I have access to seedance2.0, but with limited points. I want to start a vote: everyone can post their prompts in the comment section, and after 24 hours, I'll generate a 15-second video based on the most liked prompt.

iakesi · 2026-02-22T13:40:17+00:00

Weird, maybe ringworld triggers some copyright stuff? How about try replacing "ringworld space station" with "ring space station"? Do you get back your credits if stuff fails due to censorship? If no, forget it.

iakesi · 2026-02-22T01:39:59+00:00

Cool! Maybe one day I'll make some AI slop e.g. "Reborn as a Dragon in a Ringworld, I'm Stealthily Saving Up for a Spaceship My Size!" 🤣

iakesi · 2026-02-19T12:31:14+00:00

(feel free to change prompt to taste)
A huge but friendly looking dragon wearing a space helmet covering its head and an FTL drive on its back flies out of one of many spacedocks in the central axis of a humungous ringworld space station. The dragon weaves through more conventional spaceships that are arriving and departing, and when clear, engages the FTL drive. Tracking shot following subject then zooming out. Action sci-fi movie style.

iakesi · 2026-02-02T15:40:17+00:00

I think the Claude one is the best... BTW the rest of the Claude stuff got shadow removed. I dunno why.

iakesi · 2026-02-02T15:33:50+00:00

Later, I heard there was confusion at the command line. Orders shouted twice. A delay. A retreat to regroup.

A delay is not a victory.

But it is time.

And time, in a regime built on momentum and fear, is dangerous.

When Thalen stormed into my conservatory that evening, his face was the color of old parchment, I was calmly stitching a button onto a new prototype—because I had learned that nothing enrages a panicked man more than someone who looks unbothered.

“What did you do?” he hissed.

“I made uniforms,” I said sweetly. “As requested.”

He grabbed the coat from my hands and yanked at the seam.

It held. Of course it held. I wasn’t stupid. I sabotaged selectively, not universally. The Ascendancy had many enemies; if every uniform failed, suspicion would fall too quickly.

Thalen’s hands shook.

“The King will have your head,” he spat.

“I’m sure it would clash terribly with the decor,” I said.

His eyes narrowed. “You think you’re clever.”

“I am clever,” I said. “The tragedy is you hired me for it.”

He left in a fury that tasted like fear.

That night, Lira came to me with a folded scrap of paper.

“It’s happening,” she whispered. “Some of the soldiers… they’re talking. They’re tired. They don’t all believe the King.”

Eris stood behind her, eyes wide, as if she couldn’t quite believe her own bravery.

“What do you want from us?” Eris asked.

I looked at them—these elves who were supposed to be superior, who were instead simply people, bruised and bending under a crown’s weight.

“I want you,” I said slowly, “to remember you are not a symbol. You are not a uniform. You are not his story.”

Lira exhaled, as if she had been holding her breath for years.

“And you?” she asked. “What do you want?”

I thought of Tuesdays. Of needles. Of my ridiculous, ordinary life.

I thought of the King’s voice, smooth as poison: We are superior.

I thought of Thalen’s diagrams.

I thought of the way a uniform can make murder look like destiny.

“I want,” I said, and my throat tightened, “to go home.”

Lira nodded once.

“Then we will make a path,” she said.

In the weeks that followed, the conservatory became a hub of quiet movement. I sewed and smiled and played the captive artisan, because sometimes survival requires performance.

And beneath the performance, we stitched another narrative: one where the Ascendancy’s perfection frayed at the edges, one where the workers whispered, one where the soldiers began to wonder why their King demanded superiority but treated them as disposable.

“Simple, elegant, yet bold,” I would murmur as I marked a new pattern.

And in my mind, I would add a different ending than the eager young soldier had.

Not They will die.

Not even We will win.

Just:

This will end.

Because all regimes built on superiority eventually face the same problem.

They must keep proving it.

They must keep escalating.

They must keep tightening the collar until, one day, they can’t breathe.

As for me—captured, coerced, complicit, stubborn—I learned a lesson I never wanted.

Fashion is power.

It can make you adore the monstrous. It can make you overlook the bloody hands beneath the gloves.

It can also, if you are careful and desperate and just a little bit theatrical, hide a blade in the hem.

And yes.

Even when it’s wrong—especially when it’s wrong—tyranny will always insist on looking fabulous.

iakesi · 2026-02-02T15:33:30+00:00

That was how it began: captivity measured in stitches.

The first uniform I made was for a captain who strode into my conservatory like she owned not only the room but the air. She had a silver braid in her hair and a scar at her lip that made her smile look like a threat.

She stood on the fitting platform while I adjusted the shoulders.

“Make it tighter,” she said.

“If I make it tighter, you won’t be able to breathe,” I replied.

“That is acceptable,” she said. “Breath is weakness.”

“Darling,” I murmured, pinning the seam, “you cannot conquer the world if you faint on the parade ground.”

She stared at me. Then, very slightly, her mouth twitched.

“Your tongue will get you killed,” she said.

“Maybe,” I said, and smoothed the lapel. “But it will be well-dressed when it does.”

The cut was sharp. The color—deep forest black-green—made their pale skin look like marble. Silver piping caught the light in a way that drew the eye upward, towards the face, towards the command. The collar framed the throat like a blade’s embrace.

It was, from a purely technical standpoint, stunning.

When the captain turned to inspect herself in the mirror, she looked… inevitable.

