null Forgotten Dreams

    The early light of dawn cascaded over the rolling hills, painting the world in a vibrant tapestry of pastel hues. Dew-kissed grasses gently swayed in the enchanting breeze, harmonizing with the distant melody of trickling streams meandering through the verdant meadows. A sense of tranquility lingered in the air, as if nature itself held its breath in anticipation. Amidst this picturesque landscape, nestled beneath an ancient oak tree, a small village came into view. The thatched roofs of quaint cottages peeked through the thick canopy of emerald leaves, their chimneys playfully releasing faint puffs of smoke into the ethereal atmosphere. Cobblestone paths meandered between the houses, their worn surfaces evoking a sense of timeless tales whispered among generations. In the heart of the village stood a modest plaza, adorned with vibrant flower beds. Delicate blossoms of every hue danced gracefully in the gentle zephyrs, their fragrance mingling harmoniously with the air. Rustic market stalls lined the square, showcasing wares from a faraway realm. Gleaming swords, intricately embroidered garments, and spellbound artifacts teased the imagination, their enchantment enticing souls with promises of adventures yet to unfold. As the village awoke, its inhabitants emerged from their cozy dwellings, embracing the day with wide smiles and eager eyes. Children darted through the streets, their laughter echoing against weatherworn walls, while bakers prepared warm loaves of bread that filled the air with an intoxicating aroma. The blacksmiths rhythmic hammering resounded, a symphony mimicking the heartbeat of a world brimming with endless possibilities. Amid the bustling village square, a cloaked figure appeared. Their presence seemed to materialize out of the mist, an enigma among the ordinary. The figures eyes, as blue and piercing as the clearest azure skies, surveyed the surroundings with a serene wisdom that belied their youthful countenance. Tendrils of their raven-black hair escaped from beneath the hood, caressed by the breeze like midnight serpents whispering secrets carried from distant realms. Whispers of the figures arrival coursed through the village, as villagers peered curiously from behind windows and doorways. A hushed awe blanketed the plaza, as if the world momentarily held its breath, captivated by the mythic potentiality that emanated from this mysterious figure. Rinkling hands clutched worry stones or those of loved ones, while restless hearts yearned for stories untold and marvels yet to be discovered. As the figure moved through the gathering, time appeared to slow, as if each step forged ripples that traversed realms both seen and unseen. Their presence, an enigmatic catalyst, awakened dormant desires and ignited flickering embers of long-forgotten dreams. Whispers of lost magic and hidden realms filled the air, intriguing the village dwellers and drawing them closer to the figure, eager to hear the tales waiting to be woven. And so, enveloped in an aura of anticipation and wonder, this unassuming village became the threshold to a world where the lines between imagination and reality blurred where heroes were forged, legends were born, and the ethereal dance of the fantastical unfolded amidst the tapestry of the extraordinary.
    A hauntingly beautiful scene of betrayal unfolds, tainted by the venom of deceit that poisons the past. Nostalgia, a fleeting and deceptive dream, lingers in the background, casting a melancholic glow over the scene. The story begins with whispers of lies echoing from the shadows, then the insidious whispers grow louder as they originate from within. The pain of the past is palpable, yet the lessons learned are now forgotten, leaving only the bitter taste of regret. Blinded eyes turn away from the truth, leaving it all out, while pleasant scenes and dreams are carefully crafted to soothe the soul and mask the emptiness within.
