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. 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.
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.
