Antonio Chiera

Emperor Nero - To Rule in Hell

• Model: Nano Banana 2 (Pro)

• Size: 768 X 1365 (1.05 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: roman emperor Nero as a bloated giant (350 pounds, 8 foot tall) devil in Hell (with short dark horns and a face that speaks of pride and cruelty) wears emperor's laurels made of sharp thorns and withered leaves and dressed tattered and torn, stained robes of a roman emperor, in the style of Leonora Carrington. he has a look of malice and superiority as he looks down at the viewer. must have horns on his head and look like a devil
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: portrait_tall

Cavern of the Gods 2

• Model: Z-Image Turbo

• Size: 1600 X 912 (1.46 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: This is a dramatic pulp science-fiction scene set inside a dark cave or underground chamber. Three human figures in rugged prehistoric-looking clothing crouch at the lower left, recoiling in alarm as they look toward a strange object on the ground. Their bodies are tense and hunched, with one figure reaching forward as if trying to shield the others or investigate cautiously. They look like cave dwellers or primitive explorers, dressed in rough hide-like garments that give the scene an ancient, Stone Age feel. At the lower right lies a long, skeletal or metallic structure that resembles a futuristic machine, vehicle, or buried alien artifact. It is partially embedded in the cave floor and drawn with a complex framework of thin rods and circular components, making it look half organic and half mechanical. It feels like something discovered rather than built here, as though it has been resting underground for ages. Suspended in the air above the figures is a vertical chain of eerie floating spheres. Each one has a glowing, alien face or eye-like feature inside, and they descend in a narrow column from the cave ceiling. The forms are ghostly and unnerving, suggesting either beings materializing, probes hovering, or some kind of supernatural alien presence. Their arrangement gives the composition a strong sense of descent and menace, as if the cave itself is alive with watchers. The cave ceiling is jagged and shadowy, with long dark stalactite-like forms hanging down. The opening or background beyond the cave is a cold blue tone, creating a striking contrast with the warm browns and oranges of the ground and the human figures. That contrast makes the cavern feel both ancient and otherworldly. Overall, the image feels like a classic retro sci-fi adventure poster: primitive humans confronting an alien mystery hidden in a cave. It combines prehistoric adventure, cosmic horror, and old-fashioned pulp excitement in one ominous scene.
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide

Cavern of the Gods 1

• Model: Z-Image Turbo

• Size: 912 X 1600 (1.46 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: This is a dramatic pulp science-fiction scene set inside a dark cave or underground chamber. Three human figures in rugged prehistoric-looking clothing crouch at the lower left, recoiling in alarm as they look toward a strange object on the ground. Their bodies are tense and hunched, with one figure reaching forward as if trying to shield the others or investigate cautiously. They look like cave dwellers or primitive explorers, dressed in rough hide-like garments that give the scene an ancient, Stone Age feel. At the lower right lies a long, skeletal or metallic structure that resembles a futuristic machine, vehicle, or buried alien artifact. It is partially embedded in the cave floor and drawn with a complex framework of thin rods and circular components, making it look half organic and half mechanical. It feels like something discovered rather than built here, as though it has been resting underground for ages. Suspended in the air above the figures is a vertical chain of eerie floating spheres. Each one has a glowing, alien face or eye-like feature inside, and they descend in a narrow column from the cave ceiling. The forms are ghostly and unnerving, suggesting either beings materializing, probes hovering, or some kind of supernatural alien presence. Their arrangement gives the composition a strong sense of descent and menace, as if the cave itself is alive with watchers. The cave ceiling is jagged and shadowy, with long dark stalactite-like forms hanging down. The opening or background beyond the cave is a cold blue tone, creating a striking contrast with the warm browns and oranges of the ground and the human figures. That contrast makes the cavern feel both ancient and otherworldly. Overall, the image feels like a classic retro sci-fi adventure poster: primitive humans confronting an alien mystery hidden in a cave. It combines prehistoric adventure, cosmic horror, and old-fashioned pulp excitement in one ominous scene.
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: portrait_tall

