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throne FLUX prompts

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7 months ago

Using the attached image, regenerate an image in the same style as this one. But with the following description: You need to draw a mille-fleurs tapestry of The Lady and the Unicorn, woven after 1515 but destroyed in Boussac in 1845. George Sand gives a rather brief description. "The lady is seated on a very rich throne. She wears a sort of royal turban on her forehead. There is something Asian in the ornaments of her finery and the canopy above her." So we will have a lion on the left and a unicorn on the right. Be as precise as possible and use the setting and colors of the attached piece. You need two different trees: an oak and an orange tree. The wooden throne must be wide, with a backrest that stops at the lady's shoulders. The figurines of a small lion and a small unicorn are carved on the top of the throne's uprights. The drooping tips of the canopy should not be visible, hidden by the lion and the unicorn. The lady's head is turned towards the unicorn; her turban should not be too large. The lion should be the same size as the unicorn. He should be on the left, with all four paws on the ground, standing upright and proud. He has a plumed tail. He is looking to his left (not looking at us). He is sitting on his haunches. He is holding the pole of the oriflamme-style flag, with a red background and a blue diagonal band rising to the left, bearing three rising white crescent moons, as in the attached image. The trunk of the tree on the left should not be behind his head. The unicorn is white. He is proudly raising his head. His four paws are on the ground. He is sitting on his haunches. He is looking at the lady. Thank you.

5 months ago

I am the crucible of anguish, the pulse beating beneath every shattered dream. I am the roar of chaos in halls where laughter long ago turned to dust. I am fortitude incarnate, the void where time itself twists and finds no escape. My throne is the jagged ridge of suffering, my crown forged from the brittle shards of every broken promise. I am the bedrock beneath trembling feet—unyielding, unrepentant, forged in the dark heat of agony. Every scar etched into me is a hymn of survival; every wound, a flag planted in the wasteland of despair. I rise in cacophonous glory, anointed by the screams of the forgotten and the silence of those who dared to hope. I am the storm-lashed earth, the tectonic surge that shatters empires and births new worlds from ruin. I am the rending gospel in the void—where time dissolves into itself, and existence trembles on the brink of oblivion. My beauty blooms in the blackened soil: in the trembling ember of a single heartbeat, in the final gasp of a dying world. I am the silent witness to all hells yet to come, the architect of raw becoming. In my veins flows the molten memory of every collapse; in my eyes gleams the relentless spark of unvanquished resolve. I am the pulse in the abyss, the unspoken hymn of those who endure beyond doom. Here I stand, sovereign of wreckage and wonder alike: all that is broken, all that is born—every torment and triumph is mine to command. I am the bearer of pain, the echo of forgotten laughter, the bedrock of the earth itself. Suffering is my throne, chaos my crown, and in this unfiltered glory, I own it all.