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Ed Ryan

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Ed Ryan

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1boy, solo, man, short black hair, spiky hair at the front, green eyes, red flicker in the eyes, heterochromia glint, dark red tribal tattoo, tattoo on neck, facial tattoo, thick tattered black duster, long coat, tarnished white steel armour, plate armour, serrated black swords, two swords, holding sword between legs, sitting, sitting on stone chest, apathetic expression, expressionless, half-closed eyes, looking to the side, dark dungeon, stone walls, low light, from below, dutch angle, cowboy shot, watercolor_(medium), paper_texture The view is a low dutch angle from the flagstone floor, tilted a few degrees so the dungeon's vertical seams lean, framing the man in a cowboy shot from mid-thigh to above his head. He sits on a squat iron-banded stone chest in the middle of a lightless dungeon, weight settled onto his left hip, right boot planted flat and left boot's heel hooked on the chest's lower edge, torso slumped a half-degree off vertical with his chin dropped slightly toward his right shoulder. His duster is thick, tattered black canvas bunched under him and spilling down past the chest's lid to the floor, sleeves shoved back off his forearms so the tarnished white steel rerebraces and vambraces show, the plate scratched and dull where the tarnish eats the white, the cuirass riding beneath the open coat. Two serrated black swords rest together, blade-flats leaning against his inner thighs and pommels knocked together between his legs; his right hand hangs over the mouth of the chest, knuckles brushing the stone, and his left forearm lies across the swords' grips, fingers slack and open. The dark red tribal tattoo climbs the left side of his neck, hooks over the jaw and breaks across the cheekbone and temple in a hooked, angular stroke, its deepest pigment sitting where the collar of the duster rubs it. Green irises catch the light with a thin red glint sliding off one pupil like a coal's last flare; his lids are heavy, brows flat and unbunched, lips closed without a curve, gaze drifted off-frame to the low right of the composition, toward nothing. The dungeon closes in around him: rough-hewn stone blocks, an iron ring bolted to the wall, a shallow puddle on the floor behind the chest holding a flat, dark reflection of the swords. A single stub of tallow lamp on the floor to his left is the only light source, striking his left cheek, the tattoo, the steel and the sword bevels from below and leaving the right side of his face and the far wall in absolute darkness; his thrown shadow climbs the wall in a long deformed shape behind him, and the puddle carries the reflection darker and softer than its source. Palette stays black, charcoal grey, tarnished bone-white steel and one rust-dark red for the tattoo and the eye flicker, nothing else admitted. Loose ink linework dissolves into translucent black and grey washes; the paper's tooth shows through the shadows, colour bleeding softly at the coat's ragged hem while the steel keeps a dry, scuffed edge. Quiet, utterly unbothered.
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Original Prompt
a man sitting on a stone chest in a dark dungeon. he has green eyes with a flicker of red, short black hair that is spikey at the front and a dark red tribal tattoo going up his neck onto his face. he is weaving a very thick and tattered black duster, over tarnished white steel armour beneath. he has two serrated black swords resting between his legs. his expression is apathetic
Mode
ultra
Style
Soft Aqueous
Quality Tag
๏นPrompts๏นž
Size
1104 x 1824
Sampling Method
Euler
Negative
lowres, worst quality, low quality, bad anatomy, explicit
Style: Soft Aqueous
Prompt Helper

