Surreal Cityscape with Elderly Figure and Clocks

Mirelda and the Breath of the Towers

104

Artist
Unicorngra...
DDG Model
FluX
Access
Public
Created
3mos ago
Similar Try
Public
104

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65
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- Info
  Mirelda and the Breath of the Towers
  
  Model: FluX
  
  Size: 2582 X 1936 (5.00 MP)
  
  Used settings:
  
  Prompt: High above a city shrouded in fog and the tolling of bells, a tower rises that looks as if it grew from gears. Its walls are made of calendar pages, rusty brass, broken pocket watches, and whispering parchment. Upstairs in the highest room sits the Clockmaker: an old woman with silver eyes, wrapped in layers of time—some threads are golden, others transparent as glass. Around her float clocks of every shape: floating hourglasses, sleeping grandfather clocks, ticking star clocks that lose dust of light with every movement. In her workshop stands a table made of layered moon rock. There she builds new timelines for beings whose clocks were lost. A bird without a tomorrow, a child who never found yesterday, a tear not yet shed. Outside, minutes tumble through the air like snowflakes. And in the sky, the big hand ticks on—only sometimes, for the blink of an eye, does it stop.style by Myke Amend
  
  Using base image: No
  
  Aspect Ratio: landscape
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Prompt

High above a city shrouded in fog and the tolling of bells, a tower rises that looks as if it grew from gears. Its walls are made of calendar pages, rusty brass, broken pocket watches, and whispering parchment. Upstairs in the highest room sits the Clockmaker: an old woman with silver eyes, wrapped in layers of time—some threads are golden, others transparent as glass. Around her float clocks of every shape: floating hourglasses, sleeping grandfather clocks, ticking star clocks that lose dust of light with every movement. In her workshop stands a table made of layered moon rock. There she builds new timelines for beings whose clocks were lost. A bird without a tomorrow, a child who never found yesterday, a tear not yet shed. Outside, minutes tumble through the air like snowflakes. And in the sky, the big hand ticks on—only sometimes, for the blink of an eye, does it stop.style by Myke Amend

More about Mirelda and the Breath of the Towers

For three nights, the towers hadn't beaten in unison. At first, it was only a fleeting mismatch, a lost breath between two pulses. But Mirelda heard it immediately—the way one notices a heart that suddenly beats too slowly. The city had changed since she had set the ring. People smiled again mid-sentence, the bread baked in time, even the soup came later. And yet she sensed that something else resonated, a strange order that didn't come from her. In her workshop, the lamps burned silently. The Twelfth Tower outside in the fog seemed awake, almost listening. Mirelda went to the window, held up the candle, and saw the shadows of the numerals moving in the glass of the flame, as if trying to break their shape. "You want to speak," she said softly. "But with whom?" The answer came not with sound, but with wind. From somewhere came a rustling, like clocks showing their teeth. Mirelda took her coat and climbed onto the tower balcony. The city's haze lay golden over the streets, and in the distance, the lanterns glowed like a string of seconds. Thin threads of fog drifted between the towers, binding like wires. She knew this was no coincidence. The breath of the towers connected—a voice sought form. She relit her candle, placed it at the edge of the balustrade, and its light reflected in the glass eyes of the numbers all around. "I hear you," she whispered. "But say what you will." Then the floor vibrated. One of the large wall clock discs broke free, swung open, and revealed not a clock face, but a tunnel of gears. From within came a faint beating—not the steady beating of the city clocks, but the broken throb of a heart. "You are sick," Mirelda said calmly. "I can mend, but I cannot heal." A breath of cold steam rose from the opening. Golden splinters danced within it—fragments of voices. You ordered us, they whispered, but you didn't hear us. Mirelda understood: the ring she had set wasn't just a cog—it was a gate. Something had passed through it that had bound itself to the city. And now it began to speak. She held up the candle, its flame still despite the wind. "If you want order, stay in your rhythm. If you seek freedom, you must learn to stand." A sound like a metallic laugh ran through the tower. Below her, the bells awoke, each with a different voice. The city began to breathe, unevenly, beautifully, and unsettlingly. Clocks ran backward, some twice, some not at all. On the street, she saw people greeting each other before they met.