Placeholder: Amid the ruins of a forgotten throne room, she sits—her armor glinting softly in the dim light, her crimson hair cascading like a river of blood. The battle is over, the echoes of clashing steel fading into silence. A skeletal relic lies at her side, draped in a tattered cloak, a reminder of the foes she has vanquished and the path she has walked. Her gaze is distant, as if looking beyond the crumbling walls to a destiny still unfolding. In this moment of rest, she is caught between the warrior Amid the ruins of a forgotten throne room, she sits—her armor glinting softly in the dim light, her crimson hair cascading like a river of blood. The battle is over, the echoes of clashing steel fading into silence. A skeletal relic lies at her side, draped in a tattered cloak, a reminder of the foes she has vanquished and the path she has walked. Her gaze is distant, as if looking beyond the crumbling walls to a destiny still unfolding. In this moment of rest, she is caught between the warrior

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Prompt

Amid the ruins of a forgotten throne room, she sits—her armor glinting softly in the dim light, her crimson hair cascading like a river of blood. The battle is over, the echoes of clashing steel fading into silence. A skeletal relic lies at her side, draped in a tattered cloak, a reminder of the foes she has vanquished and the path she has walked. Her gaze is distant, as if looking beyond the crumbling walls to a destiny still unfolding. In this moment of rest, she is caught between the warrior

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

1 year ago

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SSD-1B

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7

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1024 × 1024

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Amid the ruins of a forgotten throne room, she sits—her armor glinting softly in the dim light, her crimson hair cascading like a river of blood. The battle is over, the echoes of clashing steel fading into silence. A skeletal relic lies at her side, draped in a tattered cloak, a reminder of the foes she has vanquished and the path she has walked.
Chaingirl, a fierce warrior whose origins lie in the humble beginnings of a peasant life. Clad in nothing more than chainmail that glimmers in the light of the arena, she wields a massive two-handed warhammer with unrivaled skill and strength. her chainmail glistening in the spotlight, she crushes her opponents with a single devastating blow of her warhammer
Chaingirl, a fierce warrior whose origins lie in the humble beginnings of a peasant life. Clad in nothing more than chainmail that glimmers in the light of the arena, she wields a massive two-handed warhammer with unrivaled skill and strength. her chainmail glistening in the spotlight, she crushes her opponents with a single devastating blow of her warhammer
Out of the shadows emerged a group of machines, their metallic frames glinting ominously in the dim light. Their red eyes pierced through the darkness, scanning their surroundings with ruthless precision. Maria Magdalena stood her ground, her eyes locked with those of the machines, unyielding in her resolve. The storm raged outside, mirroring the turmoil within. Lightning illuminated the once bustling streets, briefly revealing the extent of destruction that had befallen this forgotten town. But
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"Enlighten me then," Dahlia counters, Gripping her scythe, ready to mete out justice. Azazel only snarls, ancient evil in his eyes. So beneath the watchful gaze of nebulae, Angel and demon face off once again— An eternal dance between life and death.
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[art by Slipknot] once a flourishing field, now reduced to burned ruins, fumes of death hung heavy in the air. Amidst the devastation, an enraged redhead Barbarian, a towering figure of wrath and fury, thundered across the desolate landscape. His eyes blazed with a primal rage as he sprinted towards a lone white paladin, clad in chrome steel plate armor, a beacon of light amidst the darkness. The Barbarian faces the paladin.
In the shadow of the Bloodmoon, the Oracle stands barefoot upon a desolate altar, her crimson form illuminated by the sky's eerie glow. Surrounding her are the swords of fallen warriors, planted in the ground as silent witnesses to the prophecy she bears. The air is thick with the scent of blood and magic, as spectral figures swirl in the background, their faces etched in anguish—souls bound to the fate she foretells. The Oracle's vision is clear: death and destruction are coming, heralded by th
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