    Title The Enchanted Haven Descent into Aetheria City Name Xanadu Description Within the vast realm of Aetheria lies Xanadu, a magnificent city pulsating with magical energy. Situated at the nexus of converging ley lines, Xanadu flourishes in ethereal beauty and acts as the beating heart of the enchanted world. It is a place where dreams transcend reality and imagination intertwines with actuality. As one approaches Xanadu, the citys outer walls glisten with an iridescent sheen, created by the enchantments that protect it from malevolent forces. The gates, adorned with intricate carvings depicting ethereal creatures and arcane symbols, swing open with a gentle hum, welcoming visitors into a realm of unseen wonders. Entering Xanadu, the first sight that greets visitors is a sprawling marketplace teeming with vendors hawking treasures from distant lands. Streets are awash with vibrant colors, as merchants peddle sparkling crystals, elixirs of remarkable properties, and exotic artifacts from far-off realms. The intoxicating scent of spices, rare herbs, and arcane concoctions drifts through the air, invigorating senses and serenading wanderers with its seductive allure. The architecture of Xanadu is a mesmerizing symphony of enchantment. Elaborate towers and spires seemingly defy physics as they stretch skyward, their facades adorned with glowing runes. Awe-inspiring bridges, crafted from living vines and interlaced with twisted silver, arch above the bustling streets, connecting floating pavilions and spiraling towers. Canals lined with intricate mosaic tiles meander through the city, their waters shimmering with an ever-shifting rainbow of colors, the result of potent magical currents coursing beneath the citys foundation. In Xanadu, magic is an ever-present force, woven into the very fabric of everyday life. Enchanters, sorcerers, and alchemists gather in ornate halls of academia, exchanging arcane knowledge and secrets. Magical phenomena, such as enchanted street lamps that change color with the phases of the moon or arcane murals that come alive to tell tales of ancient legends, are commonplace sights. Residents of Xanadu, a diverse tapestry of mystical beings, range from graceful elves with radiant ethereal wings to dignified dwarves that channel their magic through enchanted stonecrafted artifacts. Mages stroll through the city adorned in splendid robes, their staffs emanating a soft glow, while graceful merfolk swim within water-filled chambers, their voices blending with the enchanting melodies of singing harps. While Xanadu thrives in its flourishing enchantments, it remains a city brimming with secrets and hidden depths. Beneath the cascading waterfalls at the heart of the city, a labyrinthine network of mythical tunnels weaves its way underground, concealing forgotten treasures and arcane artifacts of unimaginable power. Whispers of a hidden library, with tomes containing knowledge lost to time itself, tantalize scholars and scholars-to-be. In the night, Xanadu transforms into a dazzling display of luminescence. Enchanted lanterns fill the skies, resembling stars suspended in mid-air, casting an otherworldly glow upon its inhabitants. The moon, seemingly closer and larger, emanates an enchanting aura, instilling a sense of tranquility and awe. Xanadu, the pulsating heart of Aetheria, is a city of extraordinary magic and limitless possibilities. It beckons adventurers, dreamers, and seekers of knowledge to immerse themselves in its enigmatic charm, where the boundary between fantasy and reality dissipates into thin air.
    cinna flow, In a surreal expanse where the whispering grass grows taller than time itself, a lone samurai stands like a relic of a dream half-remembered. His silhouette, sharp as a blade, cuts through the haze, a living ink painting torn from the pages of a storybook. The air hums with the faint echo of a Cheshire Cat’s grin, and the horizon shimmers like the Yellow Brick Road, leading nowhere and everywhere at once. His katanas, three in number, rest at his side, their blades catching the glow of embers that drift like fireflies from a land of Oz. His topknot, loosely bound, unravels in the wind, strands of hair twisting like the riddles of the Mad Hatter. Above, a flock of crows—part bird, part shadow—ascends into a sky where clouds swirl like the smoke of a wizard’s pipe. The scene is a dance of contrasts: bold brushstrokes carve his form, while delicate shading whispers of a world caught between serenity and chaos. The embers pulse, casting faint light on the uneven terrain, where shadows stretch like the arms of the Queen of Hearts’ card soldiers. The samurai’s stillness is a storm contained, his eyes reflecting the duality of a warrior-poet, lost in thought yet poised to strike. Here, in this liminal space where Alice’s wonder meets Dorothy’s journey, the samurai embodies the spirit of bushidō—a guardian of forgotten realms, a wanderer between worlds. The ink bleeds, the wind sings, and the moment hangs, suspended between the tick of a pocket watch and the roar of a tornado.
