So, I misclicked a prompt and Bing told me a "fairy tale" which was then generated into images. Let's forget this pathetic world. If only for a moment.
Moon-Kissed Reverie
by Bing
In the heart of an ancient forest, where moonbeams wove their silvery tapestry, there dwelled a fairy named Althea. She emerged each night, a luminescent vision, her presence a secret shared only with the nightingales and dew-kissed petals.
Althea's gown was spun from moonbeams themselves—a cascade of opalescent layers that whispered forgotten secrets. With each step, it trailed stardust, leaving a trail of constellations in its wake. The fabric clung to her form like a lover's embrace, yet allowed her freedom to dance among the ferns and moss.
Her wings, delicate as gossamer, shimmered in hues unknown to mortal eyes. They bore the iridescence of dragonfly wings caught in a sunbeam—a symphony of blues, purples, and moonstone whites. When she unfurled them, the very air held its breath, as if the universe leaned in to listen.
Around her neck hung a silver pendant—an ancient heirloom passed down through fairy generations. Within its crystal heart lay a captured star, its fiery core tamed by magic. Althea wore it not as adornment but as a reminder: She carried a universe within her, a miniature cosmos pulsing against her skin.
Her hair, spun silver, cascaded down her back. Tiny blossoms—those that bloomed only under moonlight—were woven into its strands. Each petal held a memory: the first frost, the scent of jasmine, the echo of a distant comet's song. When Althea danced, petals rained down, creating ephemeral constellations on the forest floor.
And oh, her eyes—the color of midnight skies, flecked with stardust. They held the wisdom of ancient oaks and the mischief of fireflies. When she gazed upon the mortal world, she saw both its fragility and its resilience—a delicate balance she vowed to protect.
As the moon reached its zenith, Althea twirled, her laughter mingling with the rustle of leaves. The night itself seemed to hold its breath, caught in the enchantment of her dance. For in that moon-kissed glade, where dewdrops glistened on petals, Althea was more than a fairy; she was a living poem—a testament to the magic woven into existence.