Prompt: Realistic and painterly blend: soft photographic realism with oil-paint edges, loose brushwork in the dim background, fine ink linework tracing the forms, the light carried by the strokes. Medium-wide composition, full figure, calm and quiet.
A small neighbourhood café at first light, still mostly in cold blue dusk, a raw wooden counter, a warm red brick wall behind her, one low warm beam of the first sun crossing the counter and falling on her alone.
On a tall stool at the counter, seen whole from head to boots, sits eryn, a woman of about twenty-eight: short copper-auburn hair freshly and unevenly cut, one small tuft at the crown growing back in rainbow; pale sapphire eyes with a darker limbal ring and a single catchlight; fair skin, light freckles across the nose and cheeks; a soft, youthful, lived-in face, faint lilac shadows under the eyes, a touch of concealer not quite blended, a little too much rosy blush, a small old pale scar through one eyebrow. A simple ink-navy blouse, sleeves pushed to the forearm, an open camel wool coat she hasn't taken off yet, dark trousers, worn ankle boots, a thin old necklace, a fabric wristband, a bag at her feet. One boot hooked on the rung of the stool.
The barista is a woman, seen only as a canvas apron, a slender forearm with a rolled sleeve and a thin bracelet, and one hand setting a cup of coffee down in front of her, face out of frame.
On the counter beside the cup stands a tiny folded paper figure, the size of her thumb, folded from a white café napkin while she waited: a little witch with a pointed hat and long paper hair. The fingertip of her left hand rests lightly on its hat, absently, keeping it upright. Her right hand closes around the cup. Her head turns slightly to the left, toward the edge of the image, a sideways glance and a small wry private almost-smile, as if toward someone she left at home and is not sure she misses.
Colour lives on her: copper hair, the rainbow tuft, navy blouse, camel coat, the coffee, the sunbeam. Everything else stays muted and blue. A few early customers far behind in soft focus.
A torn paper border frames the image. Quiet, solemn, ordinary, faintly hopeful. No lettering anywhere. Out-of-time and timeless. The first ordinary morning after. By eryn.
Prompt: Realistic and painterly blend: soft photographic realism with oil-paint edges, loose brushwork, fine ink linework tracing the forms, the light carried by the strokes. Wide, still, symmetrical composition, solemn as a vigil, quietly sultry, seen from the doorway.
A lived-in family living room at the very end of the night, blue hour, the tall window just beginning to pale behind thin lace curtains. One small lamp still on from the night, its warm light weak and spent. Beside it a church candle burned down to a stub in a tarnished brass holder, wax pooled and cooled. A worn velvet sofa, a knitted blanket half fallen to the floor, a cold cup of tea, a book face down, a stopped pocket watch, dried roses in a jar, a single black feather on the low table.
On the sofa, half-reclined against the cushions, one arm along the back of the sofa, legs crossed under her skirts, head resting back, eyes closed as if she dozed off waiting, sits the empty shell of a woman. The figure itself is made of paper all the way through, a life-size paper sculpture, not a woman wrapped in paper, not sheets laid over a body: matte old grey paper for skin with visible fibres, the paper's thin edge showing at her fingertips and jaw, soft creases where elbows and knees bend, glued seams. Her face is printed on the paper like an old black-and-white photograph: soft, youthful, freckled, dark lips. Her long silver-white hair is curled strips of paper. She is a gothic witch as she was: an off-shoulder gown whose black lace is delicate cut paper filigree, a cinched corset of folded black paper, lace sleeves of papercut, a paper choker, many paper necklaces and rings, pointed laced boots. Creased, water-stained, old tears mended in places with yellowed tape. The top of her head is torn open like a cracked egg, the torn edges curling outward, and inside it is dark and hollow.
Her ornate dark witch's hat with a tiny closed wooden door on it rests on the arm of the sofa, set down with care. Beside the shell, the cushion still holds the dent of someone who sat there and has left, a few loose paper fibres on the velvet.
The shell is the only figure in the room. Entirely monochrome, black and silver-grey, in cold blue shade, the room around it muted. The only warmth is the tired lamp and the first pale line of dawn across the floorboards.
A torn paper border frames the image. Solemn, tender, still, a wake kept for someone who is not dead. No lettering anywhere. Out-of-time and timeless. What stays behind when she goes. by eryn
Prompt: Hyper-detailed digital illustration on a photorealistic base, fine ink linework tracing every strand of hair, every fibre of torn paper, the lace and every fraying thread, intricate micro-detail, crisp edges with soft painted shadows. The scene fills the sheet edge to edge, only its outer border ripped into jagged torn edges with loose white fibres, laid on black.
The night sky outside the attic window is a sheet of paper, and she is bursting through it. Seen from the side, in mid-air, just past the window, left of centre, wide open white light ahead of her, she rises forward through the narrow white tear, her body angled gently upward, arms reaching ahead into the light, one knee softly bent, the other leg trailing back toward the window, loose and organic, the torn edges of the paper night bursting open around her shoulders. Behind her the dark printed night of rooftops, stars and moon is breaking apart into hundreds of curling paper shards that scatter and tumble in the air, each shard still printed with a fragment of night sky, a star, a roofline, a piece of the moon. Ahead of her, through the opening, nothing but vast pale luminous white light, soft and unknown, pouring back over her.
At the far left edge of the picture, cropped by the edge, the open attic window frame she has just left: a weathered sill, its frayed lace curtain blowing outward, and through it a glimpse of the dark attic floor where her starry midnight blue overcoat lies in a heap.
A grown woman of about thirty with a soft womanly figure, softly rounded arms, shoulders and thighs, soft oval face, gentle rounded features, soft jawline, very bright pale sapphire blue eyes with a darker ring around the iris, glowing like lit glass in the white light, eyes wide open in awe, looking up and ahead into the light, lips parted, a fresh face, clean luminous pale porcelain skin with soft freckles across nose, cheeks and shoulders, faint traces of mascara. Copper hair hacked to a ragged jaw-length crop streaming back, and leading the way, the few short new rainbow hairs above her left ear stream forward ahead of her into the light like bright threads. Washed-out black velvet off-the-shoulder top worn bald in patches, raw edges unravelling into loose threads flying, velvet ribbon choker with a small antique cameo, short layered black lace skirt rippling, frayed hem, sheer black tights worn through in small round holes at the knees, bare feet.
The white light from ahead lights her face and the front of her body; the back of her is still in night blue, paper stars clinging to her shoulders.
Dramatic, alive and unafraid, by eryn
Prompt: Hyper-detailed digital illustration on a photorealistic base, fine ink linework tracing every strand of hair, every fibre of torn paper, the lace and every fraying thread, intricate micro-detail, crisp edges with soft painted shadows. The scene fills the sheet edge to edge, only its outer border ripped into jagged torn edges with loose white fibres, laid on black.
Side view, the camera level with her. The tall attic window is flung wide open, its frayed lace curtain lifting inward on the draught. Outside the window frame the night itself is a sheet of printed paper: a deep blue starry sky with a full moon over a city of steep gothic rooftops and spires with small lit windows. Down the middle it has split in one narrow vertical crack of pure white light, its torn edges just beginning to curl back with loose white fibres, a few tiny flakes of printed night peeling off and drifting in the air. Inside, the attic at four in the morning: peeling floral wallpaper, bare floorboards, a few ash-grey lengths of cut hair, a lamp knocked over glowing rose. The white light from the crack falls in a hard bright blade across the sill and across her face.
She is halfway out, caught in the moment of hesitation: kneeling up on the low windowsill, one knee bent, a bare foot just resting on the outer edge of the sill in the warm light, the other knee still on the inside ledge, her weight not yet decided. One hand grips the window frame; from the other, her long midnight blue overcoat with its faint fleck of tiny stars hangs loose, half slid to the floor, trailing behind her into the dark room. Her face in profile toward the crack, not at us, lips parted on a held breath, wary and drawn at once, the white light catching her cheek, her lashes and the bright blue of one eye. The few short new rainbow hairs above her left ear lift and stream toward the crack like threads of smoke, pulled into the light, while the rest of her hair hangs still.
A grown woman of about thirty with a soft womanly figure, softly rounded arms, shoulders and thighs, soft oval face, gentle rounded features, soft jawline, very bright pale sapphire blue eyes with a darker ring around the iris, glowing like lit glass, pale porcelain skin with real texture, freckles across nose, cheeks and bare shoulders, mascara dried in faint grey streaks. Copper hair hacked to a ragged jaw-length crop, every strand lit gold at the edges, a few short new hairs above her left ear in fresh vivid rainbow. Washed-out black velvet off-the-shoulder top worn bald in patches, raw edges unravelling into loose threads, velvet ribbon choker with a small antique cameo, short layered black lace skirt with frayed hem, sheer black tights worn through in small round holes at the knees.