    (in ARTIST style:1.4), (masterpiece:1.2), (A female mischievous dream weaver spider, eight glowing eyes and a body resembling a swirling nebula, attire is a tapestry of forgotten dreams and nightmares woven into a silken web, rendered in a psychedelic style with distorted perspectives and vibrant colors, wearing unique Avant-garde masterpiece attire and headdress:1.1), (illuminated by the pulsating light of a dreamcatcher, set against a backdrop of a swirling vortex of dreamscapes morphing and shifting constantly, Background is A swirling vortex of dreamscapes with nonsensical landscapes and impossible creatures:1.1), (upper body portrait from the Waist:1.1), (hyperdetailed:1.1), (intricate details:1.0), (Refined details:1.1), (best quality:1.1), highly detailed textures, (very stylish detailed modern haircut, mesmerizing detailed radiant face:1.2)
    cinna flow, In a surreal expanse where the whispering grass grows taller than time itself, a lone samurai stands like a relic of a dream half-remembered. His silhouette, sharp as a blade, cuts through the monochrome haze, a living ink painting torn from the pages of a storybook. The air hums with the faint echo of a Cheshire Cat’s grin, and the horizon shimmers like the Yellow Brick Road, leading nowhere and everywhere at once. His katanas, three in number, rest at his side, their blades catching the glow of embers that drift like fireflies from a land of Oz. His topknot, loosely bound, unravels in the wind, strands of hair twisting like the riddles of the Mad Hatter. Above, a flock of crows—part bird, part shadow—ascends into a sky where clouds swirl like the smoke of a wizard’s pipe. The scene is a dance of contrasts: bold brushstrokes carve his form, while delicate shading whispers of a world caught between serenity and chaos. The embers pulse, casting faint light on the uneven terrain, where shadows stretch like the arms of the Queen of Hearts’ card soldiers. The samurai’s stillness is a storm contained, his eyes reflecting the duality of a warrior-poet, lost in thought yet poised to strike. Here, in this liminal space where Alice’s wonder meets Dorothy’s journey, the samurai embodies the spirit of bushidō—a guardian of forgotten realms, a wanderer between worlds. The ink bleeds, the wind sings, and the moment hangs, suspended between the tick of a pocket watch and the roar of a tornado.
    cinna flow, In a surreal expanse where the whispering grass grows taller than time itself, a lone samurai stands like a relic of a dream half-remembered. His silhouette, sharp as a blade, cuts through the monochrome haze, a living ink painting torn from the pages of a storybook. The air hums with the faint echo of a Cheshire Cat’s grin, and the horizon shimmers like the Yellow Brick Road, leading nowhere and everywhere at once. His katanas, three in number, rest at his side, their blades catching the glow of embers that drift like fireflies from a land of Oz. His topknot, loosely bound, unravels in the wind, strands of hair twisting like the riddles of the Mad Hatter. Above, a flock of crows—part bird, part shadow—ascends into a sky where clouds swirl like the smoke of a wizard’s pipe. The scene is a dance of contrasts: bold brushstrokes carve his form, while delicate shading whispers of a world caught between serenity and chaos. The embers pulse, casting faint light on the uneven terrain, where shadows stretch like the arms of the Queen of Hearts’ card soldiers. The samurai’s stillness is a storm contained, his eyes reflecting the duality of a warrior-poet, lost in thought yet poised to strike. Here, in this liminal space where Alice’s wonder meets Dorothy’s journey, the samurai embodies the spirit of bushidō—a guardian of forgotten realms, a wanderer between worlds. The ink bleeds, the wind sings, and the moment hangs, suspended between the tick of a pocket watch and the roar of a tornado.