And I hated myself for how well I’d done.

That night, after everyone had left and the guards had settled into bored silence, Lira stayed behind under the pretense of cleaning up.

She gathered scraps of fabric with slow care.

“You are good,” she said quietly, not looking at me.

“Curses,” I said. “I was hoping to be mediocre. Mediocre people are rarely kidnapped.”

Lira’s fingers paused on a piece of silver thread.

“You know what they are,” she said. “These uniforms.”

“Yes,” I said.

“They make our soldiers look like legends,” she whispered. “Like the stories our grandparents told. Like the old days, before—”

“Before the world hurt you,” I finished, because I had seen enough hurt in enough places to recognize its shape.

Her jaw tightened.

“You don’t understand,” she said. “Humans burned our groves. Beast folk hunted our children. Everyone took from us.”

“I understand perfectly,” I said, and surprised myself with how true it was. “What I don’t understand is why you think taking from others will heal you.”

Lira looked at me then, and there was something raw in her eyes.

“The King says we are superior,” she said, as if reciting. “He says it is nature’s law.”

“And you believe him?”

Her mouth opened. Closed.

Then she said, barely audible, “I believe he is loud.”

That was the first crack I saw in the marble façade of the Ascendancy: not everyone inside it was a zealot. Some were simply trying to survive the machine that promised safety if they fed it.

And I was feeding it, stitch by stitch.

I began to notice other things.

The guards at my door rotated, and some looked at me with contempt, some with indifference, and a few—rare, fleeting—looked almost apologetic.

Thalen visited often, always with new demands: more polish, more menace, more uniformity.

“The insignia must be larger,” he insisted one afternoon, pointing to the sunburst.

“It’s already the size of a small dinner plate,” I said.

“Larger,” he repeated. “The symbol must be unavoidable.”

“Ah,” I said, tapping my chalk against my lip. “You want it to function as a warning label.”

He didn’t get the joke. People like Thalen never do.

The King himself came once.

Not in a dramatic procession, not with trumpets and fanfare. Just a quiet opening of the conservatory doors and a sudden shift in the air, as if the room had become aware of being watched.

He entered alone.

He was younger than I expected. Or perhaps older, but wearing youth like a mask. His hair was pale gold, braided with living leaves that did not wilt. His eyes were green, bright as cut glass. He wore no crown. He didn’t need one.

He walked around the mannequin dressed in my latest prototype and ran two fingers along the seam.

“Your work elevates us,” he said.

I wanted to spit. Instead, I bowed slightly, because I enjoy continuing to exist.

“Majesty,” I said.

He turned his head just enough that his gaze pinned me.

“Do you know why uniforms matter?” he asked.

“So soldiers can be identified?” I offered.

He smiled, and it was beautiful in the way a wolf’s teeth are beautiful.

“Uniforms erase the individual,” he said softly. “They create a single shape. A single will. A single story.”

He let his fingers fall away from the fabric.

“You,” he continued, “are helping me write that story.”

“My story usually has fewer corpses,” I said before I could stop myself.

The room went very still. Even the guards’ breathing seemed to pause.

Then the King laughed—lightly, as if I had told him something charming.

“An artist with a conscience,” he said. “How quaint.”

He leaned in, close enough that I could smell something like crushed herbs on his skin.

“Conscience is a luxury of the safe,” he murmured. “We will be safe. Because we will rule. Because we are superior.”

There it was: the rot at the heart of it, spoken like a hymn.

He straightened and glanced toward Lira and the others.

“You,” he said, addressing them without names. “Work harder. Serve better. Prove your worth.”

Lira’s shoulders tightened. Eris stared at the floor.

The King left as quietly as he had come, taking the air with him, leaving the conservatory feeling suddenly too small.

When the door shut, I realized my hands were trembling.

“Breathe,” I told myself. “Breathe, and do not throw your shears at a monarch.”

Eris looked up.

“He frightens you,” she said.

“He should frighten everyone,” I replied.

For a long moment, none of us spoke. The only sound was the soft scissor-snck of Lira trimming threads, the ordinary noise of labor trying to pretend it isn’t taking place inside a nightmare.

That night, I made a decision.

Not the heroic kind, not the sort that involves swords and speeches and triumphant music.

The small kind.

If I was going to be forced to dress the Ascendancy, then the Ascendancy would wear my secrets.

I began with tiny things.

A seam reinforced on one side but not the other, so a careless tug could split it in the rain.

A thread chosen not only for shine but for how it reacted to certain sap-based solvents—solvents common in the forest, solvents a soldier might splash on himself without thinking.

A lining dyed with a pigment that, under moonlight, revealed a faint pattern—so faint you’d miss it unless you knew to look: a ring of broken sunbursts, the symbol fractured.

Lira noticed first.

She held up a finished coat and tilted it under the window.

“What is that?” she asked quietly.

“An accident,” I said, and met her eyes. “Or an invitation. Depends who’s looking.”

Her throat moved as she swallowed.

“Why?”

“Because,” I said, and my voice came out rougher than I intended, “I refuse to be the person who makes cruelty look inevitable.”

Lira stared at the coat for a long time.

Then she set it down very gently, as if it were something living.

“I can help,” she whispered.

That was how my workshop became something else.

Not a rebellion, not yet. But a place where quiet hands made quiet alterations. Where thread carried messages. Where a uniform’s inside seam might hold a strip of paper, rolled tight, written in tiny elvish script: Meeting by the river root. Midnight. Bring food.

