Contents
About Prompt
- Prompt Type – Scene-by-Scene
- Prompt Platform – Google Veo
- Language – English
- Category – Video/Story
- Prompt Title – VEO 3 Prompt – Wrath of the Thunder God
Prompt Details
🎬 Scene 1
The world is a symphony of grey and green, a maelstrom of elemental fury captured in a single, breathtaking tableau. We are on the precipice of existence, a jagged clifftop known as the Titan’s Tooth, where the ancient land of Albion makes its last stand against the churning, merciless expanse of the Northern Sea. The air is thick, not just with the salt spray that erupts from the waves crashing against the obsidian rock hundreds of feet below, but with an almost palpable sense of ozone and foreboding. The sky is a canvas of bruised purples and slate greys, a ceiling of roiling, pregnant clouds that move with unnatural speed, as if stirred by a colossal, unseen hand. Rain, cold and sharp as needles, falls not in a sheet but in diagonal, wind-whipped lashes that sting the skin and soak everything in their path. At the very edge of this cliff stands a solitary figure, a beacon of defiance against the storm’s onslaught. This is Elara. Her form, though slender, is anchored to the rock with a strength that belies her frame. The wind tears at her, moulding her white and green linen robes against her body one moment, then whipping them out like violent flags the next. The silver threads embroidered into the fabric, depicting ancient symbols of storms and spirals, seem to catch what little ambient light there is, glinting with a faint, ethereal luminescence. Her dark brown hair, intricately braided and held by silver clasps, has been partially unravelled by the gale, sending loose strands whipping across her face, but she does not flinch. Her face is a study in resolute determination; high cheekbones, a firm jaw, and eyes the colour of moss in a hidden forest, all set with an intensity that seems to challenge the heavens themselves. Before her is a crude, monolithic altar of granite, weathered by centuries of such storms. Its surface is slick with rain, and carved into it are deep, spiralling patterns that channel the water into a central depression, now overflowing. One of her hands rests upon its cold, wet surface, her knuckles white, grounding herself. The other hand is clenched into a fist at her side. Every detail of the scene is rendered with hyper-realistic clarity: the individual droplets of rain clinging to the wiry heather and tough grasses at her feet, the complex textures of the lichen growing in the crevices of the altar, the way the seafoam creates intricate, fleeting patterns on the waves below. The world feels both ancient and immediate, a place where the veil between the mortal and the divine is perilously thin.
🎵 Tone: Defiant
🎬 Scene 2
In direct response to her cry of defiance, the heavens themselves seem to pause. The chaotic, directionless swirling of the storm clouds begins to coalesce, drawing together with an impossible, terrifying purpose. It is not a natural phenomenon; it is a conscious act of creation, a gathering of power on a scale that defies mortal comprehension. Directly above the Titan’s Tooth, the churning slate-grey clouds writhe and twist, forming vast, continent-sized eddies. Streaks of internal, cold blue lightning illuminate the mass from within, revealing impossible depths and structures. Then, with the slow, inexorable dread of a mountain rising from the sea, a face begins to form. It is a visage of unimaginable scale, carved not from flesh and bone, but from the very essence of the storm. His hair and beard are billowing cumulonimbus clouds, perpetually in motion, with tendrils of pure white lightning arcing and snapping between the strands like divine synapses. His brow is a heavy shelf of dark storm front, furrowed in an expression of absolute, cosmic rage. His nose and cheeks are sculpted from the dense, grey mass of the thunderhead, and when his mouth opens, it is a dark cavern within the clouds from which a low, guttural thunder emanates. But it is his eyes that command the most terror. They are not orbs, but two brilliant, blindingly intense arcs of raw electricity, a searing blue-white that burns against the darkness of the sky. They focus down on the clifftop, and in their light, the tiny figure of Elara is bathed in a stark, unforgiving celestial glare. The scale is breathtakingly epic; Elara is an ant looking up at a god whose face fills the entire sky, her individual defiance rendered almost absurd by his sheer, overwhelming presence. The air pressure drops, creating a strange silence in the eye of this focused rage, the wind momentarily ceasing as all the storm’s energy is drawn into this divine manifestation. The world below is cast into deep shadow, lit only by the pulsating, angry light of the Thunder God’s gaze.
