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Soifon
Arte de IA de Soifon no PixAI. Criado com VXP_illustrious (low cost version).
Mostrar Parâmetros
- Tamanho
- 1024 x 682
- Passos de Amostragem
- 8
- Método de Amostragem
- DPM++ SDE Karras
- CFG scale
- 2.5
- Negativo
- big nose, lowres, bad anatomy, bad hands, text, error, missing fingers, extra digit, fewer digits, cropped, worst quality, low quality, normal quality, jpeg artifacts, signature, watermark, username, blurry
Correção de Rosto
Modelo & LoRA usado
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asukabaka
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1girl, solo, restrained, chained, defeated, battle outfit, japanese style outfit, chain around neck, heavy iron chain collar, red face, flushed cheeks, expression enduring pleasure, embarrassed expression, biting lip, slightly bowed head, looking up desperately, battered appearance, wounded body, tattered clothes, torn clothes, ripped outfit, broken outfit, exposed thighs, exposed armpits, exposed upper arms, kneeling on one knee, hugging own body, self-hug, multiple chains extending from surroundings, chains wrapped around arms, chains wrapped around legs, chains wrapped around body, broken asphalt, ruined town, collapsed building street, live broadcasting camera, monitor, from below, dutch angle, looking up, trembling, sweat, half-closed eyes, parted lips, motion lines,
The camera sits low and close, canted a few degrees off level, looking up from the broken asphalt: a lone girl kneels on her right knee in the foreground, left foot planted flat and forward, thigh bared where the torn hem of her short indigo-and-crimson battle kimono has been ripped away. Her torso twists a quarter-turn from the lens, shoulders drawn inward; both bare upper arms press against her ribs and both hands grip the opposite elbow, hugging her own body, and the pose opens the hollows under both arms where sweat and dust track down the skin. A heavy iron chain collar sits across her collarbones and throat, links thick as a thumb, one length running over her shoulder and down between her shoulder blades. Chains bite across her arms, spiral once around each shin and thigh, and band her waist, each link drawn tight enough to dimple the fabric. From the flanks, from the rubble behind and above her, more chains sweep in and pull taut toward the frame edges, and where they anchor to an exposed rebar stub the metal is worn bright. Her head is bowed just a few degrees, chin low, and from under her dust-matted fringe her eyes roll up toward the lens and past it, desperate, lashes wet and clumped, under-eye shadows smudged; her cheek is dark with flushed blood and her front teeth are pressed into the crease of her lower lip, the lip whitening at the bite and her brows pinched as though holding back a sound. Torn cloth: one sleeve is gone entirely, a jagged rent runs along the ribcage, frayed threads catch the light at every tear, and the obi binding her waist is partially unwound, its ends trailing down past her knee.
The street behind her is a collapsed avenue: a six-storey concrete building has sheared away on the left, floors slumped into each other, bent rebar sprouting from broken slabs; the asphalt beneath her is split into rising plates with grit scattered across the fractures, and a curbstone lies upended in the midground. In the right midground, on a levelled block of rubble, a live broadcast camera on a low tripod is aimed straight at her, tally light glowing red in its housing, and beside it a cracked broadcast monitor on a battery case shows her own image in cold grey-silver, the reflection darker and softer than the figure herself, a lagging frame caught one half-second behind her actual pose. Those two devices are the only man-made light in the scene apart from the sky: a hard, low sun burns through the dust haze at the upper left, so her left cheek, throat, the top of the bent knee and the upper rims of every chain link burn hot, while the right side of her face, the inside of the self-hug and the street behind fall into deep cool blue-grey shadow, and her shadow stretches long and thin to the lower right across the shattered plates. Dust motes and a thin grit haze hang in the light and catch in the air she is breathing.
Palette locked to five: dust-warm ochre and dead concrete grey for the ruined town, cold blue-grey shadow, rust-brown and worn iron for the chains, and crimson-indigo for her torn outfit, with flushed red reserved for her face alone. Detail budget goes to the face, the bitten lip, the straining hands on her own elbows, and the contact of each taut link against skin and cloth; the collapsed blocks and the distant camera resolve as firm simple masses, never flat. Every link that faces upward carries its own thin film of grey dust, and nothing else does. Clean linework with high-contrast cel shading and vibrant color saturation typical of modern East Asian digital illustration, held down to a muted, gritty register; desperate, humiliated, heat-hazed.
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