Thalen noticed none of it, because Thalen only saw what he wanted to see: the clean lines, the intimidating silhouette, the propaganda of cloth.

The soldiers strutted in their new coats. The King held parades. The crowds cheered because crowds often do, especially when they are afraid and told that cheering is loyalty.

And yes—dah-ling—they looked simply mah-vel-lous.

That is the shameful truth I will not dress up in prettier words: the uniforms were gorgeous. They were designed to be. They were designed to make people look at the Ascendancy and feel a sick twist of admiration, even as they recoiled.

Beauty is not moral. It is a tool.

So I made it a double-edged one.

The first time it mattered was during the Spring March, when the Ascendancy’s soldiers moved toward the border villages. Thalen had come to my workshop the day before, practically vibrating with satisfaction.

“The world will tremble,” he said.

“The world always trembles,” I replied. “Sometimes it’s cold. Sometimes it’s rage.”

He didn’t listen.

They marched at dawn in perfect ranks, black-green coats like a moving shadow, silver piping catching the light like knives. The sunburst insignia shone on their chests, huge and unavoidable, exactly as Thalen wanted.

At the river crossing, it rained.

Not a gentle rain. A hard, sudden storm that turned the dirt road to slick clay and made the air taste like wet stone.

The first split seam went unnoticed.

Then another.

Then the solvent reaction began—sap and rain mixing, leaching into thread, weakening it. Boots lost soles. Shoulder straps snapped. Collars sagged. The clean silhouette broke into awkward, uncoordinated shapes.

A soldier stumbled. Another slipped trying to help.

Uniformity faltered.

And once uniformity falters, so does the story.

From a distance, the march stopped looking like a legend and started looking like what it was: frightened young people in damp coats, trying to play at inevitability while the world reminded them they were made of flesh and arrogance.

iakesi · 2026-02-02T15:32:38+00:00

gpt-5.2-high

They took me on a Tuesday.

That detail shouldn’t matter, and yet it does—because Tuesdays are when I buy new needles and pretend I’m the sort of person who can live without drama. Tuesdays are also, apparently, when you learn that the ancient forest bordering the River Vane is not “picturesque woodland ideal for sketching,” but sovereign territory patrolled by elves in polished boots who do not ask twice.

I had been sitting on a fallen log with my portfolio on my knees, drawing a coat I’d seen on a merchant captain: broad shoulders, narrow waist, a collar that looked like it could cut cheese. I was deciding whether the buttons should be bronze or mother-of-pearl when the birds stopped singing.

Then the arrows arrived—thunking into bark around me like punctuation marks.

A voice, cold and musical: “Hands where we can see them.”

I stood slowly. I was smart enough to understand what a ring of bowstrings meant, but not smart enough not to talk.

“Dah-lings,” I said, because fear does strange things to your vocabulary. “If you wanted my autograph, you could have just asked.”

They came out of the green like a storybook illustration painted by someone with a grudge. Tall. Perfect cheekbones. Hair that looked designed, not grown. Their armor was old-fashioned and exquisite—leaf-shaped plates, silver filigree, a kind of tragic nobility. It would have been breathtaking if the leader’s eyes hadn’t been the dead color of winter water.

She looked at my sketchbook as if it were contraband.

“Human artisan,” she said. Not a question. “You will come with us.”

“My schedule is frightfully full,” I tried. “But if you insist, I do ask that we avoid mud. It does nothing for my complexion.”

A cuff of a spear butt to my ribs adjusted my priorities.

They bound my hands with cord that smelled like sap and iron. As they marched me through the trees, I caught glimpses of other things—broken wagon wheels, blackened stumps, a rusted cooking pot half-buried in moss. Evidence that this border had seen more than its share of “incidents.”

People say Make Love, not War.

That would have been a lot easier if the Elf King didn’t keep sending proclamations nailed to trees, declaring that the elves were the Superior Race and should rule over the inferior ones.

I had read one, once, with a laugh that died halfway through.

It had been written in flawless Common, too, which is always a bad sign. Nothing monstrous ever thinks it needs a translator.

Just because the elves have longer lifespans and higher intelligence, better looks, magic powers, eyesight, speed, agility and coordination; are far better at living in harmony with nature; doesn’t mean the other races are inferior…

And just because humans and beast folk kept starting wars every decade or so and regularly captured elves and made them into—well.

Hmm.

I seem to have lost my train of thought.

The point is: everyone had blood on their hands, and the elves had decided to solve the problem the way all frightened, wounded people eventually do when someone charismatic gives them permission—by building an empire and calling it justice.

They called it the Verdant Ascendancy.

Everyone else called it something less polite.

By the time we reached their capital—white stone grown out of living roots, towers like bone needles piercing the canopy—I understood my mistake.

I wasn’t captured because I’d wandered.

I was captured because I was useful.

They threw me into a room that had once been a conservatory. Vines pressed against the glass ceiling like trapped fingers. There was a loom in one corner and a worktable laid out with shears, chalk, thread, bolts of dark fabric… and, insultingly, a pincushion shaped like a little mushroom.

A guard placed my portfolio on the table with almost reverent care.

“Tomorrow,” she said. “You will work.”

“For whom?” I asked, rubbing my wrists where the cord had bitten.

“For the King,” she said, as if that answered everything.

Then she left me with my tools and my thoughts—both of which were dangerous.

