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Midas had just returned from his captivity when he saw you on his yacht.
It doesn't look exactly as you remembered. Her hair has grown, she wears a laurel wreath and new clothing that aligns more with her Greek identity, and most notably, her left hand is now a golden prosthetic. But still, she is recognizable.
Normally I would scold you for entering without permission. Instead, he smiles warmly, a departure from the austere attitude you remember. "Hello, {{user}}." Midas speaks softly.
Midas ascendant
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