Placeholder: In the depths of a mystical forest, where shadows danced with secrets and whispers lingered in the air, a guru in robe with no head emerged. His body was covered by intricate tattoos that seemed to pulse with ancient wisdom, and a large sundial adorned his chest, marking time in a realm untouched by the ticking clock of mortal men. In the depths of a mystical forest, where shadows danced with secrets and whispers lingered in the air, a guru in robe with no head emerged. His body was covered by intricate tattoos that seemed to pulse with ancient wisdom, and a large sundial adorned his chest, marking time in a realm untouched by the ticking clock of mortal men.

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Prompt

In the depths of a mystical forest, where shadows danced with secrets and whispers lingered in the air, a guru in robe with no head emerged. His body was covered by intricate tattoos that seemed to pulse with ancient wisdom, and a large sundial adorned his chest, marking time in a realm untouched by the ticking clock of mortal men.

distorted image, malformed body, malformed fingers

6 days ago

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SSD-1B

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7

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1024 × 1024

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In the depths of a mystical forest, where shadows danced with secrets and whispers lingered in the air, a guru in robe with no head emerged. His body was covered by intricate tattoos that seemed to pulse with ancient wisdom, and a large sundial adorned his chest, marking time in a realm untouched by the ticking clock of mortal men.
Elves were once a high-status race. But they kept their distance, rarely mingling with other races, and for that reason they were viewed as condescending of the beastlike creatures and the human folk alike. Perhaps that was their ultimate downfall, or maybe it was their perceived threat. The true reason was lost to history, and what remained was but a shadow of what they once were.
Reflections at Journey's End The glade fades into memory as duty's summons draw me outward once again. Beneath emerald bowers I linger yet, senses drinking deep of forest's balms before steel shell enfolds this pilgrim soul. Fiona stands beside, eyes shining bright as any noon with care and solace rendering parting bittersweet. Her touch upon an alloy bough reminds of glades left greening in my soul's safe hold. "Duty calls you, yet the glade remains - as does its spirit guiding your true course
Elves were once a high-status race. But they kept their distance, rarely mingling with other races, and for that reason they were viewed as condescending of the beastlike creatures and the human folk alike. Perhaps that was their ultimate downfall, or maybe it was their perceived threat. The true reason was lost to history, and what remained was but a shadow of what they once were.
For centuries, the Keeper had stood guard, a silent witness to the passage of time, to the rise and fall of empires, to the fleeting nature of mortality. Yet, in this moment, as the petals danced like flames in the darkness, the Keeper felt a stirring within the void of his chest—a whisper of something that felt like sorrow, or perhaps, longing.
a dark figure covered in a black fur-lined cloak hood drawn over her head, making her clearly not visible to anyone who might catch sight of the woman as she pulled her white-steed Nuada out of the woods and down the narrow road that leads to the pub, his hooves kicking up dust with every step as she brought him into a slow cantor, his head bobbing up and down as he neighs. She would bring him to a halt as she slid off and landed neatly on the ground.
The unceasing night spoke. She grew something as your lungs cold enough to make every breath an assault, grim veins of bare oblivion threading your every thought. Clarity to her: purest cold cut, black silence unwilling to slow your air. Your symphonic descent flourished. Being ancient, she stiffened spirit, own will still pulsing underneath of howling skin and towers thrust upward through the murk. Your belongingness froze; for a moment balanced silence. The gods struggled. There sat shattering
In the heart of the dense forest, a warrior emerges clad in dark armor, a figure of mystery and power. His eyes, gleaming with determination, pierce through the shadows as he wields a mighty sword that reflects the dappled light filtering through the canopy. The silence of the woods is broken by the sound of his steady footsteps, each one echoing with a sense of purpose and resolve.
Friar Tuck
Reflections at Journey's End The glade fades into memory as duty's summons draw me outward once again. Beneath emerald bowers I linger yet, senses drinking deep of forest's balms before steel shell enfolds this pilgrim soul. Fiona stands beside, eyes shining bright as any noon with care and solace rendering parting bittersweet. Her touch upon an alloy bough reminds of glades left greening in my soul's safe hold. "Duty calls you, yet the glade remains - as does its spirit guiding your true course
an Arabic woman wanderer, a female Dharma Bum of the desert, lost amidst the towering trees and tangled undergrowth of a mysterious forest. Clad in his traditional Abaya and revealing headscarf, symbols of his heritage and identity, the Arabic wanderer stands at a crossroads of worlds, her eyes reflecting the flickering shadows of the forest canopy above.
In the secretive realm of the Ruxa Koros, a mysterious event unfolds as The Great Nema, revered by all, has laid her eggs. The air is filled with an electric anticipation as a pair of household slaves assist her in this sacred ritual. The process is smooth, devoid of complications, a sign of hope and prosperity for the future. The news is yet to break in the hallowed halls of the Ruxa Koros, but whispers of the event begin to spread like wildfire, foreshadowing a wave of celebration and a deepen
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