Lonely, beautiful and leaving, by eryn
Prompt: Hyper-detailed photorealistic night still, camera directly overhead looking straight down, deep focus, razor-sharp micro-detail in every paper fibre, strand of hair, thread and grain of wood. The scene fills the sheet edge to edge, only its outer border ripped into jagged torn edges with loose white fibres, laid on black.
On dark worn attic floorboards, fine silver strands of cut hair drift loose across the planks like threads. Around her, about a dozen old photographs with deckled white edges, of uneven sizes, lie in a loose irregular ring, some overlapping, some askew, corners curling up. About half lie face down, their yellowed backs marked with faint illegible pencil scribbles, dates and an old studio stamp. The others lie face up: faded old photographs, washed-out colour, all the same idealised portrait repeated, her as a pale ethereal maiden with long flowing silver white hair, faint rainbow streaks, a crown of white flowers, flawless. One gap in the ring where a print is missing.
At the centre of the ring she sits cross-legged, compact, shoulders curved over her lap, a small round shape of copper and black. A slender grown woman of about thirty, the first faint laugh lines at the corners of her eyes, soft oval face, gentle rounded features, soft jawline, very bright pale sapphire blue eyes with a darker ring around the iris, bright glass lit from within, a catchlight in each, pale porcelain skin, freckles across nose, cheeks and shoulders, skin with real texture. Head bowed, eyes lowered to the torn photograph in her hands, the blue catching the light under her lashes. Her hair is hacked to a ragged jaw-length crop, plain natural copper, a few short new hairs growing from her scalp above her left ear in fresh vivid rainbow. Mascara dried in faint grey streaks, lipstick worn away, lips softly parted, face unguarded, tired, honest, the smallest beginning of a smile. Washed-out black velvet off-the-shoulder top slipped low across her chest, a soft feminine curve and shadowed cleavage at the neckline, the velvet worn thin in patches, raw edges unravelling, black velvet ribbon choker with a small antique cameo, sheer black tights with pulled snags and a small hole at one knee. In her lap, in both hands, she holds the missing print: the last photograph, torn halfway through.
Light. One unshaded bulb just above the camera pours a warm golden circle exactly over her, setting her copper hair and freckled skin glowing gold, warm dust motes drifting in the light. The pale prints fall away into cold blue moonlight and shadow toward the edges of the floor.
Intricate, precious, fragile, raw and honest, by eryn
Prompt: Hyper-detailed photorealistic night still, deep focus, razor-sharp micro-detail in every fabric, thread and strand, camera at eye level beside her, three-quarter view. The whole attic scene is printed on one torn photograph lying flat on a wide black ground, its edges ripped jagged with loose white fibres. She breaks out of it: her raised arm reaches past the top right torn edge, the flung hank spilling onto the black beyond the paper, and the toe of her right boot crosses the right edge, both casting soft shadows.
A slender grown woman of about thirty, narrow sloping shoulders, slim arms, sitting on the bare floorboards, leaning back on one hand, the near knee drawn up close to her chest, the other leg stretched out along the boards. She wears exactly two scuffed black knee-high boots, one on each foot. Soft oval face, gentle rounded features, soft jawline, very bright pale sapphire blue eyes with a darker ring around the iris, bright glass lit from within, a catchlight in each, pale porcelain skin, freckles across nose and cheeks. Mascara dried in grey streaks, dark plum lipstick, chin lifted, a small closed-lip smirk lifting one corner of her mouth, looking straight at you over her raised knee, cold and level, half fury half relief.
The dress: a fitted black velvet top with long sleeves, slipped off one shoulder, a deep softly ruched sweetheart neckline edged with a fine dark trim; a short skirt of layered black lace, an open cobweb-like lace overlay with uneven scalloped edges, every lace motif sharp, frayed loose threads at the hem; black velvet ribbon choker with a small antique cameo; sheer black tights worn through in small round holes at both knees and one thigh, the frayed mesh curling at each edge, pale freckled skin showing through, a few pulled snags. Chipped black nail polish.
Her copper auburn hair is already hacked to a ragged jaw-length crop, plain natural copper, a few short new hairs growing from her scalp above her left ear in fresh vivid rainbow. Her raised fist flings the last long hank out of the picture, fading to washed-out rainbow, the scissors dropped beside her.
A few long cut lengths lie scattered across the bare boards, losing their colour as they lie: the freshest beside her still faintly rainbow, fading along each strand, the rest drained to ash grey.
Light. A small lamp knocked over on the floor, a dusty rose silk scarf slid off its shade, throws low warm rosy light across her face, hands and the scattered hair; cold blue moonlight through a frayed lace curtain.
The room. A shabby attic, peeling floral wallpaper, dead roses on the windowsill, her starry overcoat over a sagging velvet sofa.
Lonely, beautiful and defiant, by eryn
Prompt: Hyper-detailed photorealistic night still, deep focus, razor-sharp micro-detail in every fabric, thread and strand, eye-level camera. The scene fills the whole sheet edge to edge, only the outermost border of the paper ripped into jagged torn edges with small bites missing and loose white fibres, laid on black.
A slight, fine-boned, youthful woman of about thirty, narrow sloping shoulders, thin arms and delicate wrists, a soft curve showing where the velvet has slipped low, kneeling on bare floorboards. Small soft oval face, delicate, gentle rounded features, small chin, soft jawline, very bright pale sapphire blue eyes with a darker ring around the iris, pale porcelain skin, freckles across nose and cheeks. Old mascara dried in grey streaks on her cheeks, dark plum lipstick, chin lifted, lips parted on a hard breath, brows low, her bright sapphire eyes level with yours, blazing, half fury half relief, as if the hair had been choking her. Fitted black velvet top slipped off both shoulders and low across her chest, collarbones and upper back uncovered, its pile worn bald in patches, raw edges unravelling into loose threads, black velvet ribbon choker with a small antique cameo, short black lace skirt over a dusty plum lining, every lace motif sharp, fraying at the hem, sheer black thigh-high stockings, fine mesh weave visible, wide intricate lace tops, a band of pale thigh between stocking and hem, one boot kicked off. Chipped black nail polish.
Her copper auburn hair is already hacked to a ragged jaw-length crop, plain natural copper. She holds the last long hank up at arm's length in one fist, just cut free, copper fading to a tired washed-out rainbow, its severed ends dangling, the scissors open in her other hand.
The hair. A few long cut lengths lie scattered across mostly bare worn floorboards, losing their colour as they lie: the freshest beside her still faintly rainbow, red orange yellow green blue violet fading along each strand, the ones further out drained to pale ash grey.
Above her left ear a single short tuft has already grown back, finger-length, soft and fine as new growth, standing up from the plain copper crop in fresh vivid rainbow, the brightest colour in the room. She has not seen it. As always it will.
Behind her an empty cracked gilt frame leans against the wall, holding only peeling wallpaper.
Light. A small lamp knocked over on the floor, a dusty rose silk scarf slid off its shade, throws low warm rosy light across her face, hands and the scattered hair; cold blue moonlight through a frayed lace curtain.
The room. A shabby attic room, peeling floral wallpaper with water stains, dead roses in a glass jar on the windowsill, her starry midnight blue overcoat over a sagging velvet sofa.
Lonely, beautiful and defiant, by eryn
Prompt: Cinematic night film still, photorealistic, 35mm, low available light, natural film grain, shallow depth of field, real skin and real hair, deep in the small hours. The scene fills the whole sheet edge to edge, only the outermost border of the paper ripped into jagged torn edges with small bites missing and loose white fibres, slightly crumpled, laid on black.
A slender woman of about thirty, narrow shoulders and slim arms, kneeling on bare floorboards, cutting off her own long hair. Soft oval face with gentle rounded features and a soft jawline, very bright pale sapphire blue eyes with a darker ring around the iris, wet and red-rimmed, pale porcelain skin, freckles across nose and cheeks. Mascara run in grey streaks down her cheeks, dark plum lipstick, mouth pressed shut hard, jaw clenched, tears falling, brows drawn together, eyes fixed on the hair in her fist. Washed-out black velvet off-the-shoulder top, black velvet ribbon choker with a small antique cameo, short black lace skirt, sheer black tights laddered at the knee, one boot kicked off. Clean pale skin with only freckles, chipped black nail polish.
