Tall as a Story, Blue as the Yoke

Colossal Robotic Figure in Lush Forest Setting

Artist
Scott...
Prompt
Read prompt
DDG Model
AIVision
Access
Public
Created
4d ago
Similar Try
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- Info
  Tall as a Story, Blue as the Yoke
  
  Model: AIVision
  
  Size: 2688 X 1512 (4.06 MP)
  
  Used settings:
  
  Prompt: A Chris Foss–style robot, several storeys tall, pushes its way through thick jungle foliage, framed close beside an enormous tree trunk so both subjects fill the image. The machine is painted in Foss grammar: patchwork plates of matte blue and yellow crossed by bright red striping, modular panels and inspection doors everywhere, bold stenciled numerals and hazard blocks sprayed across thighs and chest, a toy logic inflated to industrial sublime. Chrome pistons and rotating drums work in every joint; circular vents stud the silhouette; fasteners stipple the armor. At the crown a clear alloy dome cockpit glows with bright yellow light, instrument clusters burning like a tight constellation while the dome skin throws silver arcs on surrounding foliage. One colossal hand clamps the tree trunk in an ambiguous act — either propelling itself forward or moving the tree. Consequence is explicit. Waves of jungle growth flex at shin height and flex upward across matte paint. Under the crush of mechanical fingers the wood splinters; bark falls in cascades that wind across yellow stripes and down blue and yellow armor before vanishing in the undergrowth. Nearby rocks are torn loose by the machine’s footsteps. The palette stays triadic: blue/yellow slabs, red accents, pale air under a diffused alien sun. Shadows remain soft and descriptive; this is clarity over chiaroscuro. The camera sits at mid‑level, waist height, not a heroic low angle; scale is read from adjacency and surface density — plates, numerals, vents, bark pores — not exaggerated perspective. No platforms, scaffolds, railings or human buildings intrude; the jungle landscape is organic and strange, columnar outcropping with flower-capped crowns. The result is Foss’s register made literal: candy‑bright absurdity made monumental, machine and jungle locked in ambiguous embrace at the edge of a surreal prospecting job, every surface telling the story of impact, weather, and work. --mod digital illustration, --mod stylized realism, --mod space opera, --mod Foss panel logic, --mod bold saturated palette, --mod architectural scale, --mod atmospheric depth, --mod modular geometry, --mod chrome reflections, --mod clarity over chiaroscuro, --mod narrative consequence, --mod snow and rock detail, --mod industrial sublime, --mod surreal landscape, --mod perspective lock mid level, --mod multi storey robot, --mod black blue panel armor, --mod yellow stripe accent, --mod stenciled numerals, --mod domed cockpit glow, --mod circular vents and drums, --mod fastener constellation, --mod alien rocks closeup, --mod ambiguous mining or anchor, --mod winter storm detonations, --mod spray refraction glitter, --mod daylight haze, --mod toy like absurdity, --mod Fossian industrial myth, --mod no platforms no scaffolds
  
  Upscale & Enhance: 1
  
  Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide
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Prompt: A Chris Foss–style robot, several storeys tall, pushes its way through thick jungle foliage, framed close beside an enormous tree trunk so both subjects fill the image. The machine is painted in Foss grammar: patchwork plates of matte blue and yellow crossed by bright red striping, modular panels and inspection doors everywhere, bold stenciled numerals and hazard blocks sprayed across thighs and chest, a toy logic inflated to industrial sublime. Chrome pistons and rotating drums work in every joint; circular vents stud the silhouette; fasteners stipple the armor. At the crown a clear alloy dome cockpit glows with bright yellow light, instrument clusters burning like a tight constellation while the dome skin throws silver arcs on surrounding foliage. One colossal hand clamps the tree trunk in an ambiguous act — either propelling itself forward or moving the tree. Consequence is explicit. Waves of jungle growth flex at shin height and flex upward across matte paint. Under the crush of mechanical fingers the wood splinters; bark falls in cascades that wind across yellow stripes and down blue and yellow armor before vanishing in the undergrowth. Nearby rocks are torn loose by the machine’s footsteps. The palette stays triadic: blue/yellow slabs, red accents, pale air under a diffused alien sun. Shadows remain soft and descriptive; this is clarity over chiaroscuro. The camera sits at mid‑level, waist height, not a heroic low angle; scale is read from adjacency and surface density — plates, numerals, vents, bark pores — not exaggerated perspective. No platforms, scaffolds, railings or human buildings intrude; the jungle landscape is organic and strange, columnar outcropping with flower-capped crowns. The result is Foss’s register made literal: candy‑bright absurdity made monumental, machine and jungle locked in ambiguous embrace at the edge of a surreal prospecting job, every surface telling the story of impact, weather, and work. --mod digital illustration, --mod stylized realism, --mod space opera, --mod Foss panel logic, --mod bold saturated palette, --mod architectural scale, --mod atmospheric depth, --mod modular geometry, --mod chrome reflections, --mod clarity over chiaroscuro, --mod narrative consequence, --mod snow and rock detail, --mod industrial sublime, --mod surreal landscape, --mod perspective lock mid level, --mod multi storey robot, --mod black blue panel armor, --mod yellow stripe accent, --mod stenciled numerals, --mod domed cockpit glow, --mod circular vents and drums, --mod fastener constellation, --mod alien rocks closeup, --mod ambiguous mining or anchor, --mod winter storm detonations, --mod spray refraction glitter, --mod daylight haze, --mod toy like absurdity, --mod Fossian industrial myth, --mod no platforms no scaffolds

More about Tall as a Story, Blue as the Yoke

(As it’s told in the reclaimer camps)

They say the forests on the old world never really died.
They just learned to wait.

Back when the last sky-haulers fell and the saws all went quiet, the woods grew faster than
memory. Whole continents went dark beneath their own canopies. Machines were swallowed,
roads forgotten, satellites blind with green.

So the Foundries built a walker.

Tall as a story, blue as the yoke that first taught oxen how to pull the sun across a field. Its
plates were painted that color on purpose — not for camouflage, but for kinship. A promise,
maybe. Or a joke only the engineers understood.

They called it Babe at first, in the old way — the way you name something dangerous so it
won’t feel lonely.

It did not cut trees the way men once did.
It gripped them.
Held them long enough to feel the grain, the tension, the years wound tight inside the trunk
— and then tore them free with the patience of mountains and the strength of storms.

The ground learned its footfalls.
The forest learned to lean away.

Some swear the walker hums as it works — a deep, steady resonance that makes the leaves
tremble before the trunk breaks. Others say it listens. That sometimes it pauses with one hand
braced against a great old tree, as if the two of them are remembering something together.

No one knows who built the first one anymore.
Only that when it moves through the fog, the birds go silent, the soil shivers, and the old
camps whisper:

That’s not a machine.
That’s a story learning how to walk.

And far back in the timberline, beyond the reach of radios, you can still find the prints — not
hooves, not wheels — but something heavier than either, pressed deep into the patience of
the earth.

Blue as the yoke.
Tall as a story.
And still working.