War-Bots

• Model: Z-Image Turbo

• Size: 1600 X 912 (1.46 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: The two robot soldiers look like brutal, retro-futuristic war machines rather than sleek modern androids. They have the heavy, industrial feel of cold mechanical infantry built for a long, ugly battlefield. The larger soldier on the left is the dominant figure. It stands tall and rigid on a pile of broken rock, its body built from rounded metal segments that look almost like pressure vessels or armored joints. The torso is thick and cylindrical, with layered plates, vents, cables, and circular components bolted across the chest and abdomen. Its limbs are mechanical and muscular in silhouette, but each joint is clearly artificial, exposed, and functional rather than humanlike. The head is enclosed in a domed helmet with a dark visor and a breathing apparatus running down toward the chest, giving it the impression of a sealed combat suit or a robot that must operate in hostile air. It carries a long rifle with both hands, the weapon held high and angled left, as though it is firing into an unseen enemy or tracking a target above the frame. Small details like the dangling strap, external tubing, and side-mounted dish-like module make it feel heavily modified for military use. The smaller soldier on the right appears slightly slimmer but no less dangerous. It stands just behind and lower than the first, creating a layered composition that makes the pair feel like a coordinated unit. This robot has a similarly enclosed helmet, but its profile is more compact and streamlined. Its upper body is wrapped in a fitted metallic shell, with hoses and articulated parts connecting the head, shoulders, and torso. It also holds a rifle, though its posture is more controlled and angled forward, as if it is covering another sector of the battlefield. Its design suggests tactical support or precision fire rather than brute force. The shape of its arms and shoulders gives it a more agile, hunter-like quality than the bulkier machine beside it. Together, they read as a pair of battle-hardened mechanized infantry units: one built like a heavy assault trooper, the other like a supporting marksman or scout. Their surfaces are matte metal, weathered and scorched by use, with the kind of utilitarian construction that feels mass-produced for war. The bright explosion behind them intensifies their outlines and makes them seem almost silhouetted against chaos, reinforcing the sense that these are soldiers in the middle of an active assault.
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide

Let's Play Dress Up

• Model: (Mode 20)

• Size: 1024 X 1024 (1.05 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: 3 cartoon-like little fluffy red imp with horns and a pointy tail, all playing dress-up with powder and feathers and such, all trying to look like the character 'Angel Dust' from the cartoon 'Hazbin Hotel.'
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: square

Hot Squirrel In The City

• Model: Nano Banana 2 (Pro)

• Size: 768 X 1365 (1.05 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: “Too Much Woman for One City” — refined pulp cover description Primrose dominates the cover like a blonde, gray-furred tornado in heels — a towering anthropomorphic squirrel with a cartoonish face, enormous blue eyes, long dark lashes, freckles across her cheeks and muzzle, and those unmistakable buck teeth flashing in a half-mischievous grin. Her long blonde hair is pulled into a high ponytail that arcs over one shoulder like a showgirl’s banner, and every inch of her body is drawn with exaggerated 70s pulp glamour: long legs, a tight waist, shapely hips, and a boldly feminine silhouette that fills the frame without apology. She is posed mid-stride in a tiny, clinging green dress that looks one scandalous breath away from surrender, one hand on her hip and the other raised as if she has just tossed off a joke the whole street heard. Her green open-toed platform heels make her even taller, the heels impossibly high and comically dangerous, as though she could topple a city block if she lost her balance. Her expression is bright, confident, and a little too pleased with herself — the look of a woman who knows perfectly well she has caused trouble and considers that part of the charm. The background is a neon-soaked city street straight out of a 1970s paperback fever dream: a flashing police car tilted at an awkward angle, a sweating middle-aged man in a shiny suit gawking with his jaw practically on the pavement, and a furious wife in curlers and a housecoat dragging him by the ear while glaring daggers at Primrose. A hotdog cart has been knocked sideways, a traffic light hangs crooked, and a startled cop is waving his hands as if he has lost control of the entire block. The whole scene is packed with comic chaos — people staring, pointing, arguing, and blustering — while Primrose stands at the center of it all looking like she just wandered into the wrong neighborhood and accidentally became the main event. The title splashes across the top in huge battered letters, with a lurid subtitle screaming beneath it: “She broke hearts, rules… and maybe the whole town!”
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: portrait_tall