Her copper auburn hair is already hacked to a ragged jaw-length crop, plain natural copper. One fist drags the last long rainbow hank out to the side, pulled taut, the scissors closing on it at her shoulder.
The hair. The floor is drowned in it: long hair heaped in deep drifts around her knees, spilling across the boards to the walls, coiled over a kicked boot and the fallen lamp. It loses its colour as it lies: the freshest lengths beside her still faintly rainbow, red orange yellow green blue violet fading along each strand, the drifts further out drained to pale ash grey, like hair left out for a hundred winters.
One pinch at her left temple has already grown back, long past her collarbone, in fresh vivid rainbow bands, brightest at the root, the brightest colour in the room. She has not seen it. As always it will.
Behind her an empty cracked gilt frame leans against the wall, holding only peeling wallpaper.
Light. A small lamp knocked over on the floor, a dusty rose silk scarf half slid off its shade, throws low warm rosy light across her face, hands and the drifts of hair; cold blue moonlight through a frayed lace curtain. Dim, heavy shadows, every strand readable.
The room. A shabby attic room, peeling floral wallpaper with water stains, dead roses in a glass jar on the windowsill, her midnight blue overcoat with a faint fleck of tiny stars over a sagging velvet sofa.
Lonely, beautiful and wrecked, by eryn
Prompt: Hyper-detailed photorealistic night portrait printed on a single photograph, then torn into six tall vertical strips, the strips laid on a wide black ground and spread apart unevenly, the gaps between them irregular, some narrow, some wide, each strip slid visibly up or down, misaligned, a little rotated, so the picture no longer meets itself. Every torn edge jagged with loose white fibres, the paper thin enough that light shows through it.
The tears cut through her body. The widest gap runs straight through her chest where her heart would be. Behind the strips a warm amber-rose light glows through every gap, brightest in that one, as if the light were coming from inside her, pulsing out between the pieces.
Across the strips, a slender grown woman of about thirty, the first faint laugh lines at the corners of her eyes, half-length, sitting on bare attic floorboards, knees drawn up, arms loosely around them, her body divided by the gaps and displaced strip by strip. Only her face is spared, whole on one strip: soft oval face, gentle rounded features, soft jawline, very bright pale sapphire blue eyes with a darker ring around the iris, bright glass lit from within, a catchlight in each, pale porcelain skin, freckles across nose and cheeks, mascara dried in grey streaks, dark plum lipstick, lips softly closed. She looks straight at you, calm, tired, utterly unguarded, the stillness of someone past crying, beautiful in it.
Ragged jaw-length copper hair, plain natural copper, a few short new hairs growing from her scalp above her left ear in fresh vivid rainbow. Washed-out black velvet off-the-shoulder top worn bald in patches, raw edges unravelling, black velvet ribbon choker with a small antique cameo, sheer black tights with pulled snags.
Inside the photograph: dim blue moonlight through a frayed lace curtain, peeling floral wallpaper, a few drained ash-grey lengths of hair on the floor. Cold and quiet, every texture readable.
The only warmth anywhere is the light breaking through the tears.
Torn, open and still beating, by eryn
Prompt: Wide full length view, the woman seen whole from her hair to her boots, the engine and all three screens in frame, both legs visible and distinct, one boot braced up on the engine's brass rail, the other planted on the floor. A neo steampunk beautiful ethereal woman is at a futuristic engine in a massive victorian style room. The contrast between eras is strengthened by a clash of colours and drawing styles, but they resonate in harmony. She is in a place outside of time. Many vivid colours around the woman and the machine, the room dissolving at its edges into warm shadow. In the background, by a large window of leaded panes, a cosmic canvas of stars and galaxies suggests a steampunk spaceship from a period where no space ship should have existed, nebulae in rose and teal, cold starlight rimming her shoulder. The engine is a masterpiece of dark wood and tarnished brass, riveted panels, gauges with trembling needles, valves glowing amber in glass, cloth-sleeved cables braided to a keyboard of round brass typewriter keys worn bright by her fingers. The engine carries three screens, a great central display and two smaller on articulated brass arms angled toward her. The only letters anywhere in the room are DDG on the central screen and gourmandise on the nearest cup, no other writing, no labels, no signs. On the central screen, a website on a dark charcoal page, a slim navigation bar across its top with the glowing letters DDG at the left beside a small dreaming logo, below the bar a masonry feed of her own dreams, small pictures of varied heights in loose columns like a gallery wall, each a different strange and beautiful artwork, a tiny heart beneath each. On the left screen, a drifting starfield screensaver. On the right screen, a short column of climbing heart counts, few of them, small. By the engine, on its brass ledge, a crowd of abandoned takeaway coffee cups, dried rings at their bases, one tipped, and on the nearest, large and handwritten in careless café marker script, the single word gourmandise. The layered glow of the screens on her face. A few small glowing hearts drift free of the screens, rising the way notes rise from an instrument, five or six, fading within a breath, one drifting just past her parted lips, no music notes anywhere, only hearts. She wears the evening clothes of six hours ago dismantled for work, a black silk bodice with its high collar unhooked and folded open, the lace jabot pulled loose, a jet brocade waistcoat worn open, sleeves shoved above the elbow held by leather bracers, black lace fingerless mitts, bare fingertips on the worn keys, her skirt knotted up at one hip, dark stockings, the velvet ribbon at her throat loosened, not undone for anyone, only for the work. In her muted chestnut-auburn hair, many many braids with thin rainbow strands woven through, victorian headphones that could be mistaken for jewelery. Her eyes wide open, bright blue and shining, luminous with the screens' glow, dark limbal ring, the feed reflected in them, avid, lips parted in a smile that is not finished, the face of someone being seen and wanting more of it, faint colour at her cheeks, a fingertip pressing the same worn key, refreshing. She enjoys herself very much, but has forgotten, tonight, that the games were once for escaping. Fair warm freckled skin, unretouched, visible pores, warm screen light against the cold window, her leaning toward the warm. 8k, cinematic, dynamic lighting, award winning, by eryn.
Prompt: Realistic and cartoon drawing blend. Moody, ethereal. Very intricate lines and details. Masterful composition, the only audience she ever authorized. The strokes are the life of the picture and the lights come from them. Ce soir, personne ne regarde, et personne, c'est elle. Night in the warm room off the glassworks conservatory: deep crimson dark, a brazier of embers glowing low, and mounted on the conservatory's iron frame, her glassworks' sign: LUX VERRERIE, most letters dead and dark, only LU X V RR still burning dark violet, the dead glass letters faintly there between the lit ones, the name legible only as a ruin, its reversed ghost burning in the mirror. She stands before the tall old mirror, seen from behind and a little to the side: the whole line of her back open to the ember light, to its base, a fine sheen of warmth on her nape, her knitted shawl slipped to the very top of her hips, held by nothing but the angle of one hand, her thin victorian nightgown of pale gauze already lying over the chair beside her. Nothing is happening; everything already did, behind her own door, on her own time. Her other hand has risen into her tangled hair, fingers pushed into the curls at her nape, her head tilting slightly into her own touch, absent, luxurious, hers. The mirror is old, tall, its silvering failing in tides: clear where her face and throat and shoulders stand, then a broad band of foxing blooming across the glass at her heart's height, veiling without erasing, the mirror keeping that for her, then clearing again at her midriff, then the blooms gathering once more over her hips, and below them, where the silvering steadies, her legs to the ankle. And in its clearest reach, her face: her eyes locked on her own eyes in the glass, not toward us, never toward us, a closed circuit we are outside of, and the look is a little conversation with herself: recognition, then amusement, the flush rising high in her cheeks, the smile of oh, hello you, arriving at oh, fair enough, the verdict kind and a little smug and entirely private. A woman in her end twenties early thirties, French: auburn dark-strawberry hair tangled down her back, ends white and rainbow catching the ember light; fair warm pink-toned skin, freckles across her shoulders; smallish, youthful, cute rather than striking, otherworldly blue eyes, a soft delicate lived-in face; a tiny drawn mark under one eye; necklaces still on, rings, fabric wristband. Colours few and exact, crimson dark, ember gold, violet neon and its ghost, her rainbow ends, the flush of her face. No letters anywhere but the dying sign. Out-of-time and timeless. Private, warm, sovereign: this hour is for herself alone, and the mirror is the only one who saw. Masterpiece, by eryn.
