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Prompt

Friar Tuck

statue, doubles, twins, entangled fingers, Worst Quality, ugly, ugly face, watermarks, undetailed, unrealistic, double limbs, worst hands, worst body, Disfigured, double, twin, dialog, book, multiple fingers, deformed, deformity, ugliness, poorly drawn face, extra_limb, extra limbs, bad hands, wrong hands, poorly drawn hands, messy drawing, cropped head, bad anatomy, lowres, extra digit, fewer digit, worst quality, low quality, jpeg artifacts, watermark, missing fingers, cropped, poorly drawn

2 years ago

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Model

SSD-1B

Guidance Scale

7

Dimensions

1024 × 1024

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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.
The short dwarf healer, known for his ancient wisdom and mystical abilities, sits cross-legged at the summit of the sacred hill. Before him, on a flat stone, he arranges his medicines: mosses, powders, and leaves gathered from the depths of the forest. These are not just remedies but conduits to the ancient secrets of his people, passed down through generations and held deep within his soul. With a reverence born of centuries-old tradition, the dwarf healer stands fiercely, his war hammer on his
ConceptSheet by Zdzisław Beksiński: 'The Prince of War' - Mithril Armour Design for the Jedi in the enchanted forest
[aquarelle by Moebius: three Middle-earth Istaris are Jonathan Pryce, Sylvester McCoy and Jean Rochefort] Radagast, with his unkempt hair and a menagerie of animals, shared a hearty chuckle with Saruman, the wise and cunning Istari. And there, in the midst of it all, stood Gandalf, a twinkle in his eyes as he joined in the mirth.Their laughter echoed through the night, a rare moment of camaraderie amidst the chaos of their journeys.
In the heart of the ancient woods, where shadows whispered of long-forgotten legends, the dwarf Halrin Ironfist stood alone, a single figure amidst a world of towering trees and unseen dangers. His breath was steady, his heartbeat a drum in the silence, and his grip firm upon the hilt of his blade. Before him, the earth trembled under the weight of the Gholgaroth, an ancient terror whose very name was enough to turn the boldest warriors pale. Legends claimed it had been born in the bowels of the
The hobbit's eyes grew wide as celestial stars. "Welcome, sir!" cried he, still grinning. "What brings you to this humble inn?" The elf smiled, soft as a breeze through young leaves. "I come in search of the finest brew in all the Shire. Might your skilled hands work their magic for me?" "It would be my honor indeed!" said the hobbit, and set to his task with more mirth than ever. He selected beans plump with sun, grinding and tamping with special care. Two perfect shots were pulled, and steamed
The short dwarf healer, known for his ancient wisdom and mystical abilities, sits cross-legged at the summit of the sacred hill. Before him, on a flat stone, he arranges his medicines: mosses, powders, and leaves gathered from the depths of the forest. These are not just remedies but conduits to the ancient secrets of his people, passed down through generations and held deep within his soul. With a reverence born of centuries-old tradition, the dwarf healer stands fiercely, his war hammer on his
The hobbit's eyes grew wide as celestial stars. "Welcome, sir!" cried he, still grinning. "What brings you to this humble inn?" The elf smiled, soft as a breeze through young leaves. "I come in search of the finest brew in all the Shire. Might your skilled hands work their magic for me?" "It would be my honor indeed!" said the hobbit, and set to his task with more mirth than ever. He selected beans plump with sun, grinding and tamping with special care. Two perfect shots were pulled, and steamed
The hobbit's eyes grew wide as celestial stars. "Welcome, sir!" cried he, still grinning. "What brings you to this humble inn?" The elf smiled, soft as a breeze through young leaves. "I come in search of the finest brew in all the Shire. Might your skilled hands work their magic for me?" "It would be my honor indeed!" said the hobbit, and set to his task with more mirth than ever. He selected beans plump with sun, grinding and tamping with special care. Two perfect shots were pulled, and steamed
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.
aquarelle by Moebius: The actor Jonathan Pryce playing the wizard Radagast
He guards those waters and those rivers, the horrible ferryman Charon, whose filthiness is frightening; on his chest falls a disheveled long white beard, flames gush from his eyes; a sordid cloak hangs from his shoulders, fastened with a knot: he himself steers his black boat with a hook, sets the sails and carries the dead in it, old now, but green and sturdy in his old age, as befits a god.
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