Eco-Friendly Futuristic Cityscape Vision

• Model: DaVinci2

• Size: 1280 X 720 (0.92 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: a vision of a far-future civilization that has outgrown the ground itself—an ecosystem of cities lifted into the sky, where architecture, nature, and technology have fused into something almost dreamlike. The most striking feature is the forest of towering structures rising from the water’s edge. Each tower is impossibly tall and slender, widening at the top into vast, disk-like platforms—like colossal mushrooms or inverted gardens. These platforms are layered, stacked at different heights, creating vertical cities where life unfolds in tiers rather than streets. The surfaces of these platforms are lush with greenery, suggesting that nature hasn’t been pushed aside but instead cultivated into the architecture itself. Entire parks—or perhaps agricultural zones—spread across these elevated disks, giving the impression that each level is its own self-contained world. Between the towers, the air is alive with motion. Small craft drift and dart in every direction—sleek, silent vehicles that replace roads entirely. There’s no visible infrastructure like highways or rails; everything flows freely in three dimensions. Some of the ships glide lazily, like commuters, while others streak with purpose, hinting at a complex, layered transit system that exists more like air traffic than ground travel. At the base of the scene, the shoreline grounds the setting in something more familiar. People gather near the water, their small silhouettes emphasizing the immense scale of everything above them. The water itself is calm, reflecting the pastel sky and the towering structures, creating a sense of serenity despite the density of the environment. It feels almost like a recreational space—a beach or public commons—suggesting that even in such an advanced world, people still seek simple, shared experiences. The color palette is soft and luminous—pinks, golds, and blues blending into a perpetual sunset. This gives the entire scene a utopian, almost ethereal quality, as if pollution and harshness have been engineered out of existence. The light diffuses gently across surfaces, making the metal and glass structures appear warm and organic rather than cold or industrial. Architecturally, there’s a clear departure from rigid, angular design. Everything curves, flows, and spirals. Towers taper elegantly, platforms ripple outward, and smaller structures nestle into the larger ones like growths rather than additions. It suggests a civilization that has mastered materials and physics to the point where form is no longer constrained by function—beauty and efficiency have become the same thing. Taken together, this setting feels like a mature, post-scarcity society—one that has solved energy, transportation, and environmental balance. It’s not just a city; it’s an ecosystem in the sky, where human life, technology, and nature exist in deliberate harmony.
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide

Pulp Downfall

• Model: Z-Image Turbo

• Size: 1456 X 2576 (3.75 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: Sci-fi image, the ruins of the statue of Liberty half buried in a future desert, being viewed by aliens
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: portrait_tall

Infernal Court

• Model: DaVinci2

• Size: 1280 X 720 (0.92 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt:
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide

Azzuri the Dancer in a Vibrant Marketplace

• Model: SeeDream

• Size: 1440 X 2560 (3.69 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: every appetite had its price, and every price its servant. There Azzuri walked, pale as moonlight spilled upon marble, a part of the tapestry yet apart from it: a pale thread in a cloth of bronze and shadow. He was young — not yet the weathered veteran of many winters — yet already stamped with the doom of his calling. In other lands lads of his age wore sword and mail and went forth to taste the first red heat of battle. Azzuri never knew such a fate. Slim he was, but not wasted. His limbs were lithe and curved like the dancer’s, not knotted with the blunt muscle of the spearman. There was a grace in the way his shoulders sloped and his ribs tightened, a catlike poise that belonged to one who moves to music and the measured weight of coin. He stood as tall as those who bore blades, but his shape read softer; to the cursory eye he might be mistaken for a girl — and in that mistake lay much of his market. What made him uncanny was the color of him. In the sun-streaked lanes where the bazaar people browned to many shades of tan and olive, Azzuri was nearly porcelain white. Not the pallor of death, but the delicate bloom of living marble — a skin that took the light like sifted milk and flushed faintly with pink. Upon that whiteness, in precise, unsettling places, blossomed rose-colored dots the size of a thumb. One shy dot above each eyebrow, like twin rubies set in a crown; three beneath each eye, placed as if by a jeweler’s hand; a scatter along the backs of his forearms; another fan of them across the lower curve of his belly. They were no disease, nor the markings of any tribe known to the caravans — they were birthmarks that read like a language, and men whispered that they were the mark of lovers or of cults. Whatever the truth, they made him remarkable, and in the market remarkable means profit. His face was androgynous and freshly wrought — high cheekbones that took blush like a woman, a small, thin nose, and lips like a painted petal. His smile was a practiced warmth, a coin-bright thing that welcomed and disarmed; yet his eyes bored with sorrow. Dark and deep, they were lined with kohl and shadowed by lashes like a courtesan’s. He painted his lids and wore pink that complimented the dots upon his skin; the effect was the artifice of the stage, made permanent. Gold hoops set in each pale ear swung when he moved, catching the lamplight and the eye. Upon his head lay a pompadour of white hair, full and puffy at the front, falling to a tousled nape as if a cloud had been pressed to the crown and left its imprint. Pale pink flecks marbled the tuft, soft as rose petals strewn on snow. The mass rose and billowed — absurd, boyish, coquettish — a crest that framed his face and made the pale skin seem less fragile, more deliberate. His dress proclaimed him denizen, not visitor, of the quarter. Around his hips a silk loincloth of pearl-pink clung, the front flap falling past his knees and swinging with each lithe step. At his ankles the six thin bracelets he wore on each leg chimed like a small wind, calling to the unquiet heart. His arms were swathed in diaphanous sleeves of white silk, almost wholly sheer, each bound twice with gold ribbons — once at wrist, once mid-bicep — leaving the shoulders and chest bare to the air and to the eyes. The garment left much to the imagination: feet and legs bared, belly taut and and pale, back and chest a study in tender flesh and scattered rose-dots.
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: portrait_tall

