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Aaronblood

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Aaronblood

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traditional media (artwork), watercolor (medium), graphite (medium), drawing (medium), antique paper, parchment texture, gothic, dark fantasy, pov, ground level, wide shot, multiple people, villagers, men, women, peasant clothes, tattered clothes, excessively shaded, heavy shadow, fine lines, white eyes, glowing eyes, staring at viewer, looking at viewer, varied expressions, cultivating land, farming tool, standing guard, pikeman, soldier, halberd, polearm, wooden shack, unglazed window, open window, torch, fire, cobblestone, stone floor, grass tufts, meadow, farmhouses, windblown tree, gloomy, horror (theme) From a ground-level point-of-view perspective standing upon an uneven pathway of split river stones and tufts of overgrown grass, the viewer looks out into a despondent medieval hamlet. In the foreground, men and women dressed in ragged, earthen-hued hemp tunics and coarse wool trousers stoop over tilled soil, cultivating the damp earth side-by-side with iron hoes; their knuckles clasp worn wooden shafts, their postures rigid as their torsos twist backward to gaze fixedly at the viewer. Surrounding them, crude wooden shacks constructed from warped timber planks line the path, featuring empty rectangular window cutouts entirely devoid of glass, framed only by bare, weathered wood where shadowed villagers lean their forearms onto unvarnished sills to stare down silently. Standing along the perimeter, local pikemen soldiers in padded gambesons and iron skullcaps maintain a rigid watch, their boots planted firmly into the mud as gloved hands grip upright steel-headed halberds. The human figures are cloaked in dense, excessive pencil cross-hatching and heavy soot-black shading, obscuring their flesh into near-silhouettes yet revealing delicate, needle-thin contours of diverse facial expressions—taut lips, furrowed brows, and hollow grimaces—surrounding piercing, luminous deep white eyes that glow with uncanny brightness from the dark. Beyond the houses, the terrain extends into a rolling gothic meadow scattered with distant, ramshackle farmhouses and gnarled, windblown trees with sparse foliage drifting in the cold draft. Illumination comes solely from a few unevenly mounted, pitch-soaked torches fixed carelessly to crooked posts, casting flickering amber light onto nearby patches of damp stone and fraying fabric while abandoning the rest of the settlement to deep, swallowing shadows. Spatially, wisps of black smoke and bright glowing cinders from the torch flames drift in a single uniform angle toward the left, matching the lean of the swaying branches. The palette is strictly antique and gothic, composed of aged parchment ochre, ash grey, sepia, and charred umber on foxed, textured paper with delicate graphite linework. Quiet dread.
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Original Prompt
Watercolor-like drawing with gothic tones on old paper, pencil drawing to resemble antiquity, villagers, men and women, excessively shaded.Showing subtle details in thin lines, leaving only the luminous, deep white eyes visible, several expressions Set of villagers, full shadows , drawn gothic background of a meadow with farms Camera viewpoint, basic stone floor with grass, villagers doing things from cultivating the land next to each other Watching you from afar, others in their basic houses of poor material are also observing you from their windows without glass, only wood.A few drifting trees, torches poorly placed in certain spots illuminating what little the place had to offer,Presence of pikemen soldiers with halberds as local police, a few standing guard in the place
Mode
flash
Size
1280 x 720
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Tsubaki.3 Flash - AI Model cover image