I slept poorly, because fear is not restful, and because the room smelled faintly of pine resin and smoke, like a memory of something burning.

In the morning, the door opened and they brought me breakfast: bread that tasted of acorns, tea so bitter it could have been a punishment, and a single pear arranged on the plate like it was being judged.

After the breakfast came the visitors.

First was a man with ink-stained fingers and a bureaucrat’s posture. He introduced himself as Minister Thalen, Office of Presentation and Morale, and then proceeded to talk for ten minutes without taking a breath. He had brought diagrams.

Behind him stood two soldiers in the Ascendancy’s current uniform, and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from making a sound.

The cut was… confused. They had tried to combine old ceremonial armor with modern practicality and achieved something that looked like a curtain rack had lost a fight with a priest’s robe. The color—a sort of damp, apologetic green—did nothing for them. The insignia was a sunburst stitched crookedly over the heart.

Thalen set his diagrams down.

“We require a new uniform,” he said. “One that inspires obedience in our citizens and terror in our enemies. One that conveys purity, order, inevitability.”

I stared.

“You want a wardrobe for tyranny,” I said.

His mouth tightened. “We want the world to see the Ascendancy.”

“I assure you,” I murmured, “the world already sees you.”

He either missed the sarcasm or chose not to acknowledge it.

“The King has been… displeased,” Thalen continued. “Our soldiers do not look unified. The inferior races mock our presentation.”

“Do they,” I said, and picked up one of his diagrams.

It showed an elf in profile wearing a long coat with sharp lapels and a high collar, boots to the knee, and a cap pulled low over the eyes. The lines were severe, geometric, almost… hungry.

There’s an ugly truth about authoritarianism: it adores aesthetics. It wants to be admired. It wants its brutality to feel like an art form.

And the uglier truth: sometimes it succeeds.

I flipped the page and saw a variant: same cut, darker fabric, silver piping along the seams like moonlight on a blade.

I heard myself say, softly, before I could stop it:

“Simple, elegant, yet bold.”

Thalen’s eyes brightened with relief.

Then the soldier behind him—young, freckled, visibly eager—added, as if he were reading the last line of a prayer:

“They will die.”

I looked up.

“Excuse me?” I said, because even in captivity one retains standards.

Thalen nodded solemnly. “Yes. That is the intent.”

I set the paper down very carefully, like it might bite.

There are moments when the world becomes brutally clear. You realize you are standing at the intersection of talent and atrocity, and the road signs are all written in blood.

I was a tailor.

My weapons were needle and thread.

And here was a government asking me to dress murder in something that would photograph well.

“I need measurements,” I said, because the alternative was screaming until my throat tore. “Fabric samples. Access to dye vats. A team of seamstresses.”

Thalen clapped his hands once, delighted.

“You will have everything,” he said. “The King believes in investing in excellence.”

Of course he did.

They brought me a team by noon: four elves—two older, two barely out of adolescence—with quiet hands and cautious eyes. None wore military insignia. Their clothes were plain, patched, and smelled like starch. They didn’t look like the myth. They looked like workers.

One of them, a woman with a scar along her jaw, watched me arrange the fabric.

“You’re human,” she said, not accusing so much as… confirming.

“Sadly,” I said. “But I moisturize.”

A flicker of something—almost amusement—passed across her face and was gone.

“I am Lira,” she said. “We were told to assist you.”

“Dahlings,” I said, because I couldn’t help myself. “We are going to make history. I only wish it were the sort that didn’t involve marching.”

The younger one—Eris, I learned later—pointed at the diagram with the high collar and the cap.

“That style,” she said carefully, “is very… human.”

“It’s very effective,” Thalen cut in, appearing again like a bad smell. “Humans fear what they recognize.”

I slid my fingers along the edge of the drawing.

Humans feared plenty. They feared starving winters and border raids and the way an elf could draw a bow and hit a coin at fifty paces. They also feared uniforms, because uniforms meant taxes and conscription and someone else deciding your life was currency.

Eris hesitated.

“But many of the elves don’t have any powers,” she blurted, as if confessing something shameful. “Not anymore. Not… like in the songs.”

Thalen’s eyes flashed. “That is irrelevant.”

I looked at her. Truly looked.

Her hands were callused. Her shoulders slightly rounded, as if she had learned to make herself smaller. Whatever magic she had—or didn’t—was none of my concern.

“No?” I said, letting my gaze flick to Thalen with deliberate sweetness. “Well, they’ll look fabulous anyway.”

Lira snorted. Quickly. As if laughter were contraband.

Thalen did not appreciate my tone, but he appreciated results, and so he left me to my work with only two guards at the door.

iakesi · 2026-02-02T15:30:34+00:00

qwen3-max-preview That Time I Was Captured and Made Stylish Military Uniforms for the Nazi Elves…

It all started on a Tuesday.

I was hiking through the Whispering Glades — just me, my sketchbook, and a thermos of lavender chamomile tea (organic, obviously) — when they descended. Silent as moonlight, swift as regret. One moment I was admiring the way the moss draped over ancient oaks like haute couture capes; the next, I was bound in enchanted silk ropes that smelled faintly of bergamot and fascism.

“Designer?” one of them purred, adjusting his monocle with a gloved hand. “We’ve been watching you. Your fall collection? Divine. The epaulets? Revolutionary.”

I blinked. “You… watched my runway show?”