Elderly Tax Goblin Seated by Treasure Chest

• Model: Nano Banana 2 (Pro)

• Size: 768 X 1365 (1.05 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: Old Nickademus was a goblin of advancing years, one of those small, wiry folk whose lives are stitched to the long reckonings of coin and account. For many winters and summers — for longer than most men in the fair land could recall — he had served the lords and magistrates in a calling that suited a goblin better than any other: that of a tax-collector. It was a trade of patient cruelty and exacting habits, of keeping small things in order and looking after great things with a covetous eye. In the ledger of the countryside his name was known and feared in equal measure; in the ale-halls and at market-stalls he was oft cursed under breath while his face was spoken of more seldom, lest the curse carry a summons. The dome of his head showed through wispy dark locks, not all of them obedient to the laws of neatness. Time had made the hair thin and the skin beneath pale and veined, so that his skull shone like a dull coin beneath a lamp. His shoulders stooped, not wholly from age, but from the long hours bent over scales and balances, over piles of shillings and groats. Yet though the hollows about his eyes gave him the look of one half-sleeping, those watery orbs were still keen as a hawk’s when a glint of metal leapt or a corner of foiled paper promised profit. Greed had taught him its own kind of sight. His skin was the broad, deep green that belongs to his people, not the glossy green of young leaves but the greyed green of old ivy on a northern wall. His ears were long and pointed, twitching at the whisper of a purse-string, and his face, though clean-shaven, bore the hooked projection of a beak-like nose that gave him an unwholesome and memorable silhouette. Small, narrow-mouthed, and sharp-chinned, he might have been carved from some grim wood by an artisan with a fondness for grim things. He wore the costume of his office with an almost devout scrupulousness. All his garments were of a deep, learned black, cut and tailored with a fineness one might expect on the body of a cleric or a law-clerk in the days of Shakespeare; seams were close and buttons neat, and the hems carried a faint dust of road. The clothes sat oddly upon his skinny, bony frame — too good, perhaps, for one of his sort, yet he treasured them as tokens of his rank. His shoes were of soft black leather, long-toed and curling at the tips in a fashion both archaic and faintly comic; they padded without sound, and their points tapped and clicked only when he wished them to. About him, always, was the smell of oil and old paper, of warmed metal and the faint sweetness of coin rubbed near. He wore leather gloves pored like a scholar’s, and at his hip hung a chain with little brass scales and a ring of tiny keys — keys that had opened many a coffer and many a lie. He possessed a ledger thicker than a man’s wrist and bound in brown hide, where his neat script had multiplied the sums of farms and tolls until the pages sighed. On the iron-riveted chest which he kept like a throne he sat, or atop which he perched like some small sentinel, waiting and watching. The chest itself was a thing of many repairs — straps renewed, nails driven anew — and the coins within answered his touch with a sonorous, satisfying clink.
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: portrait_tall

Japanese peasant's hut in the deep woods

• Model: DaVinci2

• Size: 1280 X 720 (0.92 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: Japanese peasant's hut in the deep woods
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: landscape_wide

Whimsical Imp Takes Flight in a Breeze or 'Too Much Dust'

• Model: (Mode 20)

• Size: 1024 X 1024 (1.05 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: a cartoon-like little fluffy red imp with horns and a pointy tail, squealing as he holds onto the power cord of an electrical fan that is on full power and blowing him off his feet
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: square

