score_9, score_8_up, score_7_up, BREAK scifi, no people, a sign that says ‘Maintenance Mode: All GPUs Have Fried.’ Text: ‘Civitai Under Maintenance, give us a second to clean up’, the room is on fire and there is the silhouette of a monster stalking in the background

score_9, score_8_up, score_7_up, detailed girl face, beautiful eyes, glowing eyes, lipstick, makeup, art illustrating insane amounts of raging elemental energy turning into detailed girl face, beautiful eyes, glowing eyes, lipstick, makeup, avatar of elements. magical surrealism, wizardry. best quality, high resolution, score_9, score_8_up, score_7_up BREAK 1girl, solo, penis, azula, large breasts, black hair, glowing eyes, lipstick, makeup, ponytail, topknot, blue fire, armour, red dress, (surrounded by blue fire, surrounded by electricity:1.5), clenched fists, ready to fight, elemental fury, detailed girl face, beautiful eyes, glowing eyes, lipstick, makeup, sharp focus, intricate, cinematic, fine detailed, radiant light, enhanced detail, elegant, complex, highly color, gentle warm colors, background, sparkling, professional, directed, romantic,, amazing, symmetry, illuminated, pretty, attractive, epic, stunning, gorgeous, artistic, pure, best

Tarus slumps alone at a corner table in a grimy, half-empty tavern, his moss-green face cast in the flickering glow of a dying hearth fire. His posture, once rigid with military discipline, now sags under unseen burdens—elbows on the table, clawed hands cradling an empty tankard. His scarred cheek, marked by both battle blades and rogue brawls, twitches faintly as he stares into the middle distance, amber eyes dulled by regret. He wears a faded soldier’s tabard over his patched leather armor, the regiment’s serpent-and-dagger emblem frayed at the edges. A chipped shortsword leans against the table, its pommel wrapped in a torn militia banner, while a stolen silver locket (half-open, revealing a tiny portrait) rests near his trembling claws. Around him, the pub buzzes with oblivious laughter; a drunk human claps his shoulder, but Tarus doesn’t react, lost in memories of comrades fallen or betrayed. Shadows pool beneath his hood, deepening the lines of his grief, and a single tarnished medal dangles from his belt, half-hidden by stolen coin pouches—proof of a past he can’t outrun.

Tarus slumps alone at a corner table in a grimy, half-empty tavern, his moss-green face cast in the flickering glow of a dying hearth fire. His posture, once rigid with military discipline, now sags under unseen burdens—elbows on the table, clawed hands cradling an empty tankard. His scarred cheek, marked by both battle blades and rogue brawls, twitches faintly as he stares into the middle distance, amber eyes dulled by regret. He wears a faded soldier’s tabard over his patched leather armor, the regiment’s serpent-and-dagger emblem frayed at the edges. A chipped shortsword leans against the table, its pommel wrapped in a torn militia banner, while a stolen silver locket (half-open, revealing a tiny portrait) rests near his trembling claws. Around him, the pub buzzes with oblivious laughter; a drunk human claps his shoulder, but Tarus doesn’t react, lost in memories of comrades fallen or betrayed. Shadows pool beneath his hood, deepening the lines of his grief, and a single tarnished medal dangles from his belt, half-hidden by stolen coin pouches—proof of a past he can’t outrun.

Tarus slumps alone at a corner table in a grimy, half-empty tavern, his moss-green face cast in the flickering glow of a dying hearth fire. His posture, once rigid with military discipline, now sags under unseen burdens—elbows on the table, clawed hands cradling an empty tankard. His scarred cheek, marked by both battle blades and rogue brawls, twitches faintly as he stares into the middle distance, amber eyes dulled by regret. He wears a faded soldier’s tabard over his patched leather armor, the regiment’s serpent-and-dagger emblem frayed at the edges. A chipped shortsword leans against the table, its pommel wrapped in a torn militia banner, while a stolen silver locket (half-open, revealing a tiny portrait) rests near his trembling claws. Around him, the pub buzzes with oblivious laughter; a drunk human claps his shoulder, but Tarus doesn’t react, lost in memories of comrades fallen or betrayed. Shadows pool beneath his hood, deepening the lines of his grief, and a single tarnished medal dangles from his belt, half-hidden by stolen coin pouches—proof of a past he can’t outrun.

Tarus slumps alone at a corner table in a grimy, half-empty tavern, his moss-green face cast in the flickering glow of a dying hearth fire. His posture, once rigid with military discipline, now sags under unseen burdens—elbows on the table, clawed hands cradling an empty tankard. His scarred cheek, marked by both battle blades and rogue brawls, twitches faintly as he stares into the middle distance, amber eyes dulled by regret. He wears a faded soldier’s tabard over his patched leather armor, the regiment’s serpent-and-dagger emblem frayed at the edges. A chipped shortsword leans against the table, its pommel wrapped in a torn militia banner, while a stolen silver locket (half-open, revealing a tiny portrait) rests near his trembling claws. Around him, the pub buzzes with oblivious laughter; a drunk human claps his shoulder, but Tarus doesn’t react, lost in memories of comrades fallen or betrayed. Shadows pool beneath his hood, deepening the lines of his grief, and a single tarnished medal dangles from his belt, half-hidden by stolen coin pouches—proof of a past he can’t outrun.