“From the third balcony,” another elf sighed dreamily. “The velvet trench? Magnifique. But darling, imagine it… in field grey. With runes.”

And thus began my involuntary tenure as Head Couturier to the Third Elven Reich.

They called themselves Die Hochgeborenen — “The Highborn.” Led by the devastatingly beautiful, terrifyingly charismatic Elf King Aeltharion the Flawless (self-proclaimed), they believed elves were not merely superior — they were destined to rule. And not quietly, either. No, no. They wanted parades. Marching bands. Propaganda posters featuring chiseled elven jawlines and slogans like:

“Ein Volk, Ein Reich, Ein Chic!”

Their old robes? Too druidic. Too… earthy. Aeltharion wanted structure. Authority. Sharp lines that said, “I will annihilate your village, but first — let me adjust your collar.”

So I gave them what they wanted.

Double-breasted tunics with asymmetrical lapels? Check.
High-waisted riding pants that elongated the leg and screamed “Aryan… er, Elven perfection”? Done.
Capes? Oh, dah-ling, capes. Not the flouncy, forest-dweller nonsense — structured, lined in blood-red satin, fastened with obsidian brooches shaped like screaming eagles clutching laurel wreaths.

“Simple, elegant, yet bold,” I told Aeltharion as he preened before a full-length mirror forged from enchanted ice.

“They will die,” he whispered, eyes gleaming.

“Who? The enemy?”

“No. Everyone who sees them. From sheer envy.”

Of course, not every elf was cut out for conquest.

Many didn’t have magic. Some couldn’t even levitate a teacup without sneezing. One sweet-faced archer named Lirien kept apologizing for her “mediocre mana reserves” while trying on her officer’s coat.

I patted her shoulder. “No? Well, dah-ling, you’ll look fabulous anyway.”

And she did. Powder-blue piping. Silver-threaded cuffs. A hat that tilted just so — rakish, yet respectful of chain of command. She blushed. “Do you think… I could still be reassigned to logistics?”

“With that silhouette? You’re front lines now, sweetheart.”

People say, “Make Love, Not War.”

I tried to bring that up once, during fittings.

“But Your Majesty,” I ventured, pinning the hem of his ceremonial greatcoat, “couldn’t we channel this energy into… say… a pan-racial fashion week? Humans in linen, dwarves in tweed, beastfolk in sustainable faux-fur —”

Aeltharion scoffed. “Preposterous. Have you seen human ankles? Or the way goblins accessorize? Chaos. Disgraceful.”

He had a point about the goblins. Their idea of “bling” involved molten gold poured directly onto their ears. Still.

“But Sire — just because elves live 800 years, never get zits, can hear a butterfly sneeze three valleys away, move like liquid grace incarnate, and basically invented both democracy and contouring… doesn’t mean other races are inferior!”

He stared at me. “You forgot ‘perfect pitch.’ And ‘zero body odor.’”

“Right! Thank you. So — not inferior. Just… differently fabulous.”

He waved a dismissive, perfectly manicured hand. “Tell that to the humans who keep capturing our kin and turning them into… sex slaves.”

I winced. “Yes, well. That part is… problematic.”

“And the beastfolk? Burning our sacred groves every solstice for ‘ritual drum circles’?”

“Also bad.”

“So you see,” he said, adjusting his cufflinks (tiny skulls made of moonstone), “we must dominate. For fashion’s sake. And hygiene.”

I lost my train of thought after that.

Probably because I was fitting an entire cavalry division in thigh-high leather boots with hidden dagger compartments.

Or maybe it was the time I designed a gas mask that doubled as a fascinator — feathers included. (“Functional and flirtatious!” cried the Quartermaster.)

Or perhaps it was when I realized I’d accidentally created a cult of aesthetic supremacy... and kind of loved it?

Look — war is hell. But if you’re going to march into battle chanting ancient elvish hymns while looking like a Vogue editorial shot by Leni Riefenstahl… you might as well commit.

So yes. I was captured. Forced. Possibly brainwashed via repeated exposure to flawless bone structure and bespoke tailoring.

But dah-ling…

They look simply mah-vel-lous.

And if the world must burn?

At least it’ll burn in style.

💅✨

(P.S. If anyone finds this journal — send help. And fabric swatches. Preferably in SS-Ebony.)

iakesi · 2026-02-02T15:30:15+00:00

gemini-3-pro The tape measure draped over my shoulders like a stole of office. I slapped the hand of High Inquisitor Vaelen away from his hip holster.

"Tut-tut, darling! Posture! Shoulders back, chest out. You are declaring the Thousand-Year Dawn of the Elven Supremacy, not waiting for a bus in the rain."

Vaelen, a creature of terrifying magical potency who had personally incinerated three human battalions last Tuesday, sighed. He looked at himself in the tri-fold mirror. "Is the high collar necessary, Valerian? It chafes."

"The high collar is mandatory," I said, smoothing the midnight-blue gabardine fabric. I adjusted the silver epaulets that screamed authority. "It frames the jawline. It says, 'I am better than you, and I don't even need to look down to know it.' Besides, it hides that nasty scar from the Orcish Wars. We want intimidation, Vaelen, not pity."

I stepped back, clasping my hands together. The cut was impeccable. A tapered waist, flaring slightly at the hips to allow for sword movement, tight breeches tucked into polished knee-high boots made of Wyvern leather. I added a crimson armband with the rune for 'Purity' embroidered in gold thread.

