#fortnut

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The air was still, a stillness that ate at the skin of whatever wanderer dare to step in it's grasps. The dissonant sounds of the underworld dulled out by a constant rushing flow of green, unnatural, water. The moon illuminating down onto the only sign of life that was maneuvering itself through the wasteland of death.

Each measured footstep washing away into the sea of sounds. This life wasn't a fragment of death itself itching to see the light of the world, it was an insatiable, insidious, obsessive man.

It was Midas.

No other person, no other creature, no other *god*, could look death in the eye. Perish to the world, and yet emerge again. As if the grave itself had bowed down to him.

As he ascended back into the living world his mind was swarming. He had had more than enough time to think when - dead - but now his thoughts were different. They were alive and so was he, and god Midas could relish in that fact.

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Midas emerged from a forgotten landscape and to an island he faintly recognized. The familiar land stretched before him and yet he could sense a change. The island, though silent and asleep as night consumed the land, was pulsing with energy. A *new* energy.

His footsteps stopped, his yellow eye staring into a sky he hadn't seen in ages. He took a deep breath and with that a shutter went through his spine - a presence. An old and ancient one rest itself upon the island, and Midas loathed it.

He had been out of commission for far too long, he was losing the grip he once had on island. Midas craved the power, he needed it, and he despised the gods who were now the mortals worst fear.