Prompt: Realistic, photographic, mythic. Vast, silent, exact, every light riding the edges of the void. Vertical composition, portrait ratio, her floating high in the frame, body inclined on a rising diagonal, boots lower left, helmet upper right, the gothic station well below her, the Earth a curved blue limb at the base, honest black between the tiers. A French woman in her late twenties seen through her helmet glass. Directly behind her helmet the sun, huge, an aureole around her head, rays breaking past the dome, the light she believes she made worn as a halo. She does not look at it. Serene, certain, a gentle oval face, soft jaw, full lips softly closed, chin lifted a degree past serene, eyes forward and upward on nothing yet. Fair warm freckled skin, unretouched. Pale blue-grey eyes, glacial, darker limbal ring, one amber catchlight, never luminous, thin washed teal traces at the outer corners. Chestnut-auburn hair drifting in the helmet, her rainbow braid streaming through a wax sealed brass grommet port in the helmet ring, the one polychrome thing she owns. A spacesuit by a Victorian tailor who refused to compromise with vacuum. The helmet dome seated on a tarnished brass collar flange, rising from the same flange a crystal gorget, one continuous sealed assembly, no gap, the gorget a smooth curved crystal pane set into the suit front, following her neckline down to the sternum, an open panel glazed in pale lightly frosted crystal, a long specular gleam across it, unmistakably glass, fine cream tulle beneath, the curve of her figure softly shadowed yet readable through the pane, amber light pooling there, sealed away. A narrow crystal seam down the outer thigh, hip to boot top, thin as a ribbon, glazed, frosted, gleaming, skin softly shadowed beneath the glass. Slim leather straps with brass buckles cinching the waist and crossing the hips, one circling the upper thigh where the seam begins. Suit fabrics aged cream and bone, straps brown, brass tarnished dark, never gold cloth, never gilt armor, the only gold a thin glow in stitched seams and the amber light at her skin. Embossed scrollwork bodice shaped to a full feminine figure, quilted pressure fabric, cracked leather gloves, gold thread oversewn on seams needing no reinforcement, small glass vitrines in the forearm plating, tiny clockwork inside. A red wax seal on the chest, ribbons beneath, cream lace escaping at collar, cuffs and boot tops. A chatelaine at her hip, keys, compass, tiny hourglass, the antique pocket watch drifting from one glove, face pale, unlit. Below, the station, a cathedral that left the ground, a long dark hull, a steep gothic gable bearing a round clock face glowing faint, clustered spires behind, one openwork spire highest, a glazed iron annex on the flank, iron buttresses, carved stone gargoyles crouched among them. On the hull one word only, 0RGUEIL, stenciled huge in scoured paint, the first O a zero. Beneath it the Earth, blue, cloud marbled, refusing to be owned. Hard airless sunlight, knife edge shadows, crushed blacks, sharp stars, slight overexposure at lit edges. Shallow depth, only she in focus. Film grain. She climbed past her own church. The light was free the whole way up. l'orgueil, by eryn.
Prompt: Realistic, photographic, mythic. Vast, silent, exact, every light riding the edges of the void. Vertical composition, portrait ratio, her floating high in the frame, body inclined on a rising diagonal, boots lower left, helmet upper right, the gothic station well below her, the Earth a curved blue limb at the base, honest black between the tiers. A French woman in her late twenties seen through her helmet glass. Directly behind her helmet the sun, huge, an aureole around her head, rays breaking past the dome, the light she believes she made worn as a halo. She does not look at it. Serene, certain, a gentle oval face, soft jaw, full lips softly closed, chin lifted a degree past serene, eyes forward and upward on nothing yet. Fair warm freckled skin, unretouched. Pale blue-grey eyes, glacial, darker limbal ring, one amber catchlight, never luminous, thin washed teal traces at the outer corners. Chestnut-auburn hair drifting in the helmet, her rainbow braid streaming through a wax sealed brass grommet port in the helmet ring, the one polychrome thing she owns. A spacesuit by a Victorian tailor who refused to compromise with vacuum, the suit catching the full sun, bright sunlit ivory and warm white, luminous against the black. The helmet dome seated on a tarnished brass collar flange, rising from the same flange a crystal gorget, one continuous sealed assembly, no gap, the gorget a smooth curved crystal pane set into the suit front, following her neckline down to the sternum, an open panel glazed in pale lightly frosted crystal, a long specular gleam across it, unmistakably glass, fine cream tulle beneath, the curve of her figure softly shadowed yet readable through the pane, amber light pooling there, sealed away. On the outer thigh a second glazed panel, matching the gorget, a long narrow window of the same pale frosted crystal let into the suit from hip to boot top, brass framed, the same specular gleam, skin softly shadowed yet readable beneath the glass. Slim leather straps with brass buckles cinching the waist and crossing the hips, one circling the upper thigh just above the glazed window. Suit fabrics sunlit ivory and bone, straps brown, brass tarnished dark, never gold cloth, never gilt armor, the only gold a thin glow in stitched seams and the amber light at her skin. Embossed scrollwork bodice shaped to a full feminine figure, quilted pressure fabric, cracked leather gloves, gold thread oversewn on seams needing no reinforcement, small glass vitrines in the forearm plating, tiny clockwork inside. A red wax seal on the chest, ribbons beneath, cream lace escaping at collar, cuffs and boot tops. A chatelaine at her hip, keys, compass, tiny hourglass, the antique pocket watch drifting from one glove, face pale, unlit. Below, the station, a cathedral that left the ground, a long dark hull, a steep gothic gable bearing a round clock face glowing faint, clustered spires behind, one openwork spire highest, a glazed iron annex on the flank, iron buttresses, carved stone gargoyles crouched among them. On the hull one word only, 0RGUEIL, stenciled huge in scoured paint, the first O a zero. Beneath it the Earth, blue, cloud marbled, refusing to be owned. Hard airless sunlight, knife edge shadows, crushed blacks, sharp stars, slight overexposure at lit edges. Shallow depth, only she in focus. Film grain. She climbed past her own church. The light was free the whole way up. l'orgueil, by eryn.
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.
Prompt: Realistic and cartoon drawing blend. Moody, ethereal. Very intricate lines and details. Masterful composition, the gentlest harvest. The strokes are the life of the picture and the lights come from them. Avant que le soleil ne les boive.
First light in the meadow below the old southern stone house: the sky pale gold at the hill's rim, the sun not yet risen, everything grey-green and drenched. The night's dreams have left their residue: the dew this morning carries colour. Every droplet strung on the tall grass and along one great spiderweb between two fennel stalks is faintly prismatic, and inside each droplet, small and bent, a tiny picture floats: a spire in one, a wing in another, a fragment of somebody's night caught in curved water. When the sun crests the hill it will drink them all. She is out early to save what she can.
A woman in her end twenties early thirties, French, barefoot in the soaked grass: auburn / dark-strawberry hair (muted, not flame-bright) sleep-mussed and loose, ends white and rainbow, remnants of eons gone (for now); fair, warm pink-toned skin with light freckling across the nose and cheeks, cheeks cool with morning; smallish, youthful, cute rather than striking, a soft, present, delicate lived-in face still half in sleep; ice blue eyes, teal and blue liner faded from yesterday, a discrete touch of sparkles; a tiny drawn mark under one eye, soft and imperfect; necklaces, rings and fabric wristband. She wears her thin victorian nightgown of pale gauze with a knitted shawl thrown over her shoulders against the chill, the hem soaked dark to the knee, bare arms and calves wet with grass. The ornate dark hat sits on the low garden wall behind her, its tiny wooden door closed, off duty until breakfast.
She works with a glass dropper and a small vial, bent close to the spiderweb, catching one coloured droplet at a time with the concentration of a jeweler: the vial already holds a finger's depth of gathered dew in soft layered colours. One droplet hangs mid-fall between web and dropper. A snail commutes along the wall unbothered. The first birds are starting. At the hill's rim the light sharpens: minutes left.
Dawn palette, grey-green and gold, the prismatic droplets and the vial carrying all the colour. Out-of-time and timeless. Hushed, patient, quietly urgent: what the night spills, the morning may keep, if someone is up early enough. Masterpiece, by eryn.
Prompt: Realistic and cartoon drawing blend. Moody, ethereal. Very intricate lines and details. Masterful composition, astronomy the wrong way up. The strokes are the life of the picture and the lights come from them. Elle dresse la carte du ciel d'en bas.