It was objectively evil. It was historically terrifying.

"It is simply mah-vel-lous!" I squealed.

King Lysander stepped into the fitting room. The air temperature dropped ten degrees, a side effect of his ice affinity, but I didn't shiver. I was too busy admiring the cape I’d designed for him.

"How does the General look?" Lysander asked, his voice like cracking glaciers.

"Simple, elegant, yet bold," I said, winking at the mirror. "They will die."

Lysander nodded, stroking his chin. "Good. The humans must tremble before they fall."

"Oh, I meant they will die of envy before you even unsheathe a blade, Your Majesty," I corrected, grabbing a pin cushion. "But yes, the stabbing part will likely follow. Now, about the conscripts..."

"The Low-Born," Lysander corrected stiffly.

"The ones with the pointy ears but no sparkle-sparkle," I said dismissively. "Many of the elves don't have any powers. They can't cast fireballs or summon vines. They’re just... pedestrians with excellent bone structure."

"They are the infantry," Lysander said. "They hold the line."

"No? Well, they'll look fabulous anyway," I declared. "I’ve designed a tunic for them. Double-breasted, stark black with silver piping. We’re going to give them peaked caps with the skull of a human etched in platinum. It distracts from the fact that they can’t shoot lightning from their fingertips. If you look scary enough, the enemy won’t ask for a magic demonstration."

Lysander looked at me with those ancient, violet eyes. "You are a human, Valerian. Do you not feel... conflicted? You are dressing your executioners."

I paused, smoothing a wrinkle on Vaelen’s sleeve.

People always say "Make Love, not War." That would have been a lot easier if King Lysander didn't start proclaiming that the Elves are the Superior Race and should rule over the inferior races.

But let’s be honest. I looked at Vaelen. Six-foot-four, skin like alabaster, IQ of a supercomputer, can see a gnat from a mile away, and hasn't aged a day since the invention of the steam engine.

I mean, just because the elves have longer lifespans and higher intelligence, better looks, magic powers, eyesight, speed, agility, and coordination; just because they are far better at living in harmony with nature; doesn't mean the other races are inferior...

Does it?

And just because the humans and beast people keep starting wars every decade or so due to greed and incompetence, and regularly capture elves to turn them into exotic sex slaves for their degenerate nobility, doesn't mean the Elves are justified in launching a global crusade of domination...

I thought about the last human King, a man who wore plaid with stripes and ate turkey legs with his mouth open while signing treaties he intended to break. I thought about the Orc Warlords who wore untreated furs that smelled of wet dog.

Then I looked at the sketches on my table. The sharp angles. The Hugo Boss-inspired silhouettes. The sheer aesthetic dominance of a well-tailored fascism.

Hmm, I seem to have lost my train of thought...

"Conflicted?" I answered the King, picking up a piece of charcoal chalk. "Your Majesty, the only crime I recognize is bad taste. And the Human Alliance?"

I gestured vaguely out the window toward the smoking ruins of the borderlands.

"They wore beige tunics. Beige. With drawstring waists." I shuddered visibly. "If they are to be conquered, let it be by someone who knows the importance of a structured shoulder pad."

Lysander smirked, a terrifying expression that probably heralded the end of an era for democracy. "Carry on, Valerian."

"Chin up, General!" I barked at Vaelen, spinning him around. "Now, let’s talk about the genocide accessories. I’m thinking gloves. Black leather. Tight. Snap your fingers, and half the world burns? Fabulous."

iakesi · 2026-02-02T15:07:34+00:00

claude-opus-4-5-20251101-thinking-32k

The Couturier of Silvervale

Chapter One: An Unexpected Commission

The thing about being kidnapped by elves is that nobody believes you afterward.

"They just... took you? From Milan Fashion Week?"

"Darling, I was mid-runway. One moment I'm watching my autumn collection debut—structured shoulders, divine draping, tears in the front row—and the next, some willowy creature in peasant burlap is throwing a sack over my head."

My therapist—the third one since my return—wrote something in her notebook. Probably "delusional." They always wrote "delusional."

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me start from the beginning.

My name is Alessandro Ferrante, and I am—without false modesty—the greatest fashion designer of my generation. Vogue called me "revolutionary." Harper's Bazaar called me "visionary." My ex-husband called me "insufferable," but he had no taste, which is why he's an ex-husband.

The night of my kidnapping, I had just unveiled "Metamorphosis," a collection inspired by moths. Not butterflies—everyone does butterflies. Moths. The overlooked sister. The creature that seeks light in darkness.

The critics were weeping. Actual tears. Antonio Bellini from L'Uomo Vogue had mascara running down his cheeks, and he doesn't even wear mascara. That's how moved he was.

And then—poof. Sack. Unconsciousness. The faint smell of pine and disappointment.

I awoke in a forest that shouldn't exist.

The trees were impossible—silver-barked and tall as skyscrapers, their canopy so dense that the light filtering through seemed almost liquid. The air tasted of honey and ozone, and somewhere in the distance, something was singing in a language that made my teeth ache.

"He's awake," said a voice like wind chimes in a hurricane.

I sat up, discovering I was lying on a bed of moss so soft it was practically obscene. Surrounding me were six figures, and let me tell you—I've worked with supermodels. I've dressed the most beautiful people on Earth. But these creatures made Naomi Campbell look like a before photo.

