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Orihime Inoue singing a song from an opera
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- Prompt original
- Orihime Inoue, wearing a Hueco Mundo outfit such as a white sleeveless dress, singing a classical crossover opera song on a grand stage in front of an audience, closing both of her eyes, mouth open wide, digital illustration, fantasy vivid colors, modern anime style, inspired by Tite Kubo and Studio Pierrot, sleek glossy shiny skin, intricate details, soft lighting, wide angle, front view, 64K ultra high resolution, hyper detailed, cinematic render, (ethereal atmosphere:1.3).
- Tamaño
- 1024 x 1024
- Pasos de muestreo
- 28
- Método de muestreo
- Euler a
- Escala CFG
- 5
- Excluir de la imagen
- nsfw, worst quality, bad quality, low quality, lowres, anatomical nonsense, artistic error, bad anatomy, interlocked fingers, extra fingers, text, artist name, signature, bad feet, extra toes, ugly, poorly drawn, censor, blurry, watermark, simple background, transparent background, old, oldest, glitch, deformed, mutated, disfigured, long body, bad hands, missing fingers, extra digit, fewer digits, cropped, very displeasing, sketch, jpeg artifacts, username, censored, bar_censor, mosaic_censor, conjoined, bad ai-generated, nsfw, long neck, skin blemishes, skin spots, acne, the wrong limb, error, black line, excess hands
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s1
solo, 1girl, symphonic metal singer, female lead vocalist, long flowing mahogany hair, hair blown back, dramatic expression, wounded expression, pained brow, glistening eyes, mouth open singing, fierce aggressive delivery, clenched brow, bared teeth, floor-length black velvet gown, sheer lace sleeves, high Victorian collar, silver microphone on stand, both hands gripping microphone, head tilted back, from below, dutch angle, close-up, dark stage, dramatic single spotlight, deep shadow, crimson and black palette, motion-blurred hair, dust motes in beam, cinematic
From a low dutch angle, tilted up past her jaw so the high Victorian collar and the underside of her chin loom against the black, a female symphonic metal singer stands at her silver microphone on its stand, the only figure in the frame. Her both hands wrap the mic body, knuckles pale, one thumb pressed hard into the silver grille; her weight is thrown onto her back foot, hips twisted, shoulders driving forward off the stand as if she is leaning into the note rather than away from it. Her long mahogany hair whips back and to the left of frame, parted by the air she is pushing out, strands crossing the rim of the spotlight in a soft blur. Her head is tipped back and turned slightly to her right in profile-lean, eyes squeezed shut on the wounded melodic phrase, one wet line catching at the lower lid, a fine crease between her brows, mouth open and shaped soft and dark around the note — but the jaw and tendons of her throat are already tightening into the fierce chorus: a hard furrow forming, the corner of her lip starting to curl over her teeth, cheek muscles pulling. She does not look at the viewer; her whole face is aimed up into the light and out of frame.
The gown falls in floor-length black velvet, absorbing the beam, its nap going soft along the folds where it pools at her feet and glinting only where the fabric curves toward the light. The sheer lace sleeves read as a fragile grey net across the backs of her forearms and the bones of her wrists, dark skin showing through. The high Victorian collar stands tall and closed at her throat, and the only bright object in the frame is the silver microphone in her fists, its burnished barrel throwing one small hot highlight back onto the ball of her chin.
The stage around her is absolute black; a single hard overhead spot from high camera-right is the only light source, striking the crown of her hair, the ridge of her nose, the top edges of the lace sleeves, and the tops of the folds of the velvet, then falling off violently — beyond its cone the darkness is total. A faint beaded cord of dust is visible only inside the beam, whirling and catching the light where her breath and the movement of the hair disturb the air, which makes the force of the delivery visible in a place where no wind can be felt.
Palette: black, the deep oxblood that lives in the mahogany of her hair, the cold hot white of the spotlight, and the clean silver of the microphone — nothing else admitted. Velvet, lace, wet eyes and the dry dust of the beam carry all the texture. Gothic, ferocious.
srkfan18
愛の旅立ちでした
すとーんへっじ
sb
Nakano Itsuki's Shining Stage Debut! 🌟
S.B.T
s1
solo, 1girl, symphonic metal singer, female lead vocalist, long flowing mahogany hair, hair blown back, dramatic expression, wounded expression, pained brow, glistening eyes, mouth open singing, fierce aggressive delivery, clenched brow, bared teeth, floor-length black velvet gown, sheer lace sleeves, high Victorian collar, silver microphone on stand, both hands gripping microphone, head tilted back, from below, dutch angle, close-up, dark stage, dramatic single spotlight, deep shadow, crimson and black palette, motion-blurred hair, dust motes in beam, cinematic
From a low dutch angle, tilted up past her jaw so the high Victorian collar and the underside of her chin loom against the black, a female symphonic metal singer stands at her silver microphone on its stand, the only figure in the frame. Her both hands wrap the mic body, knuckles pale, one thumb pressed hard into the silver grille; her weight is thrown onto her back foot, hips twisted, shoulders driving forward off the stand as if she is leaning into the note rather than away from it. Her long mahogany hair whips back and to the left of frame, parted by the air she is pushing out, strands crossing the rim of the spotlight in a soft blur. Her head is tipped back and turned slightly to her right in profile-lean, eyes squeezed shut on the wounded melodic phrase, one wet line catching at the lower lid, a fine crease between her brows, mouth open and shaped soft and dark around the note — but the jaw and tendons of her throat are already tightening into the fierce chorus: a hard furrow forming, the corner of her lip starting to curl over her teeth, cheek muscles pulling. She does not look at the viewer; her whole face is aimed up into the light and out of frame.
The gown falls in floor-length black velvet, absorbing the beam, its nap going soft along the folds where it pools at her feet and glinting only where the fabric curves toward the light. The sheer lace sleeves read as a fragile grey net across the backs of her forearms and the bones of her wrists, dark skin showing through. The high Victorian collar stands tall and closed at her throat, and the only bright object in the frame is the silver microphone in her fists, its burnished barrel throwing one small hot highlight back onto the ball of her chin.
The stage around her is absolute black; a single hard overhead spot from high camera-right is the only light source, striking the crown of her hair, the ridge of her nose, the top edges of the lace sleeves, and the tops of the folds of the velvet, then falling off violently — beyond its cone the darkness is total. A faint beaded cord of dust is visible only inside the beam, whirling and catching the light where her breath and the movement of the hair disturb the air, which makes the force of the delivery visible in a place where no wind can be felt.
Palette: black, the deep oxblood that lives in the mahogany of her hair, the cold hot white of the spotlight, and the clean silver of the microphone — nothing else admitted. Velvet, lace, wet eyes and the dry dust of the beam carry all the texture. Gothic, ferocious.
srkfan18
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