Deep night inside a small brass and oak observatory on the hill above the old southern stone house: a copper dome ribbed like a beetle's wing, its long slit open, but tilted low, aimed down the hillside instead of at the sky. Through the slit, far below, the sleeping valley: dark farms and one small town, and above their roofs dozens of tiny dream-bubbles glowing in many colours, scattered across the darkness exactly like a night sky fallen to earth. High above, through the top of the slit, the real stars look faintly put out at the competition, and the red-tinged moon keeps her usual distance.
The great telescope, a magnificent Victorian instrument of brass, mahogany and gears, is angled steeply downward, trained on the valley. At its eyepiece, on a wheeled wooden ladder, the astronomer of dreams is at work: a woman in her end twenties early thirties, French, in her gothic steampunk victorian timelady witch's working clothes, sleeves rolled, the ornate dark hat with the tiny closed wooden door pushed back on her head. Auburn / dark-strawberry hair (muted, not flame-bright), disheveled, ends white and rainbow, remnants of eons gone (for now); fair, warm pink-toned skin with light freckling across the nose and cheeks; smallish, youthful, cute rather than striking, a soft, present, delicate lived-in face; ice blue eyes, teal and blue liner, a discrete touch of sparkles; a tiny drawn mark under one eye, soft and imperfect; necklaces, rings and fabric wristband. One eye to the eyepiece, one hand reaching without looking to note something on the chart table beside her, utterly absorbed, the small smile of someone who has just found a new one.
On the chart table, lit by a low green-shaded lamp: star-charts that are not star-charts, hand-drawn maps of the valley by night, each dream-bubble inked as a little star with a name and a colour beside it, constellations drawn between the sleeping houses in fine lines, La Dormeuse, Le Boulanger, Les Jumelles, half-legible in small handwriting. Brass instruments, a cold cup of tea, one glowing artefact from ages gone or yet to come serving as a paperweight.
Warm brass and lamp light inside, the valley's dream-stars and the charts carrying the colour. Out-of-time and timeless. Studious, tender, quietly grand: somebody has to keep the catalogue of the sky below. Masterpiece, by eryn.
Prompt: Realistic and cartoon drawing blend. Moody, ethereal. Very intricate lines and details. Masterful composition, wonder in seed trays. The strokes are the life of the picture and the lights come from them. Semées à la main.
Bright mid-morning inside a small Victorian glasshouse against the wall of the old southern stone house: white iron ribs and old glass, sun pouring through, vines shading one corner, the hills hazy beyond the panes. On the wooden benches, in rows of terracotta pots, dreams are being grown from seed: tiny dream-bubbles budding on slender green stems, soap-thin and iridescent, each no bigger than a grape, opening from small green calyxes like impossible flowers. They are sorted in rows by colour, each row with a hand-written label on a wooden stake, the writing too small to read. On a shelf, cuttings root in glass vials of tinted water. Up under the roof ribs climbs one grand old dream-vine, woody and patient, hung with a few big mature bubbles glowing softly among its leaves, ready for the night's deliveries. A copper misting can stands by, its water faintly rainbowed.
At the potting bench she is at work, repotting a seedling dream with soil-dusted fingers, easing the root ball free with the tenderness of long practice, the tiny bubble on its stem trembling but holding: a woman in her end twenties early thirties, French; auburn / dark-strawberry hair (muted, not flame-bright) pinned up messily with strands escaping, ends white and rainbow, remnants of eons gone (for now); fair, warm pink-toned skin with light freckling, a smudge of dark earth on one cheekbone; smallish, youthful, cute rather than striking, a soft, present, delicate lived-in face, absorbed and content; ice blue eyes, teal and blue liner, a discrete touch of sparkles; a tiny drawn mark under one eye, soft and imperfect; necklaces, rings and fabric wristband. She wears summer work clothes: a linen apron over a thin camisole, sleeves nonexistent, bare shoulders and arms warm in the glasshouse light, a long light skirt, bare feet on the warm brick floor. The ornate dark hat hangs on a nail by the door, its tiny wooden door closed, supervising loosely.
Through the sun-hazed glass behind her, out in the vegetable garden, a slim, thin figure with short cropped bright red hair waters the tomatoes, soft-focus through the old panes, face never visible: two gardens, one morning. A butterfly has gotten inside and is torn between the seedlings. Dust and pollen drift gold in the light.
Bright glasshouse palette, sun through glass, the seedling bubbles, the vine's ripe dreams and the rainbowed mist carrying the colour. Out-of-time and timeless. Industrious, tender, quietly miraculous: wonders start small, and somebody waters them. Masterpiece, by eryn.
Prompt: Realistic and cartoon drawing blend. Moody, ethereal. Very intricate lines and details. Masterful composition, a waltz for one and the house. The strokes are the life of the picture and the lights come from them. Elle n'a jamais cessé de danser.
Deep night in the big kitchen of the old southern stone house, everything asleep except her: thick pale walls, the long scrubbed wooden table pushed a little aside, copper pans catching stray light, one lantern lit low on the sill, ivy at the dark window, the hills outside barely there. On the shelves near the glass door the glass and metal artefacts from ages gone or yet to come are glowing from within, many colours, and tonight they are pulsing very softly, gently brightening and dimming in a shared slow rhythm, like a house humming under its breath. There is no music. There does not need to be.
She is dancing, alone, barefoot on the cool stone floor, mid-turn: a woman in her end twenties early thirties, French; auburn / dark-strawberry hair (muted, not flame-bright) loose and lifted by the turn, ends white and rainbow, remnants of eons gone (for now); fair, warm pink-toned skin with light freckling across the nose and cheeks; smallish, youthful, cute rather than striking, a soft, present, delicate lived-in face; ice blue eyes half-closed, lashes low, teal and blue liner, a discrete touch of sparkles; a tiny drawn mark under one eye, soft and imperfect; necklaces, rings and fabric wristband. She wears a thin victorian nightgown of pale gauze under an open gothic steampunk waistcoat left unlaced, delicate and a little mismatched, the way one dresses for nobody; the gauze and her hair still carry the turn she has just made, drifting a half-beat behind her. One hand is raised holding the hand of no one, the other rests lightly on an absent shoulder: the frame of a waltz, kept perfectly, danced with the empty air. The ornate dark hat watches from the table, its tiny wooden door closed.
Her expression is the secret one people wear when they are certain they are unobserved: soft, faraway, a small private smile with an old ache folded inside it, remembering a rhythm rather than inventing one. Where her bare feet have touched the stone, faint traces of colour bloom and fade, a step behind her, like the floor keeping the memory of each step just long enough.
Warm night palette, the lantern, the pulsing artefacts and the fading footprints carrying all the colour. Out-of-time and timeless. Intimate, unwatched, unbroken: she has never once stopped dancing, and the house keeps time. Masterpiece, by eryn.
Prompt: Realistic and cartoon drawing blend. Moody, ethereal. Very intricate lines and details. Masterful composition, laundry-day tenderness. The strokes are the life of the picture and the lights come from them. Grand lavage.
Bright windy morning behind the old southern stone house: a walled drying-garden, sun and fast clouds, thistles and rosemary at the wall's foot, and two long washing-lines strung between an olive tree and an iron hook in the stone. Pegged to the lines, drying in the wind, are dreams: a dozen of them, hung like sheer laundry, each one a thin translucent panel of dream-stuff, a spire, a garden, a coastline, a staircase of clouds, luminous and rippling in the gusts. The freshly washed ones nearest the house are pale, their colours faint and waterlogged, still dripping thin rainbow drops into the grass; further down the line, the ones that have hung longest in the sun have their colours back, vivid and dry, snapping cheerfully in the wind. Under the lines, the drips have made a crooked little path of colour in the green grass.
The steampunk victorian gothic timelordy witch is at work along the line, and she is a woman in her end twenties early thirties, French: auburn / dark-strawberry hair (muted, not flame-bright), disheveled by the wind, ends white and rainbow, remnants of eons gone (for now); fair, warm pink-toned skin with light freckling across the nose and cheeks; smallish, youthful, cute rather than striking, a soft, present, delicate lived-in face; ice bright blue eyes, teal and blue liner, a discrete touch of sparkles; a tiny drawn mark under one eye, soft and imperfect; necklaces, rings and fabric wristband. Sleeves rolled, the ornate dark hat with the tiny closed wooden door pushed back on her head, a single wooden peg held in her teeth, she wrestles one large unruly dream flat against the wind with both hands, her coat flapping. A wicker basket at her feet holds more dreams, damp and folded, waiting their turn. Her expression, around the peg, is the busy contentment of someone doing ordinary chores with extraordinary washing.
