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Contest Entry

PixAI × zeta Original Character Creation Contest 2026

#holenderski kąt #Ciemność #Czarne włosy #Laska #płaszcz #1 chłopak #czarne rękawiczki #świeca #drzwi #Świecznik

Opublikowano Oct 31, 2026

Marco Iori

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1boy, solo, middle-aged male, mature male, drow, dark elf, pointed ears, pale skin, grey-lavender skin, raven black hair, slicked-back hair, widow's peak, long hair, receding temples, sharp cheekbones, aquiline nose, narrow pale eyes, violet eyes, faint crow's feet, slight nasolabial lines, gothic nobleman, aristocrat, gothic house aesthetic, high-collared midnight-black velvet frock coat, silver filigree embroidery, silver buttons, high collar, white cravat, sapphire cravat pin, black waistcoat, silk brocade, tailored black trousers, black leather gloves, standing, from below, low angle, three-quarter view, looking down at viewer, head tilted down, one hand behind back, other hand holding a silver-handled walking cane, close-up, upper body portrait, dutch angle, dramatic lighting, single candlelight source, gothic mansion interior, dark hallway, tall arched window, stone walls, worn tapestries, cast shadows, chiaroscuro, moody atmosphere, candlelight glow, deep shadows, cold blue night light through window, crimson velvet curtains, dust motes, regal, aloof, decaying grandeur The camera stares up from just below his waistline, tilting slightly off-level, so the middle-aged drow nobleman looms over the viewer in the foreground of a dim gothic mansion corridor. His skin is a cold, pale grey-lavender, the pallor of something that has never seen the sun, and it carries the fine lines of his age — faint crow's feet pricked at the outer corners of his narrow violet eyes, a shadow of nasolabial lines around his mouth. His raven-black hair is slicked back but long enough to fall behind his collar, receding slightly at the temples and edged with a widow's peak that sharpens the long, aquiline architecture of his face. He looks down his nose at the viewer, chin lowered, eyes half-lidded and unmoved. His high-collared midnight-black velvet frock coat rises around his throat in a stiff wing that brushes the underside of his jaw; beneath it, a crisp white cravat is knotted carefully at his throat, and a small sapphire pin catches the candle next to him. Silver filigree scrolls up the coat's lapels and along the sharp cuffs, the thread lying flat against the velvet's nap and catching the light only where the nap turns. One gloved hand rests behind his back, out of sight; the other grips the silver handle of a walking cane planted on the stone floor before him, its tip touching down just beyond the frame's bottom edge. His weight sits on the back foot, hip cocked, the coat hanging in a single uninterrupted line from shoulder to knee. The single lit candle on the wall sconce to his left is the only warm source; it rakes his right side in amber, leaving the left cheek and throat in the household's blue night-shadow from the tall arched window behind him, where cold moonlight pushes through dusty glass and lays faint mullion bars across the floor at his heels. Dust motes drift through the hot candle zone and thin to nothing in the dark. The wall behind him is old stone dressed with a worn tapestry and, further back, crimson velvet curtains drawn half-shut; the corridor's far end falls into absolute blackness beyond the candle's reach. His cast shadow climbs the wall at his back, tall and warped by the low angle. The palette holds to black velvet, silver, the sapphire's cold blue, parchment-white cravat, grey-lavender skin, the amber candle and the deep blue window — nothing else admitted. Quietly menacing, aristocratic.

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