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Prompt by Pulsar212121

massive cliffs FLUX prompts

very few results

6 months ago

In the heart of a dramatic scene, Kushinada, a brave and selfless maiden, stands resolute on a rugged, rocky cliff. Her stance is one of quiet determination, embodying her courage in the face of impending danger. She is adorned in a traditional Japanese kimono, its fabric rich with intricate patterns and vibrant colors that flow elegantly around her. The kimono is complemented by a decorative obi belt, tied meticulously at her waist, adding to her poised appearance. Her hair, long and dark, cascades down her back, with a few delicate strands framing her face, making her instantly recognizable. A single, ornate hairpin glints in her hair, catching the light and drawing attention to her serene yet determined expression. The backdrop to this scene is a vast, tumultuous landscape where the sky is filled with dark, brooding clouds, hinting at the chaos that is about to unfold. Below the cliff, the terrain is rocky and uneven, adding to the sense of peril. In the distance, a towering, eight-headed serpent begins to rise, its massive forms writhing and coiling as it approaches, each head a menacing spectacle with glowing eyes and sharp fangs. The serpent's scales shimmer with an eerie, otherworldly glow, contrasting sharply with the natural hues of the landscape. Far off, almost blending into the horizon, a lone hero can be seen. Clad in traditional armor, he wields a gleaming sword, ready to confront the monstrous serpent. His presence, though distant, adds a layer of hope and anticipation to the scene. The hero's stance is firm, his gaze unwavering, as he prepares to embark on the perilous journey to protect Kushinada and vanquish the serpent. The entire scene is a blend of beauty and terror, capturing a moment of calm before the storm of an epic battle.

2 hours ago

**TRIBUTE: THE SCAR AND THE BULL** A raw still frame. Not a photograph. An artifact of intent. It is a scar on the landscape. The Murciélago LP 670-4 SV. Apex predator. Its orange hide is not a paint, but a warning, the colour of a venomous fish or a dying star. Its scissor doors are not open; they are splayed. A predator's broken jaw frozen mid-snarl. This is its war cry. Not a sound, but a pressure wave of pure intent. The vast cliff face behind it is the only witness, eroding in its presence. Every line is a fracture. Every vent a gill, breathing violence. The carbon fiber is not a finish; it is exposed muscle and bone. The massive rear wing is a blade, sharpened for a fight that has not yet been ordained. It is not parked. It is interrupted. A single, brutal noun in the sentence of the road. And rising behind this mechanical spectre, a phantom. A legendary Black fighting bull, rendered in spray paint and soul by an unseen hand upon the cliff wall. It is the ghost of Murciélago, the bull of 1879 who endured 24 swords and earned his immortality. His spirit is not charging; it is standing. An immovable force meeting an unstoppable object—his own reincarnation. Two legends, separated by centuries, fused in a single moment of defiance. The last light does not gleam; it bleeds on their sharp edges. This is the moment after the roar and before the lunge. The silent, seismic war cry that shatters the air. This is the tribute. To the bull. To the machine. To the day the landscape was scarred by a legend, twice over. — JDHampton