Azzuri the Dancer

• Model: SeeDream

• Size: 1440 X 2560 (3.69 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: every appetite had its price, and every price its servant. There Azzuri walked, pale as moonlight spilled upon marble, a part of the tapestry yet apart from it: a pale thread in a cloth of bronze and shadow. He was young — not yet the weathered veteran of many winters — yet already stamped with the doom of his calling. In other lands lads of his age wore sword and mail and went forth to taste the first red heat of battle. Azzuri never knew such a fate. Slim he was, but not wasted. His limbs were lithe and curved like the dancer’s, not knotted with the blunt muscle of the spearman. There was a grace in the way his shoulders sloped and his ribs tightened, a catlike poise that belonged to one who moves to music and the measured weight of coin. He stood as tall as those who bore blades, but his shape read softer; to the cursory eye he might be mistaken for a girl — and in that mistake lay much of his market. What made him uncanny was the color of him. In the sun-streaked lanes where the bazaar people browned to many shades of tan and olive, Azzuri was nearly porcelain white. Not the pallor of death, but the delicate bloom of living marble — a skin that took the light like sifted milk and flushed faintly with pink. Upon that whiteness, in precise, unsettling places, blossomed rose-colored dots the size of a thumb. One shy dot above each eyebrow, like twin rubies set in a crown; three beneath each eye, placed as if by a jeweler’s hand; a scatter along the backs of his forearms; another fan of them across the lower curve of his belly. They were no disease, nor the markings of any tribe known to the caravans — they were birthmarks that read like a language, and men whispered that they were the mark of lovers or of cults. Whatever the truth, they made him remarkable, and in the market remarkable means profit. His face was androgynous and freshly wrought — high cheekbones that took blush like a woman, a small, thin nose, and lips like a painted petal. His smile was a practiced warmth, a coin-bright thing that welcomed and disarmed; yet his eyes bored with sorrow. Dark and deep, they were lined with kohl and shadowed by lashes like a courtesan’s. He painted his lids and wore pink that complimented the dots upon his skin; the effect was the artifice of the stage, made permanent. Gold hoops set in each pale ear swung when he moved, catching the lamplight and the eye. Upon his head lay a pompadour of white hair, full and puffy at the front, falling to a tousled nape as if a cloud had been pressed to the crown and left its imprint. Pale pink flecks marbled the tuft, soft as rose petals strewn on snow. The mass rose and billowed — absurd, boyish, coquettish — a crest that framed his face and made the pale skin seem less fragile, more deliberate. His dress proclaimed him denizen, not visitor, of the quarter. Around his hips a silk loincloth of pearl-pink clung, the front flap falling past his knees and swinging with each lithe step. At his ankles the six thin bracelets he wore on each leg chimed like a small wind, calling to the unquiet heart. His arms were swathed in diaphanous sleeves of white silk, almost wholly sheer, each bound twice with gold ribbons — once at wrist, once mid-bicep — leaving the shoulders and chest bare to the air and to the eyes. The garment left much to the imagination: feet and legs bared, belly taut and and pale, back and chest a study in tender flesh and scattered rose-dots.
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: portrait_tall

Tishmia the beggar.

• Model: SeeDream

• Size: 1440 X 2560 (3.69 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: “Arms! Arms, for the love of the Gods!” This is the cry of Tishmia the beggar. He, like his kind, is a common enough sight in the dusty bazaar. No. He is one of the number who are legion throughout the word. The great army of the poor, hungry and crippled. Those who cannot work, but are unwilling to starve. Tishmia is a small painfully thin man with dark olive skin that is cracked by the sun and mapped by scares, won when he was younger and able to sell his sword for a purse of gold. Now this ruined creature does not swing a blade, but hobbles on a single rough crunch, for his left leg ends at the knee. Likewise his right arm ends at the elbow. Hidden from the world by a short, tattered green woolen cloak that he wears to one side to hide his crippled arm, that also serves as his blanket at night. The clothes on his thin frame are likewise just this side of being rags. A tattered blouse that laces at the front and seems crusted in dirt. Britches of a leather brown that would not look out of place on a scarecrow in a field. His one foot bare in the dust of the bazaar. Atop his head he wears a Peasant’s Medieval leather Coif. some strands of greasy, unwashed black hair showing from under its edge. His face is likewise the mask of poverty and hunger. Gaunt and drawn, with a large hook nose and a mouth of snaggled teeth, he would never be called a handsome man, even without the old scares of battle on his face. Across his left eye there is a red rag of cloth that serves as a patch to hide his lost eye. And his remain eye, the left one looks at the world with a frantic intensity. He is the very picture of poverty, of want. The kind that is ignored by the world. And that is the last mistake a few men have made in their lives. For Tishmia does not play the role of beggar out of need, but out of choice. It is easy to move among the masses in the streets when you are ignored. Easy to move close to one you have been paid to dispatch. Far too late they discover that a skilled man might strap his right arm to look like it has been amputated at the elbow, likewise he might also strap his left leg to make him appear a cripple without the strength to fight. And in the hand of that strapped arm there might be a thin sliver blade, made for the slashing of throats. And it is so easy, when the deed is done, for a man playing the role of beggar to vanish into the streets and back allies again.
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: portrait_tall