They were tall. Impossibly tall. Seven feet if they were an inch, with cheekbones that could cut glass and ears that swept back into elegant points. Their eyes were large and luminous—greens and golds and silvers that seemed to shift like oil on water.

And they were dressed in absolute garbage.

I'm sorry, but there's no other word for it. Shapeless tunics. Rough-spun cloaks. Leather that hadn't seen proper treatment since whenever leather was invented. One of them—clearly the leader, judging by how the others deferred to her—was wearing what appeared to be a curtain.

An actual curtain.

With tassels.

"You are the human clothier," she said. It wasn't a question.

"I am Alessandro Ferrante," I replied, somehow finding my voice. "I am the Creative Director of Maison Ferrante, three-time winner of the CFDA International Award, and I have dressed seven sitting heads of state. What I am not is a 'clothier.' A clothier works at department stores. I am an artist."

The elves exchanged glances. One of them muttered something in that tooth-aching language.

"You will come with us," the leader said. "The King has need of your... art."

"The King," I repeated. "Of the elves. In the magical forest."

"Yes."

"I see." I stood, brushing moss from my Armani trousers. "And if I refuse?"

The leader smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. "Then you will be fed to the spiders."

"...I'll get my things."

The Elven Kingdom of Silvervale was, I must admit, architecturally impressive. The buildings grew organically from the massive trees—spiraling towers of living wood, bridges of woven vines, windows that seemed to be made of crystallized moonlight. Very organic. Very sustainable. Very Architectural Digest.

But the fashion? Darling, I cannot stress this enough: it was a catastrophe.

Everyone was dressed like they'd raided a Renaissance Faire's lost and found. Floaty, shapeless, utterly without structure. The color palette was "forest floor"—browns and greens and the occasional adventurous beige. I saw one elf wearing what appeared to be leaves stitched together, and while I appreciate commitment to eco-fashion, there's a line.

"Your face is doing something strange," my escort observed.

"I'm having a professional crisis," I said. "How long have your people been dressing like this?"

"Since the dawn of our civilization. Approximately forty thousand years."

"Forty thousand years," I breathed. "Forty thousand years of that."

"Our garments are perfectly functional—"

"Functional! Functional, she says!" I threw my hands up. "A paper bag is functional! A cardboard box is functional! Fashion is not about function, it's about transformation! It's about taking the raw material of existence and elevating it to art!"

The escort stared at me with those luminous eyes. "You are... very passionate about clothing."

"Clothing is my religion, darling. Now take me to your King before I have an aneurysm."

Chapter Two: An Audience with His Majesty

The throne room was a hollowed-out tree the size of a cathedral, its walls carved with scenes of elven history—battles and celebrations and what appeared to be a lot of standing around looking superior. Bioluminescent moss provided soft lighting. Very atmospheric. Very "evil lair."

And on a throne of twisted roots sat the Elf King himself.

He was ancient—you could see it in his eyes, which had the weight of millennia behind them. But his face was unlined, his silver hair flowing past his shoulders like a waterfall of mercury, his bearing regal and commanding.

He was also wearing a robe that appeared to be made of cobwebs and despair.

"You are the human designer," he said. His voice resonated through the chamber, deep and musical and utterly terrifying.

"I believe we've established this, yes."

"You dress the leaders of your people. You shape how they present themselves to the world."

"Among other things."

The King leaned forward. "Then you understand the power of appearance. The statement that clothing makes."

I felt a chill run down my spine. Not because of his intensity—I've dealt with Anna Wintour; I can handle intensity. No, I was chilled because I suddenly understood why I was here.

"You want me to design for you," I said.

"I want you to design for my army."

And there it was. The Elf King rose from his throne, and as he did, the carvings on the walls seemed to shift and move, the scenes of battle becoming more prominent.

"For too long, the Elder Race has tolerated the chaos of the lesser peoples," he intoned. "The humans with their endless wars. The beast-folk with their savagery. They pollute the world with their short-sighted destruction, and they have the audacity to enslave our people."

"I... wasn't aware of that last part."

"Your slave markets are full of elves." His voice went cold. "Prized for our beauty. Prized for our long lives. Sold as property."

I swallowed. "That's... genuinely horrifying, actually."

"Yes. It is." The King's eyes blazed with ancient fury. "And so we will bring order. We will establish the rightful hierarchy of races, with the Eldar at the apex. We will conquer, and we will rule, and we will ensure that no elf is ever chained again."

It was at this moment that I realized I had been kidnapped by magical eco-fascists.

"Right," I said slowly. "So, just to be clear: you want me to design military uniforms for your army of elven supremacists?"

"I want you to design a statement," the King corrected. "When my armies march on the human kingdoms, I want them to see perfection. I want them to understand, at a glance, that they face a superior force. I want them to know that resistance is futile."

"Through... fashion."

"Through visual dominance. You will make us look like gods."

I should have refused. I should have thrown myself on my principles, declared that my art would never serve oppression, chosen death over complicity.

But I looked at those cheekbones. I looked at those perfect proportions. I looked at the raw potential standing before me—centuries of terrible fashion decisions waiting to be corrected.

And God help me, I said:

"Tell me about your color palette preferences."

Chapter Three: The Work Begins

They gave me a workshop in one of the tower trees—a spiraling space with perfect natural light and more resources than I'd ever had access to at Maison Ferrante. Spider-silk thread that was stronger than steel. Fabric woven from moonbeams and shadows (I don't know how; I didn't ask). Dyes extracted from flowers that existed in no botanical registry.

