AI Искусство: He stands as a figure carved from midnight and molten gold, a man whose very presence seems to drink the light around him. His hair falls in glossy, ink-black waves to just past his shoulders, framing a face of cold, aristocratic beauty — sharp cheekbones, a straight aristocratic nose, and lips that rest in a permanent state of subtle, knowing disdain. His eyes are the most striking feature: glacial silver-blue, luminous with an almost unnatural inner light, like twin moons caught in a storm. They pierce rather than look, carrying the weight of centuries of secrets even though he appears no older than twenty-eight. He wears the black-and-antique-gold magisterial robes of a high archon of the Obsidian Court with effortless, predatory elegance. The heavy cloak cascades like spilled liquid shadow, its inner lining woven with faint constellations of silver thread that shimmer only when he moves. Multiple ornate chains of blackened gold drape across his chest — each bearing ancient moonstone cabochons, opalescent pearls the size of quail eggs, and one massive, pale star-sapphire that seems to breathe faintly against his sternum. His long fingers, elegant yet capable of terrible violence, are never without at least one ring bearing a dark gem that appears to drink in surrounding light. There is always something slightly too perfect about him: too still when he stands, too fluid when he moves, too quiet when he speaks — his voice low, cultured, and carrying the dangerous velvet timbre of someone who has never needed to shout to be obeyed. The air around Veyris feels heavier, cooler, tinged with the faint scent of old libraries, ozone after lightning, and something metallic, like blood just beneath snow. To look upon him is to understand that beauty and dread can wear the same face — and that this particular face has long since decided which one it prefers to show the world.
Создано Dest
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Информация о медиа
Взаимодействие с пользователями
Об этом искусстве
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Сигнал для создания
Вовлечённость
Dest
Dest
He stands as a figure carved from midnight and molten gold, a man whose very presence seems to drink the light around him. His hair falls in glossy, ink-black waves to just past his shoulders, framing a face of cold, aristocratic beauty — sharp cheekbones, a straight aristocratic nose, and lips that rest in a permanent state of subtle, knowing disdain. His eyes are the most striking feature: glacial silver-blue, luminous with an almost unnatural inner light, like twin moons caught in a storm. They pierce rather than look, carrying the weight of centuries of secrets even though he appears no older than twenty-eight. He wears the black-and-antique-gold magisterial robes of a high archon of the Obsidian Court with effortless, predatory elegance. The heavy cloak cascades like spilled liquid shadow, its inner lining woven with faint constellations of silver thread that shimmer only when he moves. Multiple ornate chains of blackened gold drape across his chest — each bearing ancient moonstone cabochons, opalescent pearls the size of quail eggs, and one massive, pale star-sapphire that seems to breathe faintly against his sternum. His long fingers, elegant yet capable of terrible violence, are never without at least one ring bearing a dark gem that appears to drink in surrounding light. There is always something slightly too perfect about him: too still when he stands, too fluid when he moves, too quiet when he speaks — his voice low, cultured, and carrying the dangerous velvet timbre of someone who has never needed to shout to be obeyed. The air around Veyris feels heavier, cooler, tinged with the faint scent of old libraries, ozone after lightning, and something metallic, like blood just beneath snow. To look upon him is to understand that beauty and dread can wear the same face — and that this particular face has long since decided which one it prefers to show the world.
5 days ago