    cinna flow, In a surreal expanse where the whispering grass grows taller than time itself, a lone samurai stands like a relic of a dream half-remembered. His silhouette, sharp as a blade, cuts through the monochrome haze, a living ink painting torn from the pages of a storybook. The air hums with the faint echo of a Cheshire Cat’s grin, and the horizon shimmers like the Yellow Brick Road, leading nowhere and everywhere at once. His katanas, three in number, rest at his side, their blades catching the glow of embers that drift like fireflies from a land of Oz. His topknot, loosely bound, unravels in the wind, strands of hair twisting like the riddles of the Mad Hatter. Above, a flock of crows—part bird, part shadow—ascends into a sky where clouds swirl like the smoke of a wizard’s pipe. The scene is a dance of contrasts: bold brushstrokes carve his form, while delicate shading whispers of a world caught between serenity and chaos. The embers pulse, casting faint light on the uneven terrain, where shadows stretch like the arms of the Queen of Hearts’ card soldiers. The samurai’s stillness is a storm contained, his eyes reflecting the duality of a warrior-poet, lost in thought yet poised to strike. Here, in this liminal space where Alice’s wonder meets Dorothy’s journey, the samurai embodies the spirit of bushidō—a guardian of forgotten realms, a wanderer between worlds. The ink bleeds, the wind sings, and the moment hangs, suspended between the tick of a pocket watch and the roar of a tornado.
    cinna flow, In a surreal expanse where the whispering grass grows taller than time itself, a lone samurai stands like a relic of a dream half-remembered. His silhouette, sharp as a blade, cuts through the monochrome haze, a living ink painting torn from the pages of a storybook. The air hums with the faint echo of a Cheshire Cat’s grin, and the horizon shimmers like the Yellow Brick Road, leading nowhere and everywhere at once. His katanas, three in number, rest at his side, their blades catching the glow of embers that drift like fireflies from a land of Oz. His topknot, loosely bound, unravels in the wind, strands of hair twisting like the riddles of the Mad Hatter. Above, a flock of crows—part bird, part shadow—ascends into a sky where clouds swirl like the smoke of a wizard’s pipe. The scene is a dance of contrasts: bold brushstrokes carve his form, while delicate shading whispers of a world caught between serenity and chaos. The embers pulse, casting faint light on the uneven terrain, where shadows stretch like the arms of the Queen of Hearts’ card soldiers. The samurai’s stillness is a storm contained, his eyes reflecting the duality of a warrior-poet, lost in thought yet poised to strike. Here, in this liminal space where Alice’s wonder meets Dorothy’s journey, the samurai embodies the spirit of bushidō—a guardian of forgotten realms, a wanderer between worlds. The ink bleeds, the wind sings, and the moment hangs, suspended between the tick of a pocket watch and the roar of a tornado.
    In a surreal expanse where the whispering grass grows taller than time itself, a lone knight clad in shimmering, mismatched armor stands like a relic of a dream half-remembered. Their silhouette, sharp as a blade, cuts through the haze, a living painting torn from the pages of a storybook. Cheshire Cat’s grin glowing in The air , and the horizon shimmers with the Yellow Brick Road, leading nowhere and everywhere at once. Their weapon, a staff crowned with a glowing crystal, rests at their side, its light catching the glow of embers that drift like fireflies. Their helmet, adorned with a crooked plume, tilts slightly in the wind, its feathers unraveling like riddles. Above, a swarm of flying monkeys—part mischief, part menace—soars into a sky where clouds swirl like the smoke of a wizard’s pipe. The scene is a dance of contrasts: bold strokes carve their form, while delicate shading whispers of a world caught between serenity and chaos. The embers pulse, casting faint light on the uneven terrain, where shadows stretch like the arms of the Queen of Hearts’ card soldiers. The knight’s stillness is a storm contained, their gaze reflecting the duality of a guardian-dreamer, lost in thought yet poised to act. Here, in this liminal space where the knight embodies the spirit of adventure—a protector of forgotten realms, a wanderer between worlds. The colors bleed, the wind sings, and the moment hangs, suspended between the tick of a pocket watch and the roar of a tornado.
