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DeusSlimus Cataphract
「DeusSlimus Cataphract」はImp MargosさんのAIイラストです。使用モデル: Tsubaki.3 Flash。
PixAI では、プロンプトは初期設定で公開されますが、作者は投稿した作品ごとにプロンプトを非公開にできます。この作品の作者は非公開を選んでいるため、画像の生成に使われた言葉は作者本人しか見ることができません。プロンプトを非公開にしても、それ以外は変わりません。作品は公開されたままで、これまでどおりいいね・コメント・シェアができます。
作者による非表示
スタイル: 90年代レトロセル画
プロンプト自動変換
利用したモデルとLoRA
ほかの類似作品
続きを読む
1boy, solo, large build, tall, full body, great helm, helmet with narrow eye slit, heavy full plate armor, steel plate, gauntlets, sabatons, greatsword in right hand, giant sword, rectangular blade, squared-off tip, flat blunt tip, crossbow in left hand, repeating crossbow, magazine on top of crossbow, dashing, charging, high-speed movement, speed lines, motion blur, leaning into the charge, from side, profile, dutch angle, dynamic angle, foreshortening, outstretched arm, dust kicked up, ground debris, sparks, dramatic lighting, dark storm sky, low camera, wide shot
The view is a low, tilted three-quarter side shot from the character's right front, tilted dutch-angle into the run, the whole armored body held in frame from the crown of the helm to the planted sabatons. A single enormous figure dominates the frame — broad-shouldered, heavy-set, a body built for impact. The head is sealed inside a great helm: a flat-topped steel cylinder with a narrow horizontal eye slit and a row of breathing holes, its edge riveted and darkened by use, throwing a hard band of shadow across where the face would be. Beneath it the full plate armor sheathes the body in overlapping lames — domed pauldrons that sit high at the shoulders, a ridged breastplate curving over the chest, faulds and tassets that flare at the hips, articulated gauntlets, cuisses and greaves down to broad sabatons. The plates are scuffed and dull in the crevices, bright on the leading edges where the charging lean catches the light.
The right arm is swept back and slightly out, gripping the greatsword's long hilt with both the gauntlet's fingers curled around it — the blade is absurdly long, easily twice the man's own height, trailing out behind the run over the shoulder and out of the top of the frame, and its tip is not a point but a blunt squared-off rectangle, a flat rectangular slab of steel ending in a hard cut edge. The left arm is thrust forward and across, holding the repeating crossbow up at chest height, its rectangular magazine block sitting atop the bolt groove, the limbs bowed wide, bolts already in the groove. The whole body is caught mid-charge, torso twisted, weight driven forward over the front foot, one sabaton planted and the other pushing off, cloak-like cloth and the strap ends snapping backward away from the direction of travel.
The environment is a nameless stretch of open ground under a dark, low-hanging storm sky — cracked earth and loose grit, no landmark worth naming, the horizon tilted by the dutch angle so the run reads as diagonal motion. The only light is a cold, hard key raking low from the front-left, catching the rim of the helm, the crown of the pauldrons and the flat face of the squared blade, leaving the right side and the underside of the armor in deep shadow, and throwing a long dirt-smear shadow behind the planted foot. Speed lines streak horizontally past him to left and right, and behind the rush the dust is torn up in a fan, grit hanging in the air where the sabaton has just left the ground. The palette stays narrow: cold slate greys and steel blues for the armor and blade, iron-black for the shadow, and a bruise of dull ochre in the churned earth under a desaturated storm sky. The dark cavity inside the helm's eye slit and the flat cut face of the rectangular blade are the two places the light refuses to enter, and both of them point forward, straight down the line of the charge. Relentless, unstoppable.
クロックロック
く
頼れるスライム騎士団
くまくん
1boy, solo, large build, tall, full body, great helm, helmet with narrow eye slit, heavy full plate armor, steel plate, gauntlets, sabatons, greatsword in right hand, giant sword, rectangular blade, squared-off tip, flat blunt tip, crossbow in left hand, repeating crossbow, magazine on top of crossbow, dashing, charging, high-speed movement, speed lines, motion blur, leaning into the charge, from side, profile, dutch angle, dynamic angle, foreshortening, outstretched arm, dust kicked up, ground debris, sparks, dramatic lighting, dark storm sky, low camera, wide shot
The view is a low, tilted three-quarter side shot from the character's right front, tilted dutch-angle into the run, the whole armored body held in frame from the crown of the helm to the planted sabatons. A single enormous figure dominates the frame — broad-shouldered, heavy-set, a body built for impact. The head is sealed inside a great helm: a flat-topped steel cylinder with a narrow horizontal eye slit and a row of breathing holes, its edge riveted and darkened by use, throwing a hard band of shadow across where the face would be. Beneath it the full plate armor sheathes the body in overlapping lames — domed pauldrons that sit high at the shoulders, a ridged breastplate curving over the chest, faulds and tassets that flare at the hips, articulated gauntlets, cuisses and greaves down to broad sabatons. The plates are scuffed and dull in the crevices, bright on the leading edges where the charging lean catches the light.
