Los Anhelos

Los Anhelos

• Model: ChatGPT 2

• Size: 1664 X 2224 (3.70 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: Realistic, photographic, mythic. No strokes tonight, the rain does their work, and every light rides its edges. Dark, vast, gritty, and beautiful anyway. Masterful composition, low angle, her dark figure left of centre, the worn winged gargoyle crouched at her shoulder on its pedestal, the golden city falling away behind them both. A woman in her end twenties, early thirties, French. Calm, level, appraising, faintly amused, chin slightly down, eyes to the lens, the face of someone counting, not someone caught. Pale blue-grey eyes, glacial, a darker limbal ring, one small catchlight of city gold, never luminous. Thin washed traces of teal at the outer corners of her eyes only, a few teal droplets beneath one eye, never smoky. Long deep red-auburn hair, rich copper-red darkened by rain, wind-torn, strands across her face, and woven through it one narrow braided strand of soft rainbow, the one polychrome thing she owns. A long black leather greatcoat embossed with worn gothic scrollwork, rain beading on its sheen, high collar up, hem soaked heavy. A fitted waistcoat of dark teal-black brocade with small brass buttons, a brass chain to a chatelaine hung with keys, a compass, a tiny hourglass. Layered skirts beneath in deep dusk mauve and black, the mauve catching the city gold where the fabric folds, edges wet and clinging, tall buckled boots. Her bare hand holds the open antique pocket-watch low near her hip, resting lightly at her fingertips, consulted not displayed, the watch face pale and unlit. Her other hand gloved in smooth black leather, at rest in the fold of her coat. She owns the time and none of the light. Night rooftop of a gothic-cyberpunk metropolis in hard rain, Victorian iron and stone. Beyond them the city spreads like an opened vault, towers gone golden, ten thousand lit windows, holographic signs smearing amber and rose through the wet air, the skyline hoarding its warmth like a treasury. She is the only cold thing in the frame, the city is the only gold. Somewhere in the skyline a small neon sign misspells the word envie, half lit, easy to miss. In one near tower a single window glows warmer than all the rest, a small silhouette moving inside, a life she is not living. She gets none of it and stands like she is owed all of it. Puddles hold the city upside down in smeared gold and cold blue, her coat returns the neon in thin wet lines. Volumetric rain, hard rim light on hair, collar and gargoyle, film grain. The city keeps its gold tonight. She has counted it anyway. l'envie, by eryn.
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: portrait