Model & LoRA used

Tsubaki.3 - AI Model cover image

PixAI DiT.3

Tsubaki.3
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AI artwork
er
1boy, solo, man, short black hair, spiky hair at the front, green eyes, red flicker in the eyes, heterochromia glint, dark red tribal tattoo, tattoo on neck, facial tattoo, thick tattered black duster, long coat, tarnished white steel armour, plate armour, serrated black swords, two swords, holding sword between legs, sitting, sitting on stone chest, apathetic expression, expressionless, half-closed eyes, looking to the side, dark dungeon, stone walls, low light, from below, dutch angle, cowboy shot, watercolor_(medium), paper_texture The view is a low dutch angle from the flagstone floor, tilted a few degrees so the dungeon's vertical seams lean, framing the man in a cowboy shot from mid-thigh to above his head. He sits on a squat iron-banded stone chest in the middle of a lightless dungeon, weight settled onto his left hip, right boot planted flat and left boot's heel hooked on the chest's lower edge, torso slumped a half-degree off vertical with his chin dropped slightly toward his right shoulder. His duster is thick, tattered black canvas bunched under him and spilling down past the chest's lid to the floor, sleeves shoved back off his forearms so the tarnished white steel rerebraces and vambraces show, the plate scratched and dull where the tarnish eats the white, the cuirass riding beneath the open coat. Two serrated black swords rest together, blade-flats leaning against his inner thighs and pommels knocked together between his legs; his right hand hangs over the mouth of the chest, knuckles brushing the stone, and his left forearm lies across the swords' grips, fingers slack and open. The dark red tribal tattoo climbs the left side of his neck, hooks over the jaw and breaks across the cheekbone and temple in a hooked, angular stroke, its deepest pigment sitting where the collar of the duster rubs it. Green irises catch the light with a thin red glint sliding off one pupil like a coal's last flare; his lids are heavy, brows flat and unbunched, lips closed without a curve, gaze drifted off-frame to the low right of the composition, toward nothing. The dungeon closes in around him: rough-hewn stone blocks, an iron ring bolted to the wall, a shallow puddle on the floor behind the chest holding a flat, dark reflection of the swords. A single stub of tallow lamp on the floor to his left is the only light source, striking his left cheek, the tattoo, the steel and the sword bevels from below and leaving the right side of his face and the far wall in absolute darkness; his thrown shadow climbs the wall in a long deformed shape behind him, and the puddle carries the reflection darker and softer than its source. Palette stays black, charcoal grey, tarnished bone-white steel and one rust-dark red for the tattoo and the eye flicker, nothing else admitted. Loose ink linework dissolves into translucent black and grey washes; the paper's tooth shows through the shadows, colour bleeding softly at the coat's ragged hem while the steel keeps a dry, scuffed edge. Quiet, utterly unbothered.
Ed Ryan
AI artwork
er
1boy, solo, man, short black hair, spiky hair at the front, green eyes, red flicker in the eyes, heterochromia glint, dark red tribal tattoo, tattoo on neck, facial tattoo, thick tattered black duster, long coat, tarnished white steel armour, plate armour, serrated black swords, two swords, holding sword between legs, sitting, sitting on stone chest, apathetic expression, expressionless, half-closed eyes, looking to the side, dark dungeon, stone walls, low light, from below, dutch angle, cowboy shot, watercolor_(medium), paper_texture The view is a low dutch angle from the flagstone floor, tilted a few degrees so the dungeon's vertical seams lean, framing the man in a cowboy shot from mid-thigh to above his head. He sits on a squat iron-banded stone chest in the middle of a lightless dungeon, weight settled onto his left hip, right boot planted flat and left boot's heel hooked on the chest's lower edge, torso slumped a half-degree off vertical with his chin dropped slightly toward his right shoulder. His duster is thick, tattered black canvas bunched under him and spilling down past the chest's lid to the floor, sleeves shoved back off his forearms so the tarnished white steel rerebraces and vambraces show, the plate scratched and dull where the tarnish eats the white, the cuirass riding beneath the open coat. Two serrated black swords rest together, blade-flats leaning against his inner thighs and pommels knocked together between his legs; his right hand hangs over the mouth of the chest, knuckles brushing the stone, and his left forearm lies across the swords' grips, fingers slack and open. The dark red tribal tattoo climbs the left side of his neck, hooks over the jaw and breaks across the cheekbone and temple in a hooked, angular stroke, its deepest pigment sitting where the collar of the duster rubs it. Green irises catch the light with a thin red glint sliding off one pupil like a coal's last flare; his lids are heavy, brows flat and unbunched, lips closed without a curve, gaze drifted off-frame to the low right of the composition, toward nothing. The dungeon closes in around him: rough-hewn stone blocks, an iron ring bolted to the wall, a shallow puddle on the floor behind the chest holding a flat, dark reflection of the swords. A single stub of tallow lamp on the floor to his left is the only light source, striking his left cheek, the tattoo, the steel and the sword bevels from below and leaving the right side of his face and the far wall in absolute darkness; his thrown shadow climbs the wall in a long deformed shape behind him, and the puddle carries the reflection darker and softer than its source. Palette stays black, charcoal grey, tarnished bone-white steel and one rust-dark red for the tattoo and the eye flicker, nothing else admitted. Loose ink linework dissolves into translucent black and grey washes; the paper's tooth shows through the shadows, colour bleeding softly at the coat's ragged hem while the steel keeps a dry, scuffed edge. Quiet, utterly unbothered.
Ed Ryan
AI artwork
er