PixAI DiT.3

Tsubaki.3 Flash
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4 medieval pike guards, campfire, sitting, grotesque faces, shadowed face, eyes visible, glowing eyes, from below, wide shot, dutch angle, old paper, watercolor wash, pencil sketch, antique illustration, gothic tones, muted palette, stone floor, medieval kingdom, stone walls, grassy path, farms, patrol, swordsmen, lancers, different races, two-handed weapons, poleaxe, halberd, spear, historically accurate armor, kettle hat, gambeson, chainmail, wool tunic, leather jerkin, quilted doublet, dark background, chiaroscuro, (no modern elements), desaturated, ink outlines, aged parchment texture, dusty atmosphere, night A wide, low-angle shot tilted slightly into a dutch angle looks across a broad stone floor toward the left corner of the frame, where four medieval pike guards sit in a loose crescent around a low campfire. The fire is the only light: it burns at the far left edge, throwing a warm amber pool that dies quickly into the cold blue-black of the night. The four guards face the flames, so the firelight strikes their faces from below and their brows, cheekbones, and the brims of their helmets cast deep shadows over their upper faces, leaving only their eyes catching the light—grotesque, hardened, watchful. The nearest guard, in a coarse brown linen gambeson and a steel kettle hat, sits cross-legged with his pike propped against his shoulder, one hand steadying the shaft. Beside him, a guard in a heavy forest-green wool tunic with chainmail sleeves leans forward, elbows on his knees, his poleaxe laid across his lap. A third in a weathered leather jerkin over a grey wool shirt hunches with his halberd leaning against his shoulder, staring into the coals. The fourth, in a quilted cream doublet with reinforced leather shoulders, grips a long two-handed spear planted upright, his eyes narrowed against the smoke. Their weapons—pike, poleaxe, halberd, spear—are period-accurate in shape and proportion, resting on the stone floor. Beyond them, the scene opens into a medieval kingdom rendered in faded watercolor washes and fine pencil linework. Strategically placed stone walls cut across the midground, their crenellations casting long shadows in the firelight. To the right, a grassy path winds toward distant farms with timber-framed barns and fenced fields, drawn in loose, antique pencil strokes. Further back, along the walls and paths, patrols of medieval swordsmen and lancers of different races move as small, shadowy figures—historically accurate linen tunics, leather boots, steel swords, cloth armor, leather belts, and lances held at the ready. The stone floor underfoot is rendered with cracked, weathered texture, its flagstones catching faint reflections of the fire. The composition is framed by the warm, dark tones of the campfire on the left and the cool, gothic shadows of the kingdom on the right, with the old paper's yellowed, foxed surface visible at the edges and in the negative space between the figures. The drawing blends watercolor washes—muted greens, browns, and dusky blues—with sharp pencil outlines that give the scene an antique, almost archaeological feel. The light from the fire is the sole source, and beyond its reach, the darkness is absolute. The atmosphere is tense and watchful, a quiet dread settling over the camp.
Aaronblood
AI artwork
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antique paper background, manuscript illustration, pencil drawing only, monochrome graphite, fierce medieval battle, several corpses of medieval soldiers, heavy armor, historically accurate Norman vs Breton arms, soldiers with anatomically correct bodies, randomly armed warriors with national weapons, lone warrior near camera, frightened expression, nervous face, slightly scared, blood-covered warrior, darkened bodies with only luminous eyes, glowing eyes, shadowy warriors fighting in background, terrifying sky, several arrows flying overhead, from below, close-up foreground figure, wide depth of field, low angle, dynamic composition, dark atmosphere, high contrast hatching The view is a low angle from just behind the lone warrior's shoulder-height, close to the camera, so his armored bulk fills the near foreground while the massacre opens out beyond him. He stands turned three-quarters away, weight on his left leg, right foot dragged half a step back as if he has just checked his retreat; his left hand grips the shaft of a long Norman kite shield planted at his side, fingers curled around the rim, and his right hand hangs half-raised with a broad-bladed Breton-style axe — he is not swinging it, just holding it out from his body, unsure. His face is a young man's, clean-shaven, and it is twisted into a nervous, wide-eyed fear: brows pulled up and together, mouth slightly open, jaw tight, a cold sweat suggested by the harsh lines around his eyes and temples. His conical nasal helmet is pushed back a little on his head, chainmail coif bunched at the neck, mail hauberk over a padded gambeson, and the whole figure — armor, skin, everything — is rendered in near-black graphite, heavily hatched down to the deepest pencil pressure, so that the only light on him is the two small, pale, luminous points of his eyes and a faint wet glint where blood smears his cheek and the curve of his breastplate. Heavy spatter of blood darkens the mail at his shoulder, chest and sword-arm; the blood is drawn as dense cross-hatched black, not red. Beyond him the battlefield recedes in layers on the aged, foxed manuscript paper — a pale sheet with visible fibers, a soft deckled edge, faint yellowing and a few brown spots. Immediately behind his planted shield, the dead lie in a tumbled heap: three or four corpses of medieval soldiers in heavy mail and flat-topped Breton-style helmets and Norman nasal helms, sprawled at broken angles across churned ground, their weapons scattered from their hands — a short Breton sword, a Norman spear, a mace — each body darkened to extreme black in the pencil shading with only a pair of luminous eye-points showing through the shadow of the helmet's brow. Further back, a middle distance of silhouetted shadow-warriors still fighting: one lunging with