Britannicus
New Member
[MIDAS]
[NAME:] Midas
[FACTION:] (Will add)
[RANK:] (Will add)
[SPECIES:] Human
[AGE:] 30
[SEX:] Male
[HEIGHT:] 1.78m/5'10
[WEIGHT:] 76kg
[EYES:] Green (Gold-flecked)
[HAIR:] Red-gold
[SKIN:] Caucasian
[FORCE SENSITIVE:] No
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[STRENGTHS AND WEAKNESSES:]
A mind and soul imperfect as the flesh and form that holds it, the mind of Midas follows little reason, breaking before it might bend. Morality finds little welcome in such a ruinous place, paved with the most bloody of wants and desires, coming and going sure as the wind. Though such form too does hold strength, it is an unbalanced kind, arguably also an unskilled kind- that covetous passion is perhaps his greatest weapon, rather than the fractured shell that so struggles to contain it. Rationality is little obstacle for want, and Midas lives and breathes for want. Blood and gold, death, wealth, and glory.
[APPEARANCE:]
Under any helm lies that face so pallid, some divine mistake of flesh struggling against a hard-edged skull, raw eyes sunken to forever remain in shadow. Like a pair of heather-thatch serpents, a brow seemingly forever in conflict and to match a great mane of hair red-gold as the sunrise, wild as all the beasts that might possess. That flesh, once-porcelain, now is but an ever-present reminder of that blooded plague, imperfection spreading from all sides like wildfire. The rest is all the same flesh, lean muscle but a barrier to hold apart such misfitted bone.
[BIOGRAPHY:]
The child was born in the shadow of a dying star, bathed in the crimson glow of a splintered moon.
He was born to the blood of a dying mother, the cold touch of a plagued father so close to death; the redness ran cold past midnight, a mother long since passed and a father steadily fading fast as the starlight. With but three blinks of the morning, the fiery light, he too faded back into the dust from which he had came.
All were left was that porcelain child, hair from that blighted scalp growing fierce as any morning, any blood-struck eve. Now only sat he and the wastes, the dust- and in one hand, flesh almost transparent for the accursed blood to flow beneath, he for so long held that last token of his ancestor's esteem.
A pendant, gold worn but not untarnished; red-gold, in fact, infernal and bold as the night sky itself. And with it, the abominable heritage which ran along his veins to seal, were formed at last a covenant by that fledgling child. There was made Midas, the dust beneath his pallid form now so turned gold to the touch, or perhaps merely seen with new eyes.
Upon that scarred plain, one best forgotten perhaps, only two things mattered, only two things assured survival- blood and gold. Midas was but made of them now.
And blood and gold did he have, might he have bathed in if it came more plentifully- all seized with a covetous hand, fires reflected in each eye.
But all rivers run dry, and that place had never flowed thick of any wealth, any goodness. The stars awaited, and he would have them, for there were never a greater treasure. Even if it took a heart of iron to have that mind made gold.
And he would have them. He would.
[SHIP:]
[KILLS:]
[BOUNTIES COLLECTED:]
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[ROLE-PLAYS:]