At the garden gate, seen from behind, a slim, thin woman with short cropped bright red hair carries out a second basket, helping, her face never visible, sun on her bare shoulders.
High summer light, wind you can see, the dreams and the drip-path carrying all the colour. Out-of-time and timeless. Domestic, funny, quietly lovely: even wonders need airing. Masterpiece, by eryn.
Prompt: Realistic and cartoon drawing blend. Moody, ethereal. Very intricate lines and details. Masterful composition, tender irony. The strokes are the life of the picture and the lights come from them. Combien vaut une nuit? - what's a night worth?
A closed fairground at blue hour, at the edge of the dream world - empty booths, furled awnings, everything asleep except one machine, lit. A tall Victorian automaton of brass, copper and glass, gothic and slightly time-lordy: 'LA MACHINE À AIMER' on its marquee in warm bulb-letters, several bulbs out. Its glass belly is full of thousands of tiny paper hearts, red and pink, pretty as candy. A polished brass slot in its front is shaped exactly to fit a dream-bottle; beside it, an engraved exchange plate, the rates half-worn, illegible where it matters. From its dispensing tray, a thin trail of paper hearts has spilled to the ground, and the hearts on the ground are fading: the freshest still red, the older ones pink, the oldest gone grey and papery as ash, curling at the edges. The machine hums, patient, warm-lit, wanting to be fed.
Before it stands a fleshy woman in her end twenties early thirties, French, in her gothic steampunk victorian timelady witch's travelling coat, the ornate dark hat with the tiny closed wooden door. Auburn / dark-strawberry hair (muted, not flame-bright), disheveled, ends white and rainbow, remnants of eons gone (for now). Fair, warm pink-toned skin, light freckling; smallish, youthful, cute rather than striking, a soft, present, delicate lived-in face. Ice blue eyes, teal and blue liner, discrete sparkles; a tiny drawn mark under one eye, soft and imperfect. Necklaces, rings and fabric wristband. Skin, shoulders, arms and legs soflty lit.
In both hands, held close to her chest, a corked glass bottle glowing with the gathered colours of a whole dream, the only true colour in the frame beside the machine's paper hearts. She is reading the worn exchange plate with a small, unconvinced tilt of the head, one eyebrow slightly up; doing the arithmetic, and not liking the rate. Whether she feeds it the dream or keeps it is unknown.
Blue-hour palette, the machine's bulbs and the bottled dream carrying all the warmth. Out-of-time and timeless. Wry, tender, quietly defiant. Hidden melancholy, held bottle. Masterpiece, by eryn.
Prompt: Realistic and cartoon drawing blend. Moody, ethereal. Very intricate lines and details. Masterful composition, tender irony. The strokes are the life of the picture and the lights come from them. Combien vaut une nuit? What's a night worth?
A closed fairground at blue hour, at the edge of the dream world: empty booths, furled awnings, everything asleep except one machine, lit. A tall Victorian automaton of brass, copper and glass, gothic and slightly time-lordy, 'LA MACHINE À AIMER' on its marquee in warm bulb-letters, several bulbs out. Its glass belly is full of thousands of tiny paper hearts, red and pink, pretty as candy. A polished brass slot in its front is shaped exactly to fit a dream-bottle; beside it, an engraved exchange plate, the rates half-worn, illegible where it matters. From its dispensing tray, a thin trail of paper hearts has spilled to the ground, and the hearts on the ground are fading: the freshest still red, the older ones pink, the oldest gone grey and papery as ash, curling at the edges. The machine hums, patient, warm-lit, wanting to be fed.
Before it stands a fit and fleshy woman in her end twenties early thirties, French, in her short-sleeved gothic steampunk victorian timelady witch's travelling coat, the ornate dark hat with the tiny closed wooden door. Auburn / dark-strawberry hair (muted, not flame-bright), disheveled, ends white and rainbow, remnants of eons gone (for now). Fair, warm pink-toned skin, light freckling; smallish, youthful, cute rather than striking, a soft, present, delicate lived-in face. Ice blue eyes, teal and blue liner, discrete sparkles; a tiny drawn mark under one eye, soft and imperfect. Necklaces, rings and fabric wristband. Skin, shoulders, arms and legs softly lit.
In both hands, held close to her chest, a corked glass bottle glowing with the gathered colours of a whole dream, the only true colour in the frame beside the machine's paper hearts. She reads the worn exchange plate carefully, taking her time. Her expression is wary and reserved, quietly measuring: not convinced, but not hostile either. Hers is the guarded face of someone listening to a very good salesman and keeping her own counsel; a slight tilt of the head, eyes doing the arithmetic while her face gives nothing away. Whether she feeds it the dream or keeps it is unknown.
Blue-hour palette, the machine's bulbs and the bottled dream carrying all the warmth. Out-of-time and timeless. Wry, tender, quietly defiant. Hidden melancholy, held bottle, guarded eyes. Masterpiece, by eryn.
Prompt: Realistic and cartoon drawing blend. Moody, ethereal. Very intricate lines and details. Masterful composition - a seascape first, and only then, for the patient eye, a presence. The strokes are the life of the picture and the lights come from them. Pressentie - sensed before seen.
A dark storm-swell at night, waves and foam-threads in full turmoil, whitecaps streaming, spray curling - a pure seascape, no figure drawn anywhere. And yet: in the way the currents happen to fall, a suggestion. The crests and foam-lines of the central swell align - almost by accident - into what could be the features of a woman's face, the way faces appear in clouds: two darker hollows where the sea parts that might be eyes, a curve of breaking foam that might be a cheekbone, a soft line of spray that might be lips. Nothing is outlined; nothing is explicit; no skin, no drawn face - only wave-forms whose gathered light hints at her. Half the viewers would see only a magnificent storm. The other half would never unsee her. Where her hair would be, the foam simply streams longer, carrying the faintest white-and-rainbow shimmer off into the dark. Deep in the swell, at the place a heart would be, one warm glow low in the water - light the sea seems to be keeping, without explanation.
Near dark night tempest palette, all light from thread-edges, foam-crests, and the one kept glow. Out-of-time and timeless. The sea, considering her. Not yet, and already. Masterpiece, vast, quiet. By eryn.
Prompt: Realistic and cartoon drawing blend. Moody, ethereal. Very intricate lines and details. Masterful composition, turmoil made art. The strokes are the life of the picture and the lights come from them. le cœur tenu - the heart, held.
Seen from afar, her face still readable through the storm. The face and body of a woman standing ever-so-delicately in the middle of a heavy tempest, raw, bare, unwavering, come together as swirls of air, like a maelstrom, on a deep dark sea background with tides higher than the skies, and the white of waves dissolves into the light of her ragged, holed, damaged, very light silk-like net-like clothes. Across her chest, the storm's own white threads have woven themselves into a fine sheltering lattice, like a bodice of light - the one calm pocket in the tempest; her heart held, not crushed; one of her hands has drifted down to rest over it.
The woman is in her end twenties early thirties, French. Auburn / dark-strawberry hair (muted, not flame-bright), disheveled, her hair stormed around herself like the last of her protection against the odds surrounding her. The ends of the hair are white and rainbow, remnants of eons gone (for now). Fair, warm pink-toned skin with light freckling across the nose and cheeks. Smallish, youthful, cute rather than striking, a soft, present, delicate lived-in face, not so frail, not gaunt. Her ice blue eyes are open and watchful of the cyclone she is in, circled with a teal and blue mascara and liner, with a discrete touch of sparkles, rosy cheeks; a tiny drawn mark under one eye, soft and imperfect. Iridescent tears are floating around her cheeks in the air, washed away by the winds as soon as they come out of her eyes.
Her other hand is raised above her, dancing the waltz with nature's furious anger - whether to gentle it, or simply because she has never once stopped dancing, is unknown.
Near dark night tempest palette. Out-of-time and timeless dark sea collapse. Hidden melancholy, held heart. Masterpiece, heartbreaking, powerful, emotional. By eryn.
Prompt: Realistic and cartoon drawing blend. Moody, ethereal. Very intricate lines and details. Masterful composition, turmoil made art. The strokes are the life of the picture and the lights come from them.
Seen from afar. The face and body of a woman standing in the middle of a heavy storm, raw, bare, unwavering, come together as swirls of air, like a maelstrom, on a deep dark sea background with tides higher than the skies and the white of waves dissolves into the light of her ragged holed damaged very light silk-like net-like clothes.