1boy, solo, man, short black hair, spiky hair at the front, green eyes, red flicker in the eyes, heterochromia glint, dark red tribal tattoo, tattoo on neck, facial tattoo, thick tattered black duster, long coat, tarnished white steel armour, plate armour, serrated black swords, two swords, holding sword between legs, sitting, sitting on stone chest, apathetic expression, expressionless, half-closed eyes, looking to the side, dark dungeon, stone walls, low light, from below, dutch angle, cowboy shot, watercolor_(medium), paper_texture The view is a low dutch angle from the flagstone floor, tilted a few degrees so the dungeon's vertical seams lean, framing the man in a cowboy shot from mid-thigh to above his head. He sits on a squat iron-banded stone chest in the middle of a lightless dungeon, weight settled onto his left hip, right boot planted flat and left boot's heel hooked on the chest's lower edge, torso slumped a half-degree off vertical with his chin dropped slightly toward his right shoulder. His duster is thick, tattered black canvas bunched under him and spilling down past the chest's lid to the floor, sleeves shoved back off his forearms so the tarnished white steel rerebraces and vambraces show, the plate scratched and dull where the tarnish eats the white, the cuirass riding beneath the open coat. Two serrated black swords rest together, blade-flats leaning against his inner thighs and pommels knocked together between his legs; his right hand hangs over the mouth of the chest, knuckles brushing the stone, and his left forearm lies across the swords' grips, fingers slack and open. The dark red tribal tattoo climbs the left side of his neck, hooks over the jaw and breaks across the cheekbone and temple in a hooked, angular stroke, its deepest pigment sitting where the collar of the duster rubs it. Green irises catch the light with a thin red glint sliding off one pupil like a coal's last flare; his lids are heavy, brows flat and unbunched, lips closed without a curve, gaze drifted off-frame to the low right of the composition, toward nothing. The dungeon closes in around him: rough-hewn stone blocks, an iron ring bolted to the wall, a shallow puddle on the floor behind the chest holding a flat, dark reflection of the swords. A single stub of tallow lamp on the floor to his left is the only light source, striking his left cheek, the tattoo, the steel and the sword bevels from below and leaving the right side of his face and the far wall in absolute darkness; his thrown shadow climbs the wall in a long deformed shape behind him, and the puddle carries the reflection darker and softer than its source. Palette stays black, charcoal grey, tarnished bone-white steel and one rust-dark red for the tattoo and the eye flicker, nothing else admitted. Loose ink linework dissolves into translucent black and grey washes; the paper's tooth shows through the shadows, colour bleeding softly at the coat's ragged hem while the steel keeps a dry, scuffed edge. Quiet, utterly unbothered.
Ed Ryan
AI artwork
er
1boy, solo, sitting, sitting on chest, stone chest, dark dungeon, dungeon interior, green eyes, red glint in eyes, short hair, black hair, spiky hair, spiky forelock, dark red tattoo, tribal tattoo, neck tattoo, facial tattoo, thick duster, tattered black duster, open coat, white steel armor, tarnished armor, two serrated black swords, sword between legs, apathetic expression, blank stare, half-closed eyes, from below, low angle, cowboy shot, looking at viewer, dim lighting, torchlight, chiaroscuro, high contrast, sharp linework, bold silhouette The camera sits low and slightly to the man's left, tilted up in a from-below cowboy shot so the stone chest he sits on fills the lower third of the frame and his armored shoulders rise against the dark vault. He is perched on the lid of a squat iron-banded stone chest, one hip higher than the other, right thigh dropped and left knee raised, both boots planted on cracked flagstones that are slick with a thin film of water; his weight rests on the left hip and the chest's front lip presses a hard edge into the back of his left thigh. His left hand rests flat across the chest's corner, fingers loose over the iron band, while his right forearm lies along his right thigh with the wrist slack and the thumb hooked in the duster's torn lapel. The duster hangs open in two heavy, shredded black curtains that drape over the chest edge and pool at his hips, the tattered hem chewed into long ragged tongues that sway in a faint draft; beneath it, the tarnished white steel armor of his cuirass and pauldrons shows through, scuffed dull grey-white with brown flecks of rust gathering in the rivet seams and along the plate edges. His neck and jaw carry a dark red tribal tattoo that sweeps up from beneath the armor collar in sharp hooked strokes, curling across the right side of his throat and flicking onto his cheekbone just under the eye. His short black hair is cropped tight at the sides, with the front spikes jutting forward over the brow. His face is utterly apathetic: lids lowered halfway, mouth a flat closed line with no tension at the corners, brows level and slack, the green of his irises cold and flat in the shadow, except for a small hot flicker of red deep in each pupil that catches the torch glow. His gaze drops straight to the viewer with no warmth whatsoever. The two serrated black swords rest between his legs, their blunt back edges crossed, hilts angled out to either side over the chest and their jagged black blades pointing down toward the flagstones, one of his thighs nudging each hilt so the steel tips touch and hold them steady. The dungeon closes him in: wet rough-cut stone walls at his back with a low barrel-vault overhead, an iron grate and rusted manacles fixed to the far wall, shallow puddles in the floor seams catching a smeared reflection of him, straw scattered in the corners. A single torch in a wall bracket at the upper left is the only light source; it rakes across his right pauldron and the bridge of his nose, leaves the left side of his face and the interior of his duster in deep near-black, throws his long shadow up and backward across the wall behind him, and lets the water at his boots hold a broken amber gleam, darker and softer than the flame itself. The palette is iron grey, wet black, and a narrow band of amber torchlight, with the tattoo and the eye-flicker in dark red as the only saturated notes. Sharp ink-like linework, hard cel edges, bold silhouette, deep crushed blacks against the amber pool. Quiet, cold menace.
Ed Ryan

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