    A hauntingly beautiful scene of betrayal unfolds, tainted by the venom of deceit that poisons the past. Nostalgia, a fleeting and deceptive dream, lingers in the background, casting a melancholic glow over the scene. The story begins with whispers of lies echoing from the shadows, then the insidious whispers grow louder as they originate from within. The pain of the past is palpable, yet the lessons learned are now forgotten, leaving only the bitter taste of regret. Blinded eyes turn away from the truth, leaving it all out, while pleasant scenes and dreams are carefully crafted to soothe the soul and mask the emptiness within.
    ff-comic, The Apothecary of Strange Delights, An otherworldly shopkeeper with three faces—one serene, one laughing, and one crying—stands behind a counter covered in mysterious bottles and jars. Each container is alive: one holds a swirling galaxy, another a tiny, glowing octopus, and another a miniature city where the buildings are made of candy. The shopkeeper’s gown is decorated with intricate embroidery that tells the story of their past: scenes of tiny boats battling waves, castles floating in the sky, and a tree that grows human hands instead of fruit. The floor is a mosaic of broken mirrors that reflect not the room but endless forests, swirling skies, and faintly visible faces. Tiny, surreal customers fill the shop—an anthropomorphic snail with a monocle browsing a shelf of glowing potions, a cat in Victorian dress holding a golden coin, and a ghostly figure made of pure light inspecting a jar labeled Forgotten Dreams. The walls are lined with shelves holding even stranger objects: a beating human heart encased in glass, a clock that ticks backward, and a jar of fireflies spelling out words in the air. Above it all, a chandelier made of glowing bones illuminates the space, casting shadows that move independently of the light.
    A hauntingly beautiful scene of betrayal unfolds, tainted by the venom of deceit that poisons the past. Nostalgia, a fleeting and deceptive dream, lingers in the background, casting a melancholic glow over the scene. The story begins with whispers of lies echoing from the shadows, then the insidious whispers grow louder as they originate from within. The pain of the past is palpable, yet the lessons learned are now forgotten, leaving only the bitter taste of regret. Blinded eyes turn away from the truth, leaving it all out, while pleasant scenes and dreams are carefully crafted to soothe the soul and mask the emptiness within.
    Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door- Only this, and nothing more." Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow- sorrow for the lost Lenore- For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore- Nameless here for evermore. And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door- Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;- This it is, and nothing more." Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you"- here I opened wide the door;- Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"- Merely this, and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice: Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore- Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;- 'Tis the wind and nothing more!" Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door- Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door- Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore. "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore- Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door- Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as "Nevermore." But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he fluttered- Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before- On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." Then the bird said, "Nevermore." Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore- Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of 'Never- nevermore'." But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore- What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore." This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he hath sent thee Respite- respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! - Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted- On this home by Horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore- Is there- is there balm in Gilead?- tell me- tell me, I implore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adore- Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore- Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." "Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting- "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken!- quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted- nevermore!
    A hauntingly beautiful scene of betrayal unfolds, tainted by the venom of deceit that poisons the past. Nostalgia, a fleeting and deceptive dream, lingers in the background, casting a melancholic glow over the scene. The story begins with whispers of lies echoing from the shadows, then the insidious whispers grow louder as they originate from within. The pain of the past is palpable, yet the lessons learned are now forgotten, leaving only the bitter taste of regret. Blinded eyes turn away from the truth, leaving it all out, while pleasant scenes and dreams are carefully crafted to soothe the soul and mask the emptiness within.
    <lora:ElementEarthSDXL:1>ElementEarth Surreal digital art, fragments of dreams, scattered across a mosaic of forgotten faces, vibrant colors, abstract shapes, cubist influence, sharp contrast, glowing edges, intricate patterns, mysterious atmosphere, evocative, emotional, detailed, stunning, high-resolution, concept art, wallpaper, illustration, artstation, dramatic lighting, illustrative, imaginative, thought-provoking, evocative
    A hauntingly beautiful scene of betrayal unfolds, tainted by the venom of deceit that poisons the past. Nostalgia, a fleeting and deceptive dream, lingers in the background, casting a melancholic glow over the scene. The story begins with whispers of lies echoing from the shadows, then the insidious whispers grow louder as they originate from within. The pain of the past is palpable, yet the lessons learned are now forgotten, leaving only the bitter taste of regret. Blinded eyes turn away from the truth, leaving it all out, while pleasant scenes and dreams are carefully crafted to soothe the soul and mask the emptiness within.