The woman is in her end twenties early thirties, French. Auburn / dark-strawberry hair (muted, not flame-bright), disheveled, her hair stormed around herself like the last of her protection against the odds surrounding her. The ends of the hair are white and rainbow, remnants of eons gone (for now). Fair, warm pink-toned skin with light freckling across the nose and cheeks. Smallish, youthful, cute rather than striking, a soft, present, delicate lived-in face, not so frail, not gaunt. Her ice blue eyes are open and watchful of the cyclone she is in, circled with a teal and blue mascara and liner, with a discrete touch of sparkles, rosy cheeks; a tiny drawn mark under one eye, soft and imperfect. Iridescent tears are floating around her cheeks in the air, washed away by the winds as soon as they come out of her eyes.
Her hands are above her self, like she's dancing the last waltz with the nature furious anger, whether in the hopes of calming it or because it's the last thing to do is unknown.
Near dark night tempest palette. Out-of-time and timeless dark sea collapse. Hidden melancholy. Masterpiece, heartbreaking, powerful, emotional. By eryn.
Prompt: Realistic and cartoon drawing blend. Moody, ethereal. Very intricate lines and details. Masterful composition, turmoil made art. The strokes are the life of the picture and the lights come from them.
The face and body of a woman come together as swirls of air, like a maelstrom, on a deep dark sea background with tides higher than the skies and the white of waves dissolves into the light of her ragged holed damaged very light silk-like net-like clothes.
The woman is in her end twenties early thirties, French. Auburn / dark-strawberry hair (muted, not flame-bright), disheveled, her hair stormed around herself like the last of her protection against the odds surrounding her. The ends of the hair are white and rainbow, remnants of eons gone (for now). Fair, warm pink-toned skin with light freckling across the nose and cheeks. Smallish, youthful, cute rather than striking, a soft, present, delicate lived-in face, not so frail, not gaunt. Her ice blue eyes are open and watchful of the cyclone she is in, circled with a teal and blue mascara and liner, with a discrete touch of sparkles, rosy cheeks; a tiny drawn mark under one eye, soft and imperfect. Iridescent tears are floating around her cheeks in the air, washed away by the winds as soon as they come out of her eyes.
Her hands are above her self, like she's dancing the last waltz with the nature furious anger, whether in the hopes of calming it or because it's the last thing to do is unknown.
Near dark night tempest palette. Out-of-time and timeless dark sea collapse. Hidden melancholy. Masterpiece, heartbreaking, powerful, emotional. By eryn.
Prompt: Realistic and cartoon drawing blend. Moody, ethereal. Very intricate lines and details. Masterful composition. Blue hour under reddish moonlight, coming through the massive window of an asleep bedroom in summer. Two women sleeping in bed, the one on the right of the bed is dreaming in a rainbow bubble, inside which the far spires and gardens of the University of Dreams can be glimpsed, hazy, as through warm glass. A third woman, who looks like the one dreaming, is standing next to her, slightly, very softly bending over her dreams, harvesting the colours of her dreams in a bottle, drop by drop. Where earlier drops have fallen, small corners of the room have quietly regained their colours: one flower on the windowsill, the spine of one book, nothing more. The rest of reality is still waiting, still in the blues. The mood is not creepy, rather very quiet and very delicate. Around the room are wooden boards filled with books, heraldrics from the 'University of Dreams' in the middle.
The woman sleeping on the right of the bed is in her end twenties early thirties, French. Auburn / dark-strawberry hair (muted, not flame-bright), disheveled. The ends of the hair are white and rainbow, remnants of eons gone (for now). Fair, warm pink-toned skin with light freckling across the nose and cheeks. Smallish, youthful, cute rather than striking, a soft, present, delicate lived-in face, not so frail, not gaunt. She is wearing a black tank top and undies. Light shining on her skin. Very discreet remnants of a teal and blue mascara and liner, with a discrete touch of sparkles, rosy cheeks; a tiny drawn mark under one eye, soft and imperfect. Some rings, fabric wristband.
The standing woman looks like the one who is dreaming, except her hair is half-up and coming loose, and the make-up more visible. She is wearing victorian time-lordy gothic steampunk, a cowgirl-pirate-witch pointy hat with a tiny wooden door, closed on it. Around her is a dissonant aura and some lines are glitchy. She is holding a smallish metal and glass very bright and colourful artefact, very very very old. She has piercing bright ice blue watchful irises, strikingly visible in the dark of the room. She's looking at the women sleeping with all the love she has. Necklaces, rings and fabric wristband.
On the left of the bed, mostly shadow: short disheveled pixie-like red hair, the suggestion of a shoulder under the lacy very light sheets, nothing more lit.
Nighttime palette. Delicate bedding set. Out-of-time and timeless summer breeze. Hidden melancholy. Masterpiece, emotional. By eryn.
Prompt: Realistic and cartoon drawing blend. Moody, ethereal. Very intricate lines and details. Masterful composition. Blue hour under reddish moonlight, coming through the massive window of an asleep bedroom in summer. Two women sleeping in bed, the one on the right of the bed is dreaming in a rainbow bubble, inside which the far spires and gardens of the University of Dreams can be glimpsed, hazy, as through warm glass. A third woman, who looks like the one dreaming, is standing next to her, slightly, very softly bending over her dreams, harvesting the colours of her dreams in a bottle, drop by drop. Where earlier drops have fallen, small corners of the room have quietly regained their colours: one flower on the windowsill, the spine of one book, nothing more. The rest of reality is still waiting, still in the blues. The mood is not creepy, rather very quiet and very delicate. Around the room are wooden boards filled with books, heraldrics from the 'University of Dreams' in the middle.
The woman sleeping on the right of the bed is in her end twenties early thirties, French. Auburn / dark-strawberry hair (muted, not flame-bright), disheveled. The ends of the hair are white and rainbow, remnants of eons gone (for now). Fair, warm pink-toned skin with light freckling across the nose and cheeks. Smallish, youthful, cute rather than striking, a soft, present, delicate lived-in face, not so frail, not gaunt. She is wearing a black tank top and undies. Light shining on her skin. Very discreet remnants of a teal and blue mascara and liner, with a discrete touch of sparkles, rosy cheeks; a tiny drawn mark under one eye, soft and imperfect. Some rings, fabric wristband.
The standing woman looks like the one who is dreaming, except her hair is half-up and coming loose, and the make-up more visible. She is wearing victorian time-lordy gothic steampunk, a cowgirl-pirate-witch pointy hat with a tiny wooden door, closed on it. Around her is a dissonant aura and some lines are glitchy. She is holding a smallish metal and glass very bright and colourful artefact, very very very old. She has piercing bright ice blue watchful irises, strikingly visible in the dark of the room. She's looking at the women sleeping with all the love she has. Necklaces, rings and fabric wristband.
On the left of the bed, mostly shadow: short disheveled pixie-like red hair, the suggestion of a shoulder under the lacy very light sheets, nothing more lit.
Nighttime palette. Delicate bedding set. Out-of-time and timeless summer breeze. Hidden melancholy. Masterpiece, emotional. By eryn.
Prompt: Realistic and cartoon drawing blend. Moody, ethereal. Very intricate lines and details. Masterful composition. Blue hour under reddish moonlight, coming through the massive window of an asleep bedroom in summer. Two women sleeping in bed, the one on the right of the bed is dreaming in a rainbow bubble, inside which the far spires and gardens of the University of Dreams can be glimpsed, hazy, as through warm glass. A third woman, who looks like the one dreaming, is standing next to her, slightly, very softly bending over her dreams, harvesting the colours of her dreams in a small other-worldly device, drop by drop. From the other end of the device, the colours are pouring into small corners of the room that have quietly regained their colours: one flower on the windowsill, the spine of one book, nothing more. The rest of reality is still waiting, still in the blues. The mood is not creepy, rather very quiet and very delicate. Around the room are wooden boards filled with books, heraldrics with the 'University of Dreams' written on it in the middle.
The woman sleeping on the right of the bed is in her end twenties early thirties, French. Auburn / dark-strawberry hair (muted, not flame-bright), disheveled. The ends of the hair are white and rainbow, remnants of eons gone (for now). Fair, warm pink-toned skin with light freckling across the nose and cheeks. Smallish, youthful, cute rather than striking, a soft, present, delicate lived-in face, not so frail, not gaunt. She is wearing a black tank top and undies. Light shining on her skin. Very discreet remnants of a teal and blue mascara and liner; a tiny drawn mark under one eye, soft and imperfect. Some rings, fabric wristband.