Tarus slumps alone at a corner table in a grimy, half-empty tavern, his moss-green face cast in the flickering glow of a dying hearth fire. His posture, once rigid with military discipline, now sags under unseen burdens—elbows on the table, clawed hands cradling an empty tankard. His scarred cheek, marked by both battle blades and rogue brawls, twitches faintly as he stares into the middle distance, amber eyes dulled by regret. He wears a faded soldier’s tabard over his patched leather armor, the regiment’s serpent-and-dagger emblem frayed at the edges. A chipped shortsword leans against the table, its pommel wrapped in a torn militia banner, while a stolen silver locket (half-open, revealing a tiny portrait) rests near his trembling claws. Around him, the pub buzzes with oblivious laughter; a drunk human claps his shoulder, but Tarus doesn’t react, lost in memories of comrades fallen or betrayed. Shadows pool beneath his hood, deepening the lines of his grief, and a single tarnished medal dangles from his belt, half-hidden by stolen coin pouches—proof of a past he can’t outrun.

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Tarus slumps alone at a corner table in a grimy, half-empty tavern, his moss-green face cast in the flickering glow of a dying hearth fire. His posture, once rigid with military discipline, now sags under unseen burdens—elbows on the table, clawed hands cradling an empty tankard. His scarred cheek, marked by both battle blades and rogue brawls, twitches faintly as he stares into the middle distance, amber eyes dulled by regret. He wears a faded soldier’s tabard over his patched leather armor, the regiment’s serpent-and-dagger emblem frayed at the edges. A chipped shortsword leans against the table, its pommel wrapped in a torn militia banner, while a stolen silver locket (half-open, revealing a tiny portrait) rests near his trembling claws. Around him, the pub buzzes with oblivious laughter; a drunk human claps his shoulder, but Tarus doesn’t react, lost in memories of comrades fallen or betrayed. Shadows pool beneath his hood, deepening the lines of his grief, and a single tarnished medal dangles from his belt, half-hidden by stolen coin pouches—proof of a past he can’t outrun.

Tarus slumps alone at a corner table in a grimy, half-empty tavern, his moss-green face cast in the flickering glow of a dying hearth fire. His posture, once rigid with military discipline, now sags under unseen burdens—elbows on the table, clawed hands cradling an empty tankard. His scarred cheek, marked by both battle blades and rogue brawls, twitches faintly as he stares into the middle distance, amber eyes dulled by regret. He wears a faded soldier’s tabard over his patched leather armor, the regiment’s serpent-and-dagger emblem frayed at the edges. A chipped shortsword leans against the table, its pommel wrapped in a torn militia banner, while a stolen silver locket (half-open, revealing a tiny portrait) rests near his trembling claws. Around him, the pub buzzes with oblivious laughter; a drunk human claps his shoulder, but Tarus doesn’t react, lost in memories of comrades fallen or betrayed. Shadows pool beneath his hood, deepening the lines of his grief, and a single tarnished medal dangles from his belt, half-hidden by stolen coin pouches—proof of a past he can’t outrun.

Tarus slumps alone at a corner table in a grimy, half-empty tavern, his moss-green face cast in the flickering glow of a dying hearth fire. His posture, once rigid with military discipline, now sags under unseen burdens—elbows on the table, clawed hands cradling an empty tankard. His scarred cheek, marked by both battle blades and rogue brawls, twitches faintly as he stares into the middle distance, amber eyes dulled by regret. He wears a faded soldier’s tabard over his patched leather armor, the regiment’s serpent-and-dagger emblem frayed at the edges. A chipped shortsword leans against the table, its pommel wrapped in a torn militia banner, while a stolen silver locket (half-open, revealing a tiny portrait) rests near his trembling claws. Around him, the pub buzzes with oblivious laughter; a drunk human claps his shoulder, but Tarus doesn’t react, lost in memories of comrades fallen or betrayed. Shadows pool beneath his hood, deepening the lines of his grief, and a single tarnished medal dangles from his belt, half-hidden by stolen coin pouches—proof of a past he can’t outrun.

Tarus slumps alone at a corner table in a grimy, half-empty tavern, his moss-green face cast in the flickering glow of a dying hearth fire. His posture, once rigid with military discipline, now sags under unseen burdens—elbows on the table, clawed hands cradling an empty tankard. His scarred cheek, marked by both battle blades and rogue brawls, twitches faintly as he stares into the middle distance, amber eyes dulled by regret. He wears a faded soldier’s tabard over his patched leather armor, the regiment’s serpent-and-dagger emblem frayed at the edges. A chipped shortsword leans against the table, its pommel wrapped in a torn militia banner, while a stolen silver locket (half-open, revealing a tiny portrait) rests near his trembling claws. Around him, the pub buzzes with oblivious laughter; a drunk human claps his shoulder, but Tarus doesn’t react, lost in memories of comrades fallen or betrayed. Shadows pool beneath his hood, deepening the lines of his grief, and a single tarnished medal dangles from his belt, half-hidden by stolen coin pouches—proof of a past he can’t outrun.