Placeholder: [psychedelic pixel illustration by Jannell Jaquays with Solstice colour palette] the medieval framer merchant stands in front of his farmstand, full of fruits and vegetables [psychedelic pixel illustration by Jannell Jaquays with Solstice colour palette] the medieval framer merchant stands in front of his farmstand, full of fruits and vegetables

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@generalpha

Prompt

[psychedelic pixel illustration by Jannell Jaquays with Solstice colour palette] the medieval framer merchant stands in front of his farmstand, full of fruits and vegetables

distorted image, malformed body, malformed fingers

2 months ago

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Model

SSD-1B

Guidance Scale

7

Dimensions

1024 × 1024

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Within the cozy confines of the inn, nestled deep in the shire's sheltering valleys, the cheerful hobbit sexy girl stood drying mugs behind the well-worn counter. Before him sat his own stein, steaming gently in the firelight. Dark as finest bogwater was the elixir within, crowned with foam delicate as new-fallen snow. Slow spirals rose as it breathed, perfuming the air with notes beyond any grown in the gardens of the Halflings: deep and mysterious as tilled earth, spiced with hints of cocoa
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[coffee] In the Inn, the smiling hobbit worked behind the bar. Though small in stature, none was more joyful in service. His eyes, bright as sunrise and always upturned in mirth, inspected beans from distant lands. From the machine poured drinks like liquid gold. Each shot drew from him a chuckling sniff, scents of exotic hills filling his head. With care he textured cream, lips still smiling as lofty peaks crowned. Patrons gathered round pots steaming, laughter echoing as in a hobbit-h
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In the bustling inn, the lively hobbit worked tirelessly behind the counter. Though small in stature like all of his kind, he performed his duties with great skill and care. When weighing the beans, his large hairy feet moved deftly. His eyes, often wide with childlike wonder, keenly examined each bean. Into the grinder they went, ground to just the right texture - neither too fine nor too coarse. Under his fingers, the machine sang a steady song as the shots were pulled. The crema
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[coffee] In the Inn, the smiling hobbit worked behind the bar. Though small in stature, none was more joyful in service. His eyes, bright as sunrise and always upturned in mirth, inspected beans from distant lands. From the machine poured drinks like liquid gold. Each shot drew from him a chuckling sniff, scents of exotic hills filling his head. With care he textured cream, lips still smiling as lofty peaks crowned. Patrons gathered round pots steaming, laughter echoing as in a hobbit-h
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