    <lora:XRayStyleSDXL:1.4>XRayStyle, Rose a man from an indigenous African tribe, carrying out a traditional dance in minimal tribal wear, Goldfish, floating, zero gravity, Museum of Forgotten Dreams, surreal, whimsical, enchanting, dreamlike, ethereal, otherworldly, shimmering, iridescent, glowing, softly lit, pristine, clean, detailed, highly detailed, ornate, intricate, delicate, fine, exquisite, elegant, graceful, poised, poise, peaceful, serene, calm, still, tranquil, quiet, contemplative, thoughtful, reflective, introspective, watery, aquatic, underwater, blue, aqua, turquoise, teal, sea green, seafoam, pastel, soft, translucent, glossy, shiny, reflective, glassy, smooth, silky, abstract, surreal art, fantasy art, imaginative realism, illustration, painting, artstation, concept art, digital art, immersive, captivating, storytelling, narrative, wondrous, magical, dreamy, evocative, inspiring, enchanting, bewitching, charming, whimsical, imaginative, playful, uplifting, cheerful, delightful, whimsical, captivating, engaging, mesmerizing, hypnotic, transportive, otherworldly, transcendental, mystical, mythical, fairytale, enchanted, fantastical, escapism, wonder, mystery, exploration, discovery, adventure, journey, timeless, classic, masterpiece, breathtaking, stunning, awe-inspiring, magnificent, extraordinary, exceptional, fine art, mastery, skill, craftsmanship, artistry, creative vision, original, unique, innovative, visionary, groundbreaking, revolutionary,
    novuschroma54 style,score_9, score_8_up, score_7_up, highly detailed, aesthetically stunning, intricate, luminous, amazing aesthetic, intricate details, Digital artwork, surreal style, high-quality, ultra-detailed, 8K resolution, visual masterpiece, In a surreal expanse where the whispering grass grows taller than time itself, a lone knight clad in shimmering, mismatched armor stands like a relic of a dream half-remembered. Their silhouette, sharp as a blade, cuts through the haze, a living painting torn from the pages of a storybook. Cheshire Cat’s grin glowing in The air , and the horizon shimmers with the Yellow Brick Road, leading nowhere and everywhere at once. Their weapon, a staff crowned with a glowing crystal, rests at their side, its light catching the glow of embers that drift like fireflies. Their helmet, adorned with a crooked plume, tilts slightly in the wind, its feathers unraveling like riddles. Above, a swarm of flying monkeys—part mischief, part menace—soars into a sky where clouds swirl like the smoke of a wizard’s pipe. The scene is a dance of contrasts: bold strokes carve their form, while delicate shading whispers of a world caught between serenity and chaos. The embers pulse, casting faint light on the uneven terrain, where shadows stretch like the arms of the Queen of Hearts’ card soldiers. The knight’s stillness is a storm contained, their gaze reflecting the duality of a guardian-dreamer, lost in thought yet poised to act. Here, in this liminal space where the knight embodies the spirit of adventure—a protector of forgotten realms, a wanderer between worlds. The colors bleed, the wind sings, and the moment hangs, suspended between the tick of a pocket watch and the roar of a tornado.