a spear, another cleaving down with an axe, a third reeling back with a shield raised, all rendered as pure dark graphite shapes with luminous eyes, none of them anatomically distorted, each armed with a plausible weapon of his region. Above them, a terrifying sky is pressed out of the paper with heavy, scribbled, storm-dark shading, swirling from the upper left, and several arrows are caught mid-flight across that dark sky, thin diagonal shafts with fletching, drawn as sharp pencil arcs coming from the upper right, angled down toward the background fighters. The pale manuscript paper shows through in the open sky near the top left and at the very bottom of the frame, keeping the whole image anchored to the look of an old hand-drawn plate. Graphite-only palette: the whole scene is laid down in pencil values from pale paper-white to deep smudged black, with the only "light" being the small, hard, luminous eye-points and the wet glints on the lone warrior's face. The linework is loose, sketchy, built from visible pencil strokes, restrained hatching and directional shading, with a few eraser highlights, no ink, no color, no digital gloss. A light source from the upper right — the storm-light — catches the top edge of the lone warrior's helmet and the rim of his shield, so those edges stay pale against the hatching, while his body and all the fallen cast heavy black shadows to the lower left. Fine paper grain catches the graphite in the darkest areas, and the smudge of thumbprints and erased construction lines is visible at the edges, like a working manuscript. Quiet dread, historical and grim.
Aaronblood
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1 male, solo, viking berserker, charging, running toward camera, rusted iron skull mask, face hidden behind mask, sickly pale skin, blood and mud covered, tattered raven banner, holding banner pole, banner flapping violently, massive murder of ravens, ravens made of black smoke, dead warriors, corpses of fallen warriors, broken shields, thick freezing fog, cold northern light, cinematic wide shot, from below, foreshortening, dark fantasy horror, chiaroscuro, desaturated blacks, deep crimson blood, hyperdetailed, film grain, dutch angle, low horizon, oppressive atmosphere A cinematic wide shot taken low to the ground and tilted a few degrees off level, so the berserker looms huge and off-square as he charges across the mud toward the camera, half-foreshortened, one lead boot planted in the slop with the knee driving up, the other leg trailing behind with mud spraying off the heel. He is a thick-set, heavy-shouldered man with sickly pale skin where the flesh shows at his wrists and neck corded tight with exertion; the skin is mottled grey-white and slicked with a wet sheen of cold sweat. Blood and mud coat him from greaves to shoulders -- deep crimson blood soaked into coarse dark wool and hide and hanging in wet strings, dark mud crusted and drying in cracks across his forearms and belly. His face is completely hidden behind a rusted iron skull mask: hammered plate in the shape of a skull, pitted with orange rust, its eye hollows black and empty, its teeth ridge scored with old grime, the mask strapped tight to his head under a tangled mat of mudlocked hair that whips forward over it as he runs. The mask turns slightly toward the viewer as he charges, so the empty eye hollows catch the one bright rim of cold light. His right fist hoists the Raven Banner, gripping the iron-banded ash pole high near head height, elbow locked, the pole pushed forward and tilted across the composition; his left arm is thrown back and down, fist clenched, dragging the shoulder open. The banner itself is a long tattered rag of dark, near-black cloth, rotten at its trailing edge and split into three twisting ribbons, flapping violently away from him to the upper left with a hard wind caught in its belly. Its cursed device is a raven skull stitched in dulled thread, barely legible in the folds. The wind is real: the pole bows, the cloth snaps taut and hollows, and every raven in the murder leans the same direction -- a vast swarm boiling around, above and behind the banner, hundreds of them, and where the wings should sharpen, the birds blur and smear into black smoke, their bodies fraying into sooty streaks and drifting curls of smoke that break up into the fog, some ravens only a half-resolved smudge of moving black. The smoke drags toward the fog on the right, one clean piece of physics to judge by: the birds are densest at the banner and thin out the farther they are from it. The ground is a churned slaughterfield of black mud and standing water. Dead warriors lie scattered through the midground and foreground -- a mailed man face down with one arm out, another slumped against a cloven shield, a hand still curled round a snapped sword -- desaturated, mud-caked, half swallowed by the fog. Broken shields are everywhere: a split limewood boss-down in the nearest puddle, another rolled on its face with the rim bent and painted patterns scabbed away. The nearest broken shields and the leaking pool catch a faint mirror of the banner above them. A thin crust of frost glitters on the upward-facing surfaces only -- the top of a dead man's shoulder, the rim of a shield, the flat of a blade -- while the vertical faces stay wet and black. Thick freezing fog eats the depth: near figures readable, the middle ground dissolving, the far field gone. Cold northern light rakes in low from the upper right, pale and steel-grey, backlighting the fog so the smoke becomes visible against it; it strikes the crown of the iron mask, the soaked wool of his shoulder, and the ragged banner's leading edge, and everything turned away from it drops into near-blackness. The composition is a heavy chiaroscuro chiaroscuro of desaturated blacks, a few sickly greys, and the only saturated note of deep crimson blood smeared across the mud, the cloth, and the pole. Hyperdetailed in the rust pits of the mask, the weave of the tattered cloth and each wet clot of mud, cinematic wide framing, film grain across the whole image, airless and brutal, oppressive dark fantasy horror.
C9I
#Warhammer 40,000

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