The right arm is swept back and slightly out, gripping the greatsword's long hilt with both the gauntlet's fingers curled around it — the blade is absurdly long, easily twice the man's own height, trailing out behind the run over the shoulder and out of the top of the frame, and its tip is not a point but a blunt squared-off rectangle, a flat rectangular slab of steel ending in a hard cut edge. The left arm is thrust forward and across, holding the repeating crossbow up at chest height, its rectangular magazine block sitting atop the bolt groove, the limbs bowed wide, bolts already in the groove. The whole body is caught mid-charge, torso twisted, weight driven forward over the front foot, one sabaton planted and the other pushing off, cloak-like cloth and the strap ends snapping backward away from the direction of travel.
The environment is a nameless stretch of open ground under a dark, low-hanging storm sky — cracked earth and loose grit, no landmark worth naming, the horizon tilted by the dutch angle so the run reads as diagonal motion. The only light is a cold, hard key raking low from the front-left, catching the rim of the helm, the crown of the pauldrons and the flat face of the squared blade, leaving the right side and the underside of the armor in deep shadow, and throwing a long dirt-smear shadow behind the planted foot. Speed lines streak horizontally past him to left and right, and behind the rush the dust is torn up in a fan, grit hanging in the air where the sabaton has just left the ground. The palette stays narrow: cold slate greys and steel blues for the armor and blade, iron-black for the shadow, and a bruise of dull ochre in the churned earth under a desaturated storm sky. The dark cavity inside the helm's eye slit and the flat cut face of the rectangular blade are the two places the light refuses to enter, and both of them point forward, straight down the line of the charge. Relentless, unstoppable.
クロックロック
1boy, solo, large build, tall, full body, great helm, helmet with narrow eye slit, heavy full plate armor, steel plate, gauntlets, sabatons, greatsword in right hand, giant sword, rectangular blade, squared-off tip, flat blunt tip, crossbow in left hand, repeating crossbow, magazine on top of crossbow, dashing, charging, high-speed movement, speed lines, motion blur, leaning into the charge, from side, profile, dutch angle, dynamic angle, foreshortening, outstretched arm, dust kicked up, ground debris, sparks, dramatic lighting, dark storm sky, low camera, wide shot
The view is a low, tilted three-quarter side shot from the character's right front, tilted dutch-angle into the run, the whole armored body held in frame from the crown of the helm to the planted sabatons. A single enormous figure dominates the frame — broad-shouldered, heavy-set, a body built for impact. The head is sealed inside a great helm: a flat-topped steel cylinder with a narrow horizontal eye slit and a row of breathing holes, its edge riveted and darkened by use, throwing a hard band of shadow across where the face would be. Beneath it the full plate armor sheathes the body in overlapping lames — domed pauldrons that sit high at the shoulders, a ridged breastplate curving over the chest, faulds and tassets that flare at the hips, articulated gauntlets, cuisses and greaves down to broad sabatons. The plates are scuffed and dull in the crevices, bright on the leading edges where the charging lean catches the light.
The right arm is swept back and slightly out, gripping the greatsword's long hilt with both the gauntlet's fingers curled around it — the blade is absurdly long, easily twice the man's own height, trailing out behind the run over the shoulder and out of the top of the frame, and its tip is not a point but a blunt squared-off rectangle, a flat rectangular slab of steel ending in a hard cut edge. The left arm is thrust forward and across, holding the repeating crossbow up at chest height, its rectangular magazine block sitting atop the bolt groove, the limbs bowed wide, bolts already in the groove. The whole body is caught mid-charge, torso twisted, weight driven forward over the front foot, one sabaton planted and the other pushing off, cloak-like cloth and the strap ends snapping backward away from the direction of travel.
The environment is a nameless stretch of open ground under a dark, low-hanging storm sky — cracked earth and loose grit, no landmark worth naming, the horizon tilted by the dutch angle so the run reads as diagonal motion. The only light is a cold, hard key raking low from the front-left, catching the rim of the helm, the crown of the pauldrons and the flat face of the squared blade, leaving the right side and the underside of the armor in deep shadow, and throwing a long dirt-smear shadow behind the planted foot. Speed lines streak horizontally past him to left and right, and behind the rush the dust is torn up in a fan, grit hanging in the air where the sabaton has just left the ground. The palette stays narrow: cold slate greys and steel blues for the armor and blade, iron-black for the shadow, and a bruise of dull ochre in the churned earth under a desaturated storm sky. The dark cavity inside the helm's eye slit and the flat cut face of the rectangular blade are the two places the light refuses to enter, and both of them point forward, straight down the line of the charge. Relentless, unstoppable.
クロックロック
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