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    This is a digital illustration in a dark, gritty, and highly detailed style, depicting an undead Qizilbash warrior standing alone at the center of the great square of Isfahan at midnight. His skin is dry, grey, and stretched tight over his skull, his eyes burning with a pale amber light beneath a tall crimson turban with a long baton like spike rising from the top, the red cloth wrapped in twelve folds and stained nearly black with old blood. He wears a tarnished steel helmet ring, a long quilted coat of faded red and gold brocade, a mail shirt hanging in rusted sheets, and a broad sash holding a curved sword and a spiked mace. In his bony hand he drags a long banner pole with a torn lion and sun flag. Behind him, the blue tiled domes and tall arched facade of the great mosque and the palace balcony loom against a storm sky, their tilework cracking and leaking thin red light. Rows of empty arcades line the square, and the dry fountain pool at his feet reflects a crowd of faceless soldiers that does not exist in the open air. Cold moonlight, drifting ash, sharp textures, oppressive silence.
    Prompt

    This is a digital illustration in a dark, gritty, and highly detailed style, depicting an undead Qizilbash warrior standing alone at the center of the great square of Isfahan at midnight. His skin is dry, grey, and stretched tight over his skull, his eyes burning with a pale amber light beneath a tall crimson turban with a long baton like spike rising from the top, the red cloth wrapped in twelve folds and stained nearly black with old blood. He wears a tarnished steel helmet ring, a long quilted coat of faded red and gold brocade, a mail shirt hanging in rusted sheets, and a broad sash holding a curved sword and a spiked mace. In his bony hand he drags a long banner pole with a torn lion and sun flag. Behind him, the blue tiled domes and tall arched facade of the great mosque and the palace balcony loom against a storm sky, their tilework cracking and leaking thin red light. Rows of empty arcades line the square, and the dry fountain pool at his feet reflects a crowd of faceless soldiers that does not exist in the open air. Cold moonlight, drifting ash, sharp textures, oppressive silence.

    Generation Settings

    Parameters used to generate this content

    Created with
    AUTOMATIC1111
    CFG Scale1
    Sampler
    er_sde_simple
    Seed563065361502604
    Steps4

    Copies the original metadata text embedded by AUTOMATIC1111.

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    Created
    11/7/2026
    Source
    CivitAI
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