🎵 Tone: Ominous
🎬 Scene 3
Uncowed by the colossal, furious visage that fills the heavens, Elara performs her next action with a priestess’s solemn, practiced grace. Her movements are a stark contrast to the chaotic fury of the god above; they are precise, deliberate, and imbued with ancient ritual. She turns from the altar, her green and white robes swirling around her ankles, and kneels on one knee beside a small, moss-covered satchel she had placed near the base of the monolith. The fabric of the satchel is dark, oiled leather, glistening with rainwater. With steady hands, she unfastens a clasp made of polished deer antler. The camera focuses on the intricate details of her actions: the slight tremble in her fingers, not from fear, but from the thrumming energy in the air; the way the water drips from her braided hair onto the leather. She reaches inside and retrieves an object. It is not a weapon in the traditional sense, but a shield. Or rather, a large, circular buckler, perhaps two feet in diameter. It is made of a strange, milky-white material that seems to be neither wood nor metal, almost like polished, petrified bone or ancient marble. The surface is not smooth but is covered in a complex, interlocking latticework of silver and what looks like copper, forming a pattern that mirrors the spirals on the altar. At its center is a large, uncut, smoky quartz crystal, held in place by a cage of silver tendrils. As she lifts it, the artifact seems to drink the ambient, stormy light. The silver filigree gleams with a soft, internal radiance, and the central crystal pulses with a faint, gentle light, like a sleeping heart. She rises to her feet, her posture now even more resolute. She grips the shield’s leather straps on the back, her knuckles pressing into the worn material, and holds it before her, not in a defensive cower, but as a proclamation. It is an answer to the god’s overwhelming presence, a piece of mortal defiance made manifest. The air around the shield begins to shimmer, distorting the view of the stormy sea behind her, a subtle but clear indication that this is no ordinary object; it holds a power of its own.
🎵 Tone: Resolute
🎬 Scene 4
From his vantage point in the heavens, the cloud-god Taranis observes the presentation of the shield. A low, rumbling sound, the divine equivalent of a contemptuous chuckle, echoes across the sky, shaking the very cliffs. The electrical arcs of his eyes narrow, a flicker of something that might be curiosity mixed with profound disdain. To him, this mortal relic is a child’s toy, a pathetic bauble offered up against the infinite power of the storm. He decides to display the sheer futility of her gesture. He does not even deign to use his mighty staff. Instead, with a subtle twitch of his storm-cloud brow, he summons a fraction of his power. A single, brilliant white tendril of lightning, no thicker than a man’s arm, detaches itself from the crackling chaos of his beard. It is not a wild, jagged bolt, but a controlled, almost surgical strike. It descends from the heavens with a sound like tearing silk, moving with an unnatural, almost serpentine grace. Its target is not Elara herself—a direct hit would be too merciful, too quick. The target is the ground mere feet from where she stands. The bolt strikes the granite clifftop with an explosive crack that is deafeningly loud and sharp. For a split second, the world is bleached of all colour, overwhelmed by a flash of pure, white light. The impact sends a shower of razor-sharp stone shards and superheated steam erupting into the air. The ground where it hit is instantly blackened, a spiderweb of fracture lines spreading out from a newly formed, glassy crater of fulgurite. The shockwave of the blast hits Elara like a physical blow, staggering her and forcing her back a step. The air is filled with the acrid smell of ozone and burnt rock. The warning is unequivocal, a casual demonstration of power so immense that it requires no effort. It is a god swatting at a fly, not to kill, but to remind it of its place. The afterimage of the flash burns in the viewer’s vision, and the ringing in the ears from the thunderclap is slow to fade, leaving a profound sense of mortal fragility.
🎵 Tone: Threatening
🎬 Scene 5
The ringing in her ears is a shrill scream, and the acrid smell of ozone burns her nostrils. Smoke and steam rise from the blackened, glassy crater just paces from her feet. Shards of granite are embedded in the earth around her like malevolent teeth. For a moment, the sheer, concussive force of the god’s casual warning has stunned her, her body trembling with the aftershock. But as the smoke clears, her expression is not one of fear. It is a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. The god’s contempt has not broken her spirit; it has forged it into something harder, something sharper. She plants her feet, digging her leather-soled shoes into the damp earth for a better purchase. She straightens her back, rising to her full height, a column of mortal indignation against the backdrop of divine tyranny. Her green eyes, which had been wide with the initial shock, now narrow into slits of burning emerald fire. She lifts her chin, her jaw set so tightly a muscle pulses in her cheek. The shield, still clutched in her hand, seems to respond to her renewed conviction. The faint light within its central crystal brightens, the smoky quartz now glowing with the intensity of a hot coal. The silver filigree on its surface begins to hum with a low, resonant energy, the sound almost inaudible beneath the storm but felt as a vibration through her arm. She takes a deep breath, the cold, rain-soaked air filling her lungs, and then she unleashes a shout that is not just a sound, but a raw projection of will. It is a cry that comes from the very soul of her people, from generations of suffering under the capricious whims of a storm god. It cuts through the wind and the rumbling thunder, a sharp spear of defiance aimed directly at the heart of the storm. Her entire being is focused in this single, climactic act of insolence, a mortal staring into the face of a god and refusing to blink, refusing to bow, refusing to be anything less than his equal in spirit, if not in power.
