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eitaeita.1007@icloud.com

AI art by eitaeita.1007@icloud.com on PixAI. Made with Tsubaki.3.

Published on Nov 14, 2026

1girl, solo, beautiful woman, pale blue hair, long hair, large breasts, black gothic armor, glossy corset-style bustier, white high-neck collar, gold chest ornament, pink ribbon, diamond-shaped hole on abdomen, navel, bare midriff, short dagger at waist, black long cloak, patterned lace pantyhose, black long boots, mercenary, holding sword, western sword, fighting, dragon, shattered armor, cracked armor, blood from mouth, blood trickle, dodging, falling flames, fire, embers, from below, dutch angle, foreshortening, wide shot, dynamic pose, mid-air, looking down, looking at another, expressionless, stoic, jitome, closed mouth, serious, billowing cloak, wind, motion blur, debris, dark fantasy, high contrast, ember lighting, cool skin, strong shadows, A low, tilted worm's-eye view from just above the scorched flagstones — dutch angle with the horizon raked hard to the right — frames the pale-blue-haired mercenary caught in mid-air, wrenched a body-length to the left of a falling column of fire. Her long pale blue hair streams backward and upward behind her, lifted by the updraft of the blast, the loose strands flung wide and the bulk of it whipping past her shoulder. Her face is locked and blank: eyes narrowed to a flat, level stare, lids lowered, brows unfurrowed, lips pressed shut and drawing a thin dark line of blood from the right corner of her mouth that runs a short way down her chin. She looks down and across at the dragon's head, tracking it, giving it nothing. Her right arm drives the western sword out and down in a diagonal guard across her body, knuckles white on the plain crossguard, the blade's flat catching the firelight in a single hot streak; her left arm is flung back for balance, fingers spread. Her spine twists, hips leading and shoulders counter-rotating, both knees tucked and boots off the ground, the long black boots angled as she clears the flame front. Beneath her the shadowed mass of the dragon fills the midground, one scaled forelimb planted huge on the flagstones to the left of frame, its neck arcing up and its eye glowing into the lower right corner. The fire falls in two separate sheets from the top of frame, leaving a gap she has thrown herself into; embers spin down past her cloak. Her black gothic armor carries the damage the fight has already taken from it: the glossy corset-style bustier is split along the left flank, black lacquer plates sprung and jagged at the break, one shoulder pauldron sheared away at the rivets, the black long cloak torn and burned along its trailing hem and bellying out behind her in the hot wind. Intact and legible: the white high-neck collar standing crisp under her jaw, the gold chest ornament catching a hard yellow highlight, the pink ribbon still knotted tight at her breastplate, the diamond-shaped hole cut in the armor at her abdomen framing her bare navel above the skirt of plates, the short dagger still riding at her hip in its sheath, patterned lace pantyhose hissing pale at the gap between cuisse and boot. The falling flame is the only light source — a low, furnace-orange glow rising from below and behind, so every upward-facing surface burns and everything turned away from it falls into deep blue-black; the heat throws a hard rim down the left edge of her cloak, her cheek and her boot, and her body casts a sprawling, distorted shadow across the flagstones well to the right of her. Palette clamped to furnace orange, ember red, deep blue-black, the pale ice of her hair, and the single pink knot of the ribbon; smoke and drifting sparks deaden the background, which loses itself in soot and glare. Ash settles on every upward-facing ledge of her shattered plates and is scoured clean from the slanted ones — smouldering stone, sulfurous glare, desperate and unyielding.

eitaeita.1007@icloud.com

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