Placeholder: In a dank dungeon, lighted only by a guttering torch, three men stood about a young woman who knelt on the rush-strewn flags staring wildly up at them. She was clad only in a scanty shift; her golden hair fell in lustrous ripples about her white shoulders, and her wrists were bound behind her. In a dank dungeon, lighted only by a guttering torch, three men stood about a young woman who knelt on the rush-strewn flags staring wildly up at them. She was clad only in a scanty shift; her golden hair fell in lustrous ripples about her white shoulders, and her wrists were bound behind her.

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Prompt

In a dank dungeon, lighted only by a guttering torch, three men stood about a young woman who knelt on the rush-strewn flags staring wildly up at them. She was clad only in a scanty shift; her golden hair fell in lustrous ripples about her white shoulders, and her wrists were bound behind her.

distorted image, malformed body

12 days ago

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SSD-1B

Guidance Scale

7

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1024 × 1024

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In a dank dungeon, lighted only by a guttering torch, three men stood about a young woman who knelt on the rush-strewn flags staring wildly up at them. She was clad only in a scanty shift; her golden hair fell in lustrous ripples about her white shoulders, and her wrists were bound behind her.
Seeing no weakness, Azazel snarls in rage— "Fool! Know you not the powers you trifle with?" And with that, in smoke and flame, he departs. Dahlia watches, waiting for their next bout— An endless clash of dark and light continues, And she, a stalwart guardian, abides.
[art by August Malmström] in the heart of the village, shield in hand and sword at the ready, Astrid stood tall. Her hair, the color of flames, whipped around her face in the icy wind, adding to her fierce appearance. The sound of war cries and clashing of weapons filled the air as the enemy approached. Astrid's eyes blazed with determination as she prepared to defend her people.She was not just a shieldmaiden; she was the shieldmaiden. Known throughout the land for her unmatched skill in battle
In the midst of the battlefield, a medieval redhead maiden stands tall and fierce, her fiery locks flowing in the wind as she faces off against a horde of bluish orcs. Clad in a simple yet elegant white long shirt that billows around her, she grips a longsword with determination and courage.
In a dank dungeon, lighted only by a guttering torch, three men stood about a young woman who knelt on the rush-strewn flags staring wildly up at them. She was clad only in a scanty shift; her golden hair fell in lustrous ripples about her white shoulders, and her wrists were bound behind her.
The beautiful elfmaid warrior takes up sword and shield to fight off the attack of the virus monsters that are decimating the health of the populace. Only the bravest of heroes can fight off the wretched plague of giant viruses. Fortunately for the people of the citadel, Vilde is that hero.
Galadriel strode into the midst of the filthy orc host, golden hair flowing around her like a mantle of light. Her gleaming blade flashed in the gloom of the dank cave as she cut a swath through the foul creatures. Black blood spurted from severed limbs and clove heads. Orcs shrieked and fled before her terrible form - the wrath of the Eldar kindled to white-hot flame.
Young Galadriel knew that she was no match for the ogre in a fair fight. But she was determined to protect herself and her home, so she drew her sword and charged. The ogre was surprised by Galadriel's attack. It swung its club at her, but she dodged out of the way. Then, she slashed at the ogre's leg with her sword. The ogre roared in pain and stumbled back.
[art by August Malmström] in the heart of the village, shield in hand and sword at the ready, Astrid stood tall. Her hair, the color of flames, whipped around her face in the icy wind, adding to her fierce appearance. The sound of war cries and clashing of weapons filled the air as the enemy approached. Astrid's eyes blazed with determination as she prepared to defend her people.She was not just a shieldmaiden; she was the shieldmaiden. Known throughout the land for her unmatched skill in battle
Dahlia, angel of righteous demise, Traces with her scythe a five-pointed star— A prison to bind the demon in his tracks. Raising her blade to the gloomy skies, She invokes her sacred, fearsome role— "I am the goddess of the dead and damned!" Eyes shut, she summons ancient magic And feels it swell, electric, through the soil— The pentagram glowing with arcane light.
Galadriel strode into the midst of the filthy orc host, golden hair flowing around her like a mantle of light. Her gleaming blade flashed in the gloom of the dank cave as she cut a swath through the foul creatures. Black blood spurted from severed limbs and clove heads. Orcs shrieked and fled before her terrible form - the wrath of the Eldar kindled to white-hot flame.
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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