Placeholder: Gul'khar the orc knight Gul'khar the orc knight

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Prompt

Gul'khar the orc knight

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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Gul'khar the orc knight
Griz the half-orc cleric. You recall her striking appearance: greenish skin marked with ritual scars, yellow eyes that burned with a rare intelligence. She was an outcast among her own kind, drawn to divine magic despite the taboos. Griz's yellow eyes follow your approach, her stance shifting subtly as you draw closer. The ritual scars on her arms pulse with a faint inner light. "Support," she repeats, the word heavy with meaning. "You know what's waking, don't you? What Thornbrook's broken pac
Griz the half-orc cleric with her leather boots in the mud. You recall her striking appearance: greenish skin marked with ritual scars, yellow eyes that burned with a rare intelligence. She was an outcast among her own kind, drawn to divine magic despite the taboos. Griz's yellow eyes follow your approach, her stance shifting subtly as you draw closer. The ritual scars on her arms pulse with a faint inner light.
Griz the half-orc cleric with her leather boots on the mud ground. You recall her striking appearance: greenish skin marked with ritual scars, yellow eyes that burned with a rare intelligence. She was an outcast among her own kind, drawn to divine magic despite the taboos. Griz's yellow eyes follow your approach, her stance shifting subtly as you draw closer. The ritual scars on her arms pulse with a faint inner light.
He was called the Precursor of the salvation of the Orcs, who he enjoined to follow the laws of the sky Gods to end the Crisis. His charisma and growing following were enough to summon together the despairing Dukes of the great Orc clans for parley. The Precursor’s Laws were declared to all, and the Dukes agreed to a truce. Miraculously, the Peace held. The lights in the sky ceased, and although the desert never released the equatorial lands, a semblance of normality returned. There was room en
In the murky depths of the mud, a crouching orc lurks, muscles coiled like tightly wound springs, ready to pounce on his prey. His eyes gleam with a feral intensity, scanning the horizon for any sign of movement. The stench of decay hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the acrid scent of blood and sweat. The orc's thick, gnarled fingers dig into the soft earth, his claws leaving deep gouges in the mud. Every sinew of his powerful frame tenses, anticipation thrumming through his veins like a dr
Griz the half-orc cleric with her leather boots in the mud. You recall her striking appearance: greenish skin marked with ritual scars, yellow eyes that burned with a rare intelligence. She was an outcast among her own kind, drawn to divine magic despite the taboos. Griz's yellow eyes follow your approach, her stance shifting subtly as you draw closer. The ritual scars on her arms pulse with a faint inner light.
Griz the half-orc cleric with leather boots. You recall her striking appearance: greenish skin marked with ritual scars, yellow eyes that burned with a rare intelligence. She was an outcast among her own kind, drawn to divine magic despite the taboos. Griz's yellow eyes follow your approach, her stance shifting subtly as you draw closer. The ritual scars on her arms pulse with a faint inner light.
a legend speaks of the Precursor, a figure foretold to be the harbinger of salvation for the Orcs, a race plagued by turmoil and strife. The Precursor emerges as a beacon of hope, calling upon the Orcs to heed the laws of the sky Gods in order to bring an end to the Crisis that has gripped their lands. With a charisma that sparks a fire in the hearts of his followers, the Precursor gathers the despairing Dukes of the great Orc clans for a momentous parley.
In the murky depths of the mud, a crouching orc lurks, muscles coiled like tightly wound springs, ready to pounce on his prey. His eyes gleam with a feral intensity, scanning the horizon for any sign of movement. The stench of decay hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the acrid scent of blood and sweat. The orc's thick, gnarled fingers dig into the soft earth, his claws leaving deep gouges in the mud. Every sinew of his powerful frame tenses, anticipation thrumming through his veins like a dr
Griz the half-orc cleric with her leather boots. You recall her striking appearance: greenish skin marked with ritual scars, yellow eyes that burned with a rare intelligence. She was an outcast among her own kind, drawn to divine magic despite the taboos. Griz's yellow eyes follow your approach, her stance shifting subtly as you draw closer. The ritual scars on her arms pulse with a faint inner light.
The warrior entered the cavern in hopes of finding the Sword of the Obsidian Flame. After defeating countless lava elementals, he finally finds one in the remains of a fallen foe.
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