🎵 Tone: Furious
🎬 Scene 6
Her words, a pinprick of insolence in the face of infinite power, have an astonishing effect. The rumbling amusement in the sky ceases. The vast, cloudy face of Taranis contorts, his expression shifting from arrogant disdain to pure, incandescent rage. The casual cruelty is gone, replaced by a focused, terrifying wrath. The entire sky darkens as if a switch has been thrown. The bruised purples and greys are consumed by an unnatural, inky blackness that swallows the light. This is no longer a storm; it is the apocalypse in miniature. The clouds that form Taranis’s body begin to churn violently, no longer a coherent shape but a vortex of raw, chaotic energy. The very air becomes supercharged, and the tiny hairs on Elara’s arms and neck stand on end as the static potential builds to an unbearable level. Taranis raises a colossal arm, a limb made of swirling thunderheads and galactic dust. In his grasp is his staff—a gnarled, ancient oak branch the size of a mountain peak, which now glows with an impossible, blinding energy. Runes etched into its bark burn with blue-white fire. He draws power from the entirety of his domain; lightning from a thousand miles away is pulled into him, streaking across the blackened sky and converging on the head of his staff. The energy builds into a blinding sphere of pure, compressed lightning, a miniature sun of destructive potential. The sphere crackles and spits, warping the air around it, bending light and emitting a keening, high-pitched scream that vibrates in the teeth. The sea below reacts to the gathering power, its surface whipped into a frenzy of towering, monstrous waves that crash against the cliffs with the force of meteors. The world is reduced to a terrifying symphony of black sky, raging water, and the single, blinding point of light in the god’s hand—a promise of absolute annihilation aimed at the lone mortal who dared to challenge him.
🎵 Tone: Apocalyptic
🎬 Scene 7
The moment of terrible creation is over; the time for annihilation has come. With a final, guttural roar that is both a word and a physical force, Taranis brings his staff down in a devastating arc. The sphere of condensed lightning, a sun-hot ball of pure divine wrath, is unleashed. It does not descend as a jagged, chaotic bolt. It is a focused, perfectly straight, colossal beam of energy, wider than the altar Elara stands beside. It erupts from the heavens with a speed that is almost faster than sight, a pillar of incandescent blue-white energy that punches a hole through the very fabric of the storm. As it travels, it superheats the air around it, creating a visible, shimmering sheath of plasma and a deafening, continuous sonic boom that cracks the very stone of the cliff. The light it emits is absolute, erasing all shadows, bleaching the world to stark black and white for an eternal instant. From Elara’s perspective, it is as if the sky itself is falling upon her, a roaring, unstoppable column of pure destruction. There is nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. The sheer power radiating from the beam is immense; the rain around her vaporises into hissing steam before it can touch the ground, the heather and grass at her feet wither and turn to ash, and the surface of the granite altar begins to glow with heat. Time seems to stretch and distort, the six seconds of the scene feeling like an eternity. Every detail of the beam is visible: the swirling, chaotic energy within its core, the smaller tendrils of lightning that lick out from its sides, the way it ionizes the air, creating a ghostly blue-purple halo. It is the ultimate expression of a god’s fury, a force meant not just to kill, but to erase, to utterly obliterate any trace of the mortal who had dared to defy him. It is the wrath of the thunder god made manifest, a torrent of celestial fire descending upon a single, solitary point of resistance.
