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Prompt by AkiraS

shell prompts

hundreds of results

6 months ago

n a crumbling sanctuary built at the end of time, open to the sky and flooded with wild overgrowth, a solitary figure stands on a plinth of fractured obsidian—a synthetic angel, both artifact and oracle, mid-transmission. Her body is constructed from a dual-layered material: an outer shell of liquid mirror-glass, always in motion, bending light in surreal ripples—beneath it, a lattice of golden memory circuits, softly pulsing, like script woven from heat and purpose. She is not human. She is not machine. She is the last interface between meaning and forgetting. Her posture is both exalted and worn. One hand raised in silent benediction, the other buried in the tangle of flowering vines wrapping around her legs—life clinging to light, as though nature itself refuses to let go of what she remembers. Etched across her glass-like surface are thin veins of glowing amber: pathways of forgotten prayers, tracing up her legs, over her spine, across her collarbones like fading constellations. Her face is concealed behind a split golden visor, semi-open like the petals of a mechanical flower—revealing only light. From her back, two vast wings made of layered crystalline blades curve upward like collapsed architecture—part cathedral, part ruin. They shimmer not with fire, but with reflected memory, like a sky that forgot how to storm. Around her, broken statuary and shattered machines lie half-swallowed by roots and blossoms. In the distance, a forest made of circuitry burns without smoke—slowly, beautifully. Above, stars pulse in unnatural constellations, forming sigils from before language. Hovering just above her head spins a halo unlike any known form—a fractured ring of refracted glass, filled with flowing text that no longer aligns with any living tongue. It does not glow—it remembers. Rendered in the style of an impressionist-Renaissance hybrid painting, layered with visible brush textures, fog-softened edges, and gold-split chiaroscuro. Warm dusk tones dominate the palette: blood-orange, dusk-lavender, rusted copper, soft pollen white. She is the Benediction Engine—not worshipped, not feared, not obeyed. She simply remains, bearing witness to everything we were, and everything we failed to become.

ElectricL
2 120

14 days ago

“Hyperrealistic miniature potato knight as Lancelot, knee-high, standing alone on a rain-drenched hill at twilight, overlooking the ruins of a fallen kingdom. His body is a single, massive russet potato — rough, deeply pitted skin covered in mud, dried sap, and old battle scars, some cracks sealed with hardened resin like scars of honor. His face emerges from the natural form: large, sorrowful human eyes — deep brown irises with soft golden highlights, framed by thick brows formed by ridges in his skin. His expression is noble, weary, and burdened by silent guilt — the look of a man who loved too loyally, and lost everything. He wears a tattered surcoat of faded blue linen (once the color of loyalty), torn at the edges, over leaf-plate armor reinforced with seed-shell pauldrons. Around his waist: a wide, weathered leather belt with a rusted iron buckle. On his head: a dented, ancient iron helmet — once polished, now oxidized — resting slightly askew, revealing one haunted eye. In his hand, he grips a broken lance of petrified rootwood, its tip shattered, yet held with unwavering resolve. At his feet, a single white flower grows through the cracks in the stone. Background: stormy sky, distant lightning, ruined castle spires swallowed by ivy, crows circling in the wind. Shot on ARRI Alexa 65, 75mm anamorphic lens, shallow depth of field, desaturated twilight lighting with dramatic chiaroscuro, ultra-detailed textures (potato pores, mud grit, linen weave, rust flakes, water droplets, leaf veins), live-action fantasy film aesthetic, by Guillermo del Toro and Roger Deakins, 8K cinematic masterpiece.”

Koimbra888
2 25