slowly crouching prompts

2 months ago

Create a realistic cinematic image of a storm-lashed night. Heavy rain sweeps down in relentless sheets, driven by violent winds. At the edge of a remote cliff stands an old lighthouse, its whitewashed walls cracked, weathered, and peeling from decades of sea air. Perspective: from the base of the lighthouse, as if standing beside it, looking upward at a slight skew to the right. The great beacon spins slowly, casting sweeping arcs of light through the darkness. Composition is off-centre, with the lighthouse positioned to the left of the frame, aligned to the golden mean. At the pinnacle, an ancient dragon crouches on the crown of the tower, talons gripping the worn stone ledge. Wings unfurled, neck arched, the creature faces left, poised to launch into the storm. The beacon’s beam catches the underside of its wings and scales, highlighting texture and detail, while its upper body vanishes into the abyss of the night sky — half-concealed, ominous, and powerful. The night is almost absolute blackness, broken only when the rotating light slices through the storm. The mood is gothic and atmospheric: a haunting blend of menace and beauty, a clash of storm, stone, and myth.

8 months ago

Pov first-person, I wake to the dim light of the oil lamp flickering weakly beside me, my breath steady but deep. The scent of burning oil and aged fabric lingers in the air. Slowly, I push myself up, the weight of my body shifting on the Persian rug beneath me. My hands instinctively reach for the bejeweled sword lying beside me, its hilt cool and familiar in my grip. The turquoise and rubies embedded in the handle glint in the flickering light as I wrap my fingers around it. The tension in the air is thick. My eyes move to the shadows on the tent fabric. Four soldiers are crouched outside, their figures casting real, looming silhouettes against the canvas. They are poised for attack, their movements shifting in the light of the trembling flame. I tighten my grip on the sword, my pulse quickening. This is it—the moment has come. High details, high realistic.

8 months ago

Pov first-person, I wake to the dim light of the oil lamp flickering weakly beside me, my breath steady but deep. The scent of burning oil and aged fabric lingers in the air. Slowly, I push myself up, the weight of my body shifting on the Persian rug beneath me. My hands instinctively reach for the bejeweled sword lying beside me, its hilt cool and familiar in my grip. The turquoise and rubies embedded in the handle glint in the flickering light as I wrap my fingers around it. The tension in the air is thick. My eyes move to the shadows on the tent fabric. Four soldiers are crouched outside, their figures casting real, looming silhouettes against the canvas. They are poised for attack, their movements shifting in the light of the trembling flame. I tighten my grip on the sword, my pulse quickening. This is it—the moment has come. High details, high realistic.

8 months ago

Pov first-person, I wake to the dim light of the oil lamp flickering weakly beside me, my breath steady but deep. The scent of burning oil and aged fabric lingers in the air. Slowly, I push myself up, the weight of my body shifting on the Persian rug beneath me. My hands instinctively reach for the bejeweled sword lying beside me, its hilt cool and familiar in my grip. The turquoise and rubies embedded in the handle glint in the flickering light as I wrap my fingers around it. The tension in the air is thick. My eyes move to the shadows on the tent fabric. Four soldiers are crouched outside, their figures casting real, looming silhouettes against the canvas. They are poised for attack, their movements shifting in the light of the trembling flame. I tighten my grip on the sword, my pulse quickening. This is it—the moment has come. High details, high realistic.

8 months ago

Pov first-person, I wake to the dim light of the oil lamp flickering weakly beside me, my breath steady but deep. The scent of burning oil and aged fabric lingers in the air. Slowly, I push myself up, the weight of my body shifting on the Persian rug beneath me. My hands instinctively reach for the bejeweled sword lying beside me, its hilt cool and familiar in my grip. The turquoise and rubies embedded in the handle glint in the flickering light as I wrap my fingers around it. The tension in the air is thick. My eyes move to the shadows on the tent fabric. Four soldiers are crouched outside, their figures casting real, looming silhouettes against the canvas. They are poised for attack, their movements shifting in the light of the trembling flame. I tighten my grip on the sword, my pulse quickening. This is it—the moment has come. High details, high realistic.