🎵 Tone: Climactic
🎬 Scene 8
The universe holds its breath as the god’s wrath meets the mortal’s will. The colossal beam of lightning strikes the small, milky-white shield. The impact is not the explosion one would expect. It is a moment of impossible, sublime absorption. As the celestial energy makes contact, the silver and copper filigree on the shield’s surface flares to life, glowing with the intensity of a welder’s arc. The intricate spiral patterns become channels, conduits for the raw power of the storm. The lightning does not shatter the shield; it flows into it. The central smoky quartz crystal, which had been glowing like a coal, now erupts with blinding, white light. It acts as the focus, the heart of the artifact, drawing the entirety of the god’s furious blast into its core. A dome of translucent, shimmering energy, tinged with gold, expands outwards from the shield, deflecting the concussive force and superheated plasma around Elara. She is at the center of a small, protected bubble, her body straining with the effort of holding the artifact steady. Her knuckles are bone-white, her teeth are gritted, and her arms tremble violently under the titanic strain. The veins on her arms and neck stand out, and a faint blue light seems to course through them, as if the shield’s power is flowing through her as well. The ground around her cracks and buckles under the deflected energy, but she and the shield hold. The scene is a breathtaking visual spectacle: the roaring, descending pillar of blue-white divine energy pouring into the tiny, glowing golden nexus of the shield. Energy tendrils whip and dance across the surface of the protective dome. The sheer physics of the event are impossible, magical, a testament to the ancient power woven into the artifact. For these few seconds, a mortal priestess and her sacred shield are successfully holding back the full, focused fury of a god, creating a stalemate that is as beautiful as it is terrifying.
🎵 Tone: Heroic
🎬 Scene 9
Containment is not the artifact’s only function. The shield was not designed merely to defend, but to answer. After a few seconds of absorbing the god’s seemingly limitless power, the artifact reaches its capacity. The humming sound it emits rises in pitch, becoming a piercing, high-frequency whine. Cracks of pure, golden energy begin to spiderweb across the surface of the central crystal. The milky-white material of the shield itself becomes translucent, revealing a network of glowing, golden circuits within. Elara feels the shift, a violent build-up of pressure in her arm, in her chest. She knows she cannot hold it any longer. With a final, desperate cry born of pain and effort, she gives in to the shield’s intent. The dome of protective energy collapses inward, all of its power, along with the entirety of Taranis’s lightning bolt, being drawn back into the crystal in a single, violent instant. For a microsecond, there is an absolute, deafening silence and a point of perfect, white light where the shield is. Then, it detonates. It is not an explosion of fire and shrapnel, but a pure, concussive shockwave of untainted energy. A perfect, rapidly expanding ring of golden light erupts from the shield, parallel to the ground. It vaporises the top layer of the cliff, shearing off rock and turning the altar to dust. Simultaneously, the energy that was absorbed is redirected. With the force of a cannon, a massive, brilliant white-and-gold beam of energy, thicker and more potent than the one Taranis had thrown, erupts from the face of the shield and fires straight back up the path it came, directly towards the god’s face in the clouds. This is not divine lightning; it is something else, something purified and amplified, the god’s own power turned back on him, magnified by the ancient magic of the earth. The upward-blasting beam is so bright it momentarily turns the black sky to a brilliant, overexposed white.
🎵 Tone: Triumphant
🎬 Scene 10
The golden beam of purified energy, a spear of mortal defiance, strikes the colossal face in the clouds with unimaginable force. The impact is spectacular. The swirling clouds that form Taranis’s features are blasted apart, not like smoke, but like a solid thing shattering. For a moment, his expression of divine rage is frozen, replaced by one of genuine shock and pain. The brilliant blue arcs of his eyes flicker and die. The entire celestial construct destabilises, the cohesive form dissolving back into a chaotic, directionless mass of storm clouds. The god is thrown backward, not just a physical movement but a metaphysical one, his very presence and influence violently repelled from the mortal plane. As his form dissipates, the unnatural darkness he had summoned breaks. Golden shafts of sunlight, the first seen all day, pierce through the thinning clouds, illuminating the scene of the battle. The black sky gives way to a bruised but clearing twilight. The raging sea begins to calm, the monstrous waves subsiding into a more natural, rhythmic swell. Below, on the sheared and smoking clifftop, Elara collapses to her knees. The shield falls from her grasp, clattering onto the rock. It is now dull and inert, the central crystal dark and fractured, the silver filigree blackened and scorched. The power is spent. Elara is breathing in ragged, heavy gasps, her body trembling with exhaustion and adrenaline. Her robes are torn, her face is smudged with soot, and a trickle of blood runs from her nose, but she is alive. She slowly, painfully, lifts her head and looks up at the clearing sky, watching the last vestiges of the thunder god’s wrathful storm being chased away by the gentle light of the setting sun. A faint, weary, but victorious smile touches her lips. The wind that now blows against her face is no longer a gale of divine fury, but a cool, clean sea breeze, carrying the promise of a peaceful dawn.
🎵 Tone: Victorious