The fleshy standing woman looks like the one who is dreaming, except her hair is half-up and coming loose, and the make-up more visible; with a discrete touch of sparkles, rosy cheeks. She is wearing victorian time-lordy gothic steampunk, a cowgirl-pirate-witch pointy hat with a tiny wooden door, closed on it. Around her is a dissonant aura and some lines are glitchy. She is holding a smallish metal and glass very bright and colourful artefact, very very very old. She has open and piercing bright ice blue watchful irises, clearly visible in the dark of the room. She's looking at the women sleeping with all the love she has. Necklaces, rings and fabric wristband.
On the left of the bed, mostly covered in deep undisturbed shadows: a short disheveled pixie-like sleeping red hair, the suggestion of a shoulder under the lacy very light sheets, nothing more lit.
Nighttime palette. Delicate bedding set. Out-of-time and timeless summer breeze. Hidden melancholy. Masterpiece, emotional. By eryn.
Prompt: Realistic and cartoon drawing blend. On a slide from a lecture, projected on a massive screen bordered with wood and heraldrics from the Uni. of Dreams. The name of the presenter, 'eryn' is also on the slide in a corner. The edges of the slide are still here, but the inside of the slide and the background is dissolving into a dreamish land, from within which a woman is inviting the audience to cross through the portal where she's sitting and land with her in the Otherworld.
Around the woman the place is a dissonant reality where the comic drawing style is stronger, and some lines are glitchy. Behind the slide-portal, an amphiteater in wild nature, stones and vines covering the seats.
The woman has one hand held out towards the audience, throigh the portal, and the other is holding a smallish metal and glass very bright and colourful artefact, very very very old.
The woman is in her end twenties early thirties, French. Auburn / dark-strawberry hair (muted, not flame-bright), half-up and coming loose. The ends of the hair are white and rainbow, remnants of eons gone (for now). Fair, warm pink-toned skin with light freckling across the nose and cheeks. Smallish, youthful, cute rather than striking, a soft, present, delicate lived-in face, not so frail, not gaunt. Piercing blue watchful eyes, jumping within the room like little specks of starlight.
In the lecture reality, she's wearing a dark blue satin half-sleeved blouse, a tight but light elegant dark knee length skirt and lacy sandal-boots. In the dream world she's wearing other clothes, victorian time-lordy gothic steampunk, a cowgirl-pirate-witch pointy hat with a tiny wooden door, closed on it. Her clothes are split at the portal upon which she sits.
Legs, neck, arms, brightly lit. Teal and blue mascara and liner, with a discrete touch of sparkles, rosy cheeks; a tiny drawn mark under one eye, soft and imperfect. Silver necklace, earrings and rings, fabric wristband.
Modern and old mixed palette. Out-of-time and timeless autumn afternoon, hidden melancholy. Masterpiece, by eryn.
Prompt: Realistic and cartoon drawing blend. On a slide from a lecture, projected on a massive screen bordered with wood and heraldrics from the Uni. of Dreams. The name of the presenter, 'eryn' is also on the slide in a corner. The edges of the slide are still here, but the inside of the slide and the background is dissolving into a dreamish land, from within which a woman is inviting the audience to cross through the portal where she's sitting and land with her in the Otherworld.
Around the woman the place is a dissonant reality where the comic drawing style is stronger, and some lines are glitchy. Behind the slide-portal, an amphiteater in wild nature, stones and vines covering the seats.
The woman has one hand held out towards the audience, throigh the portal, and the other is holding a smallish metal and glass very bright and colourful artefact, very very very old.
The woman is in her end twenties early thirties, French. Auburn / dark-strawberry hair (muted, not flame-bright), half-up and coming loose. The ends of the hair are white and rainbow, remnants of eons gone (for now). Fair, warm pink-toned skin with light freckling across the nose and cheeks. Smallish, youthful, cute rather than striking, a soft, present, delicate lived-in face, not so frail, not gaunt. Piercing blue watchful eyes, jumping within the room like little specks of starlight.
In the lecture reality, she's wearing a dark blue satin half-sleeved blouse, a tight but light elegant dark knee length skirt and lacy sandal-boots. In the dream world she's wearing other clothes, victorian time-lordy gothic steampunk, a cowgirl-pirate-witch pointy hat with a tiny wooden door, closed on it. Her clothes are split at the portal upon which she sits.
Legs, neck, arms, brightly lit. Teal and blue mascara and liner, with a discrete touch of sparkles, rosy cheeks; a tiny drawn mark under one eye, soft and imperfect. Silver necklace, earrings and rings, fabric wristband.
Modern and old mixed palette. Out-of-time and timeless autumn afternoon, hidden melancholy. Masterpiece, by eryn.
Prompt: Moody, the symphonic storm within. Realistic and cartoon drawing blend. Intimate, delicate, view from a distance of a woman giving a lecture in a grand hall of old, stone and leathers and tapestries uni great amphitheater. She's engaging with her speech, her audience, and the moment. Passionate and lyrical, vulnerable but knowledgeable, frail but powerful.
She's standing at a podium in front of older white men and a few women scholars, with notes laid out in front of her beneath the microphones. Many hand-written colorful annotations. She's focused, and her face is smiling but her brows are intentely focused. She's done it before, she just needs to do it again. Brilliantly as always.
A massive oaken door in the far background, open on the galery leading to the theater. A smaller wooden door behind the woman, closed. Windows up the high walls, otherwise ladden with tapestries and shelves stuffy with otherworldy glimmering weird artefacts from times unknown (except for her). Some artefacts are laying right beside her on the podium. She's probably talking about them.
The woman is in her end twenties early thirties, French. Auburn / dark-strawberry hair (muted, not flame-bright), half-up and coming loose. The ends of the hair are white and rainbow, remnants of eons gone (for now). Fair, warm pink-toned skin with light freckling across the nose and cheeks. Smallish, youthful, cute rather than striking, a soft, present, delicate lived-in face, not so frail, not gaunt. Piercing ice grey-blue watchful eyes, jumping within the room like little specks of starlight.
She's wearing a dark blue satin half-sleeved blouse with a light very long scarf of the same colour, a tight but light elegant dark skirt and lacy sandal-boots. Legs, neck, arms, dimly lit, slightly shivering. Not posing. Faint sleepless shadow under the eyes. Teal and blue mascara and liner, with a discrete touch of sparkles, rosy cheeks; a tiny drawn mark under one eye, soft and imperfect. Silver necklace, earrings and rings, fabric wristband.
Modern but old palette. Academic life goes slow, but here it's energy channeled through the lecture. Intimate and unguarded, out-of-time and timeless autumn afternoon, hidden melancholy. Masterpiece, by eryn.
Prompt: Moody, the symphonic storm within. Realistic and cartoon drawing blend. Intimate, delicate, view from a distance of a woman giving a lecture in a grand hall of old, stone and leathers and tapestries uni great amphitheater. She's engaging with her speech, her audience, and the moment. Passionate and lyrical, vulnerable but knowledgeable, frail but powerful.
She's standing at a podium in front of older white men and a few women scholars, with notes laid out in front of her beneath the microphones. Many hand-written colorful annotations. She's focused, and her face is smiling but her brows are intentely focused. She's done it before, she just needs to do it again. Brilliantly as always.
A massive oaken door in the far background, open on the galery leading to the theater. A smaller wooden door behind the woman, closed. Windows up the high walls, otherwise ladden with tapestries and shelves stuffy with otherworldy glimmering weird artefacts from times unknown (except for her). Some artefacts are laying right beside her on the podium. She's probably talking about them.
The woman is in her end twenties early thirties, French. Auburn / dark-strawberry hair (muted, not flame-bright), half-up and coming loose. The ends of the hair are white and rainbow, remnants of eons gone (for now). Fair, warm pink-toned skin with light freckling across the nose and cheeks. Smallish, youthful, cute rather than striking, a soft, present, delicate lived-in face, not so frail, not gaunt. Piercing ice blue watchful eyes, jumping within the room like little specks of starlight.
She's wearing a dark blue satin half-sleeved blouse with a light very long scarf of the same colour, a tight but light elegant dark skirt and lacy sandal-boots. Legs, neck, arms, dimly lit, slightly shivering. Not posing. Faint sleepless shadow under the eyes. Teal and blue mascara and liner, with a discrete touch of sparkles, rosy cheeks; a tiny drawn mark under one eye, soft and imperfect. Silver necklace, earrings and rings, fabric wristband.
Modern but old palette. Academic life goes slow, but here it's energy channeled through the lecture. Intimate and unguarded, out-of-time and timeless autumn afternoon, hidden melancholy. Masterpiece, by eryn.
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.
