Prompt: A solitary figure known as the Archivist stands at the edge of an immense obsidian platform suspended above a twilight desert. Robes of black silk and glass-thread flare behind them, etched with constellations that shift like living ink. A translucent sphere of captured light floats before the Archivist’s outstretched hand, its surface rippling with miniature suns in their final flare. One hand is lifted in quiet invocation; the other steadies a staff traced with orbit diagrams and luminous runes that pulse like heartbeats.
The scene unfolds from a low vantage at platform level, looking outward into the immense spiral of desert dunes below. Each dune curves into the next, forming concentric rings of sand that stretch to a horizon blurred by heat and dust. Overhead, an eclipsed sun hangs in perfect balance — its corona a crown of molten fire, the surrounding sky falling from violet to black through a haze of ember-colored wind.
Every gust across the desert lifts curtains of luminous dust that swirl and rise toward the platform. The particles glow faintly, painting calligraphic trails through the air before dissolving into the gathering night. The Archivist’s robes whip in the wind, becoming script themselves — a language written by gravity and flame. The sphere reflects the eclipse as a refracted storm of light, bending reality around it.
The platform tiles beneath the Archivist’s feet are inlaid with faint silver lines that map forgotten constellations. The air vibrates softly with static and the smell of ozone, as if every atom remembers the stars that birthed it. Heat shimmer ripples along the horizon, melting sky and earth into a single luminous fabric.
Foreground: the Archivist and the glowing sphere; Midground: the vast drop to desert spirals; Background: the dying eclipse bleeding into a cosmic void. Lighting radiates from two sources — the cool halo of the eclipsed corona and the warm, inner blaze of the suns within the sphere — creating a double exposure of gold and indigo. The world feels silent, reverent, on the edge of revelation.
Rendered in the heroic-fantasy oil style of Boris Vallejo, Frank Frazetta, and Ken Kelly; mythic realism, rich atmosphere, dramatic chiaroscuro, glowing dust motes drifting through shadowed air, every surface breathing with light and silence.
--mod cinematic lighting, --mod rim light, --mod volumetric light beams, --mod golden backscatter, --mod glass refraction bloom, --mod cosmic dust motes, --mod desaturated palette core, --mod mythic realism, --mod dynamic composition, --mod central hero lockup
Prompt: sixty years old czech man sits and read at the table with a lot of charters and papers and single table-lamp with cobwebs in background, pale skin, white hairs and white classic beard, small rounded eyeglasses, whire shirt and brown vest, night
Dream Level: is increased each time when you "Go Deeper" into the dream. Each new level is harder to achieve and
takes more iterations than the one before.
Rare Deep Dream: is any dream which went deeper than level 6.
Deep Dream
You cannot go deeper into someone else's dream. You must create your own.
Deep Dream
Currently going deeper is available only for Deep Dreams.
