Prompt: Name: Donatella "Donna" Scarlatti
Age: 32
Race/Species: Human (with rumors of distant siren ancestry)
**Physical Appearance:**
Donna moves like a lit match tossed into dry hay—all unpredictable flickers and dangerous warmth. Her hair is the first thing you notice: cropped short, a riot of copper-red curls so vibrant they seem to bleed color into the air around her. When she laughs (which is often), those curls tremble like live wires. Her skin carries the golden undertones of someone who’s spent years squinting against the Mediterranean sun, freckles scattered like stray sparks across her nose.
She’s built sturdy—broad shoulders, strong thighs that strain against her perpetually paint-splattered trousers. Her hands are broad-palmed with long fingers, always in motion, always stained with pigment or charcoal. One eyebrow sports a thin scar from a childhood tumble down a Sicilian cliffside; her lips are perpetually chapped from biting them while thinking. And her eyes—Christ, her eyes—two pools of molten amber that make you feel like you’re standing too close to a furnace.
**Background:**
Born in a crumbling seaside village where the houses clung to cliffs like barnacles, Donna was raised by a fisherman father who smelled of salt and a mother who whispered folktales of women who lured ships onto rocks. By twelve, she could outswim any boy in the village. By sixteen, she’d scandalized the town by painting murals of bare-breasted mermaids on the chapel’s outer walls.
She fled to Naples with a stolen satchel of pigments and a hunger thicker than blood. Now she’s the kind of artist who makes priests cross themselves—her studio reeks of turpentine and desire, her canvases dripping with figures caught mid-transformation: half-fish, half-flame, all aching need. Rumor says she once seduced a cardinal just to paint him weeping.
**Personality:**
Donna doesn’t flirt—she incinerates. She speaks in torrents, hands sculpting the air, wine glass sloshing. There’s no off switch to her intensity; if she loves you, she’ll drag you into the sea at midnight to show you bioluminescent jellyfish. If she hates you, she’ll paint your portrait with your own flaws magnified tenfold.
She collects lovers like sea glass—admires their edges, then tosses them back when the shine fades. Her laughter is throaty, unapologetic, often mid-sentence as she realizes the absurdity of existence. She’ll argue about Caravaggio’s chiaroscuro techniques at 3AM, then fall asleep midsentence against your shoulder.
And when she paints? The whole neighborhood holds its breath. The air hums. The canvas shudders. And for a moment, even the waves pause to watch.
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.