Abarleen the Wizard

• Model: SeeDream

• Size: 1440 X 2560 (3.69 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: Abarleen, his name was spoken in whispers in the dust choked Bazaar. As if speaking his name too loud would draw the wizard from Stygia from the inn outside the city wall, that served as his dwelling, to walk the street among ‘honest’ men. If the man cut purses and rouges that dwelled in noon day shadows in search of some respite from the heat in the bazaar could ever be called honest men. But they were not those who dealt with devils or worse thanks to black arts. While it was clear that Abarleen was a son of that dark kingdom of sinister intrigues, it was not pure Stygian blood that ran through his veins. He clearly mark of not just Stygian nobility about his features, but mixed into them was the dark skiing and broad lips of the lines of hot jungle kingdoms like Kush, and the sharp narrowed eyes of eastern mystery. The wizard Abarleen was of a mongrel breed. It was said that his broad, fleshy face, with its thick lipped mouth smiled just a little too wide to too make a man comfortable. And in that smile, in the girth of his cheeks, there was something of the toad about it. The smile, it was noted, never did carry to those dark slit eyes, when Abarleen wore it. Like the Priests and upper classes of Stygia, Abarleen removed all body hair except for eyebrows and the hair on his heads (a long dark ponytail at the back of a shaved head), and used kohl makeup to rim his eyes. However, he did allow himself one deviation from the fashion of his people. That being a long thin Mandarin-style mustache, a long, thin mustache that grows downward from the upper lip, with the hair extending past the chin in two tapered tendrils, while the cheeks and chin are kept clean-shaven. The ends of those two tapered tendrils are each decorated with two gold beads, the size of dried peas. It was also noted that under his fine silk robes, Abarleen kept his corpulent form well oiled and perfumed. The smell of sweat and dust was not for the likes of him as it was for the common, lesser man. So his dark skin shone like he had been polished. On each of his fat, but strong fingers there was a golden ring with a single round gem or pearl set in them. Speaking of wealth that a wise or powerless man would not so openly display. He wore upon his rounded body a green silk robe with gold trim. A garment fit for a sultan, or at the very least a wealthy merchant. And upon his fat feet simple leather sandals. How he came to the inn outside the walled city none can rightly say. But if you ask 100 merchants and beggars on the street, you will get 100 answers. However, the most common story is that he stole a parchment or tome or object of great power from the ruling priests of Stygia. Something that would turn a simple mixed blood servant into a wealthy and powerful wizard. And he escaped to this distant land to avoid their wrath. Escaped here and brought with him a creeping decadence and evil.
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: portrait_tall

the Griffin Liberian

• Model: DaVinci2

• Size: 864 X 1152 (1.00 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt:
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: portrait

Beach Day Fun with Furry Monsters (what the weather is like in Australia)

• Model: (Mode 30)

• Size: 1024 X 1024 (1.05 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: 3 cartoon-like little fluffy red imp with horns and a pointy tail, on the beach with their beach towels, dressed in cute swimsuits and sunglasses. all have very happy looks on their faces and wide eyes
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: square

Christmas for the little Imps

• Model:

• Size: 1024 X 1024 (1.05 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: 2 cartoon-like little fluffy red imp with horns and a pointy tail, dressed only in a striped Christmas sweater and scarfs that is too big for them, their nose and yellow eyes peak over the neck of the sweater and the sleeves dangle past their hands and an furry anthropomorphic grey squirrel kid sit at the base of a Christmas tree holding brightly decorated Christmas presents. all have very happy looks on their faces and wide eyes
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: square

3 Guesses what I will be reading over Christmas

• Model: DaVinci2

• Size: 864 X 1152 (1.00 MP)

• Used settings:

  • Prompt: Bilbo Baggins from the Hobbit by Ernst Haeckel, Jacek Yerka, Michael Cheval, colourful
  • Using base image: No
  • Aspect Ratio: portrait