The Beginning of my High Fantasy series for Youtube. Two images made in Blender to accompany their respective Fantasy Synth Youtube videos. Images by me, music by me, story by ChatGPT via my prompts.
Beneath the golden spire of The Obelisk of Veythar, a sacred monument of untold origin, two cloaked figures stood amidst the swirling mists of consecration. The ground, carpeted in vibrant yellow flora, seemed alive with an otherworldly hum, as if the earth itself resonated with the power emanating from the obelisk. The temple, ancient and towering, was said to be a relic of the Eldarion—a long-lost civilization whose mastery over both stone and sorcery had transcended mortal limits.
The figures—Seekers of the Dawn, cloaked in ceremonial amber robes—recited passages from the Canticle of Suns. Their purpose was clear: to awaken the dormant Heart of Veythar, a mythical source of light said to banish the shadow-wrought plague creeping across the realms. The grey smoke encircling the obelisk was no mere mist; it was the Breath of Alaria, a manifestation of the temple's will, choosing only those worthy to unlock its secrets.
Above them, the obelisk's surface shimmered faintly, as though it was alive, whispering promises of power and peril to any who dared approach. To the Seekers, the moment was pivotal. If the Heart remained silent, hope for the realm would fade with the sun. But if the obelisk heeded their call, the world might yet see a dawn untouched by darkness.
The Seeker pressed forward, the waters of the Veilmar Abyss lapping at their boots as they stepped deeper into the sanctum of The Lurid Maw. Towering monoliths, slick with age and pulsing with an eerie red bioluminescence, loomed on either side like the ribs of some ancient beast long turned to stone. The air was thick with mist, the scent of iron and decay clinging to each breath.
Before them, seated upon a jagged throne of obsidian, was the Veilmother. Draped in robes that shimmered like molten gold in the unnatural light, she regarded the intruder through the hollow sockets of her mask, an artifact of bone carved in the likeness of the first high priestess. In her delicate hand, she held the Requiem Flute, an instrument said to summon the voices of the Forgotten—souls who had perished in the Maw’s depths, their lament woven into the very fabric of this cursed temple.
The Seeker hesitated, for they knew the legend: none who stood before the Veilmother unbidden left unchanged. The Maw did not simply grant passage—it demanded an offering. And as the first haunting note of the flute echoed through the cavern, the Seeker understood. Their trial had begun.