The Forbidden Market of Midnight

Mystical cityscape with ornate structures and lanterns

Artist
Tiberiu
Prompt
Read prompt
DDG Model
Artistic 2
Access
Public
Created
3d ago
Try
Public
63

0

15
- Share
  
  https://deepdreamgenerator.com/ddream/cptgk61qufq COPY LINK
- Info
  The Forbidden Market of Midnight
  
  Model: Artistic 2
  
  Size: 3840 X 2160 (8.29 MP)
  
  Used settings:
  
  Prompt: Hidden beneath the ruins of a forgotten city, buried in the cracks of time itself, there exists a place only spoken of in whispers—the Forbidden Market of Midnight. It awakens only when the last bell tolls twelve, its entrance revealing itself between two broken alleyways that should not exist. Beyond the veil of reality, lanterns flicker with ghostly blue and crimson fire, illuminating pathways that shift and realign as if alive. Here, in this bazaar of the impossible, merchants do not deal in coin. Instead, they trade in dreams, stolen memories, and fragments of the self. Their stalls are draped in ancient silks woven with forgotten names, and behind them stand figures neither fully human nor fully beast, their masks carved from bone, stitched leather, and gilded whispers. At the heart of the market, a monolithic obelisk pulses with shifting runes, its inscriptions never the same twice, whispering forbidden secrets to those who dare to listen. The air hums with the low murmur of a thousand unseen voices, each one belonging to a bargain struck long ago. Shadows slither against the cobblestone streets, not always belonging to those who cast them. Beyond the stalls, nestled between two twisting archways that defy physics, a crimson tent breathes like a living thing. Its entrance is marked by symbols that burn to those who stare too long. Inside, a figure of shifting identities waits, its features never settling into one face, its eyes older than time itself. It speaks in a voice that is both a lullaby and the grinding of stone, offering not trinkets, but contracts—trades sealed not with gold, but with the essence of one’s being. A fool may leave the tent unchanged—at first. But later, they may find a third eye blinking on their palm, their reflection in the mirror belonging to someone else, or their shadow walking in a different direction. For here, in the Forbidden Market of Midnight, the price of desire is never what one expects, and the most valuable t
  
  Face enhance: No
  
  Upscale & Enhance: 1
  
  Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide
- Report
  
  Would you like to report this Dream as inappropriate?

Visual Prompt:

Additional Prompt: Hidden beneath the ruins of a forgotten city, buried in the cracks of time itself, there exists a place only spoken of in whispers—the Forbidden Market of Midnight. It awakens only when the last bell tolls twelve, its entrance revealing itself between two broken alleyways that should not exist. Beyond the veil of reality, lanterns flicker with ghostly blue and crimson fire, illuminating pathways that shift and realign as if alive. Here, in this bazaar of the impossible, merchants do not deal in coin. Instead, they trade in dreams, stolen memories, and fragments of the self. Their stalls are draped in ancient silks woven with forgotten names, and behind them stand figures neither fully human nor fully beast, their masks carved from bone, stitched leather, and gilded whispers. At the heart of the market, a monolithic obelisk pulses with shifting runes, its inscriptions never the same twice, whispering forbidden secrets to those who dare to listen. The air hums with the low murmur of a thousand unseen voices, each one belonging to a bargain struck long ago. Shadows slither against the cobblestone streets, not always belonging to those who cast them. Beyond the stalls, nestled between two twisting archways that defy physics, a crimson tent breathes like a living thing. Its entrance is marked by symbols that burn to those who stare too long. Inside, a figure of shifting identities waits, its features never settling into one face, its eyes older than time itself. It speaks in a voice that is both a lullaby and the grinding of stone, offering not trinkets, but contracts—trades sealed not with gold, but with the essence of one’s being. A fool may leave the tent unchanged—at first. But later, they may find a third eye blinking on their palm, their reflection in the mirror belonging to someone else, or their shadow walking in a different direction. For here, in the Forbidden Market of Midnight, the price of desire is never what one expects, and the most valuable t

More about The Forbidden Market of Midnight

Hidden beneath the ruins of a forgotten city, buried in the cracks of time itself, there exists a place only spoken of in whispers—the Forbidden Market of Midnight. It awakens only when the last bell tolls twelve, its entrance revealing itself between two broken alleyways that should not exist. Beyond the veil of reality, lanterns flicker with ghostly blue and crimson fire, illuminating pathways that shift and realign as if alive.

Here, in this bazaar of the impossible, merchants do not deal in coin. Instead, they trade in dreams, stolen memories, and fragments of the self. Their stalls are draped in ancient silks woven with forgotten names, and behind them stand figures neither fully human nor fully beast, their masks carved from bone, stitched leather, and gilded whispers.

At the heart of the market, a monolithic obelisk pulses with shifting runes, its inscriptions never the same twice, whispering forbidden secrets to those who dare to listen. The air hums with the low murmur of a thousand unseen voices, each one belonging to a bargain struck long ago. Shadows slither against the cobblestone streets, not always belonging to those who cast them.

Beyond the stalls, nestled between two twisting archways that defy physics, a crimson tent breathes like a living thing. Its entrance is marked by symbols that burn to those who stare too long. Inside, a figure of shifting identities waits, its features never settling into one face, its eyes older than time itself. It speaks in a voice that is both a lullaby and the grinding of stone, offering not trinkets, but contracts—trades sealed not with gold, but with the essence of one’s being.

A fool may leave the tent unchanged—at first. But later, they may find a third eye blinking on their palm, their reflection in the mirror belonging to someone else, or their shadow walking in a different direction. For here, in the Forbidden Market of Midnight, the price of desire is never what one expects, and the most valuable thing you own may not even be yours anymore.