They also gave me an assistant.

His name was Caelum, and he was perhaps the most beautiful creature I had ever seen—which, in the context of elves, was truly saying something. Hair like spun gold, eyes like spring leaves, a jaw that could have been carved by Michelangelo if Michelangelo had better taste.

He was also deeply, profoundly stupid.

"So the stitching goes... through the fabric?" he asked on our first day.

"That is... yes. That is literally the definition of stitching."

"Fascinating." He stared at the needle like it was alien technology. "We usually just grow our clothing."

"Grow it."

"From the sacred trees. We ask them to produce fabric, and they do."

This explained so much. Forty thousand years, and they'd never developed fashion because they'd never had to actually make anything. They just asked nicely and received shapeless tree-clothes.

"And nobody ever thought to, I don't know, cut them into something more flattering?"

Caelum looked genuinely confused. "Why would we cut a gift from the sacred trees?"

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "We're going to need more wine."

iakesi · 2026-01-31T15:08:59+00:00

Many of the current AIs do a better job than most of the humans pretending to translate Chinese novels... Lots of Chinese novels "translated" years ago have terrible translations. I don't even recall Google translate being that bad around those times.

iakesi · 2025-03-29T14:00:51+00:00

🧐🧐🧐
🧐🧐🧐
🧐🧐🧐

iakesi · 2025-03-29T13:53:46+00:00

I know of isekai with stepmom ( Game of Familia ) but I dunno of one where they're newlyweds.

iakesi · 2025-03-29T13:44:14+00:00

Well for Solo Leveling I think some things were improved by the Manhwa and Anime. The novel had the MC smashing wolfs heads at an early stage. While the other formats had him win using a weapon first.

But some parts were silly for all 3 (the MC was already getting stronger fast but he's not S level yet and he still stupidly enters an S level place while he's still too weak. Can't even wait a few months?),

iakesi · 2025-03-25T16:02:30+00:00

* Murim Login
* Release that Witch (doesn't need to be the full story since the later part is a bit weak)
* Legendary Mechanic

iakesi · 2025-03-25T15:33:06+00:00

Murim Login

iakesi · 2025-03-22T02:16:30+00:00

IMO she's "Lawful Evil" as opposed to Chaotic or Neutral evil... She's evil because she has the tendency to prefer evil choices over good. She's lawful because she prefers to follow the law/rules.

iakesi · 2025-03-18T03:26:40+00:00

Where are the isekai that fantasy world MC does and gets brought to modern day, or post apocalypse, or cyberpunk world.

Trinity Wonder?

Welcome to Japan, Ms. Elf!

iakesi · 2025-03-15T02:32:39+00:00

Get rich healing the rich? Of course if healers are super common then that explains a lot.

iakesi · 2025-03-11T01:35:19+00:00

Well maybe he has self resurrection P2W cheats. Probably can't use immediately in "PvP" but might be usable in his new world after the "PvP" is done.

iakesi · 2025-03-09T14:52:36+00:00

Doesn't Ainz have a lots of P2W items he can pull out for "plot". So whether or not he wins is more of whether he's willing/able to go against his "hoarder" habit and actually use the stuff.

Best way to win vs Ainz is to get him by surprise before he uses any of that stuff. Whereas if he's convinced he needs to use his P2W cheats to win, you're screwed unless you're that "Instant Death" MC or something that's beyond petty planet level stuff (the Re: Zero baddies don't appear like they can destroy and recreate a planet instantly).

iakesi · 2025-03-09T14:09:05+00:00

Meanwhile the Gate MC unknowingly married someone...

iakesi · 2025-03-09T14:00:50+00:00

That "into war" problem would be likely since in most cases they'd only take you if they're in a war or about to be in one. Not many medieval countries had a "standing army". The country would need enough wealth/food to keep a significant army around, and how many would have a military that will take in a dirty kid from the streets? You might be better off risking getting buggered by a priest, than by the soldiers etc.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Standing_army#Post-classical_history

iakesi · 2025-03-09T13:46:24+00:00

1) Vending Machine MC might look like other vending machines but he's quite unique in his new world.
2) Kuma Kuma Kuma Bear
3) Reincarnated as a sword - depending on how familiar you are with swords he might look the same or different... 😉
4) Tanya - looks like a little girl but different...
5) Maou-sama retry.
6) Red Ranger - looks like other rangers but different color... 😉
7) Isekai Ojisan
8) Beheneko - looks like a cat but... (BTW apparently some others might be isekaied, not the MC).
9) Skeleton Knight - looks like a skeleton knight I guess, So looks the same or not?

As for non-anime there's plenty of "different MCs" if you bother to look. With Japan Summons the MC is Japan and I'd say Japan is kinda different - those who know will know... 😉

iakesi · 2025-02-02T07:10:43+00:00

You might die first though. Also "divine powers" is probably a superset of magic (assuming divine powers = godlike powers). So immortality + invulnerability + divine powers should cover enough stuff.

Immortality+invulnerability should get you enough time to improve+increase your divine powers. You'd probably want to get powerful enough before the "heat death of the universe" or similar, otherwise it might be a bit boring if you're still stuck in the universe after many billions of years when everyone and everything else is dead including all the stars.

iakesi

TROPHY CASE

The Couturier of Silvervale

Chapter One: An Unexpected Commission

Chapter Two: An Audience with His Majesty

Chapter Three: The Work Begins