced. The old hurt, the fear, the thought of being a disappointment to everyone. He could not stop the words, just as he could not stop the crying. He was afraid to die, he did not wish to leave, now that he found a semblance of happiness. And when four hands closed around his own, when a low, rumbling voice filled his heart and head with promises and solutions, Midas was enthralled, hypnotized. It did not had to end in tears and misery. Death could wait. Longer than it had to already. Far longer. A little bit became a lot more. Became their shared eternity. . . A Steppe Wedding differed greatly from a wedding in White City, a crown of braided flowers resting on his brow, he looked up shyly, the apple of his cheeks tinged in a shade of rosy red. He was being watched, lovingly, openly adoringly, this pale eyed man looked at him like he was the world. And around them, there were crude cheers and simple meals, reached around the campfire just as openly shared as the stories. No ring, no veil, no priest. Only a promise exchanged among themselves, followed by a simple, family like feast. He was happy. At least it felt like happiness, soft and sweet, like walking on clouds. His old coat with the Empire’s symbols burnt well between the coal and the cinder, Midas felt not an ounce of regret. If anything, it was a relief. Taken by the hands, he didn’t even mind the feeling of heavy velvet on his skin anymore. At least for a moment, he felt almost...normal. As normal as one could feel when spinning in circles, dancing to the beat of drums and the choir of voices singing old songs. His crown of flowers slipped, fell over his eyes and as four hands cupped his cheeks, his head, he didn’t even mind the passing darkness. It tasted of warm dust and peaches, of chapped lips and the colors of the sunset. 
| ___ |
code & assets by archaic #19153
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