    A hauntingly beautiful scene of betrayal unfolds, tainted by the venom of deceit that poisons the past. Nostalgia, a fleeting and deceptive dream, lingers in the background, casting a melancholic glow over the scene. The story begins with whispers of lies echoing from the shadows, then the insidious whispers grow louder as they originate from within. The pain of the past is palpable, yet the lessons learned are now forgotten, leaving only the bitter taste of regret. Blinded eyes turn away from the truth, leaving it all out, while pleasant scenes and dreams are carefully crafted to soothe the soul and mask the emptiness within.
    novuschroma54 style,score_9, score_8_up, score_7_up, highly detailed, aesthetically stunning, intricate, luminous, amazing aesthetic, intricate details, Digital artwork, surreal style, high-quality, ultra-detailed, 8K resolution, visual masterpiece, In a world where the sun hung low and the shadows dissolved like sugar in water, a group of children with eyes like kaleidoscopes ran through fields of endless twilight. Their laughter summoned creatures from the depths of their imaginations—lions with manes of fire, birds with feathers of glass, and serpents that whispered secrets in riddles. These were the animals they had hidden inside, now free to dance under a sky painted in hues of forgotten dreams. They stood face to face with towering specters of their fears, each one a mirror reflecting their own wide-eyed courage. Tears fell like rain, but from them grew flowers that bloomed in colors no one had ever seen. The children wove these moments into garlands, wearing them as crowns, knowing these memories would outlast time itself. The air smelled of honey and possibility, and the world seemed to hold its breath, as if it, too, remembered what it was like to be young.
    cinna flow, In a surreal expanse where the whispering grass grows taller than time itself, a lone samurai stands like a relic of a dream half-remembered. His silhouette, sharp as a blade, cuts through the haze, a living ink painting torn from the pages of a storybook. The air hums with the faint echo of a Cheshire Cat’s grin, and the horizon shimmers like the Yellow Brick Road, leading nowhere and everywhere at once. His katanas, three in number, rest at his side, their blades catching the glow of embers that drift like fireflies from a land of Oz. His topknot, loosely bound, unravels in the wind, strands of hair twisting like the riddles of the Mad Hatter. Above, a flock of crows—part bird, part shadow—ascends into a sky where clouds swirl like the smoke of a wizard’s pipe. The scene is a dance of contrasts: bold brushstrokes carve his form, while delicate shading whispers of a world caught between serenity and chaos. The embers pulse, casting faint light on the uneven terrain, where shadows stretch like the arms of the Queen of Hearts’ card soldiers. The samurai’s stillness is a storm contained, his eyes reflecting the duality of a warrior-poet, lost in thought yet poised to strike. Here, in this liminal space where Alice’s wonder meets Dorothy’s journey, the samurai embodies the spirit of bushidō—a guardian of forgotten realms, a wanderer between worlds. The ink bleeds, the wind sings, and the moment hangs, suspended between the tick of a pocket watch and the roar of a tornado.
    Exiled celestial queen, a vision of sorrow and ethereal beauty. Broken silver mask reveals eyes reflecting the sadness of dying stars, crimson lips whisper a forgotten dream. Gown of data streams flows around her translucent form, glowing circuitry pulsing beneath. Silver hair cascades like stardust, a crimson rose blooming against her ethereal skin. Shattered stained glass sky above a black sand planet, golden trees falling into a crimson pool. A haunting, beautiful symphony of light, shadow, and sorrow. <lora:add-detail-xl:1> <lora:MJ52:0.4>
    ([by Coles Phillips|by Go Nagai]:1.5), (In the midst of a haunted carnival, a symphony of colors fills the air, casting long shadows that seem to dance with a mystical aura. The rides are abandoned, their wheels twisted and worn, and the air is thick with an eerie silence. A sense of haunting unease pervades the air, enticing those who dare to venture into this realm of forgotten dreams and spectral echoes.:0.5) (Dystopian cybernetic:1.3) <lora:xl_more_art-full_v1:0.5> <lora:add-detail-xl:0.7> <lora:MJ52:0.4>
    A hauntingly beautiful scene of betrayal unfolds, tainted by the venom of deceit that poisons the past. Nostalgia, a fleeting and deceptive dream, lingers in the background, casting a melancholic glow over the scene. The story begins with whispers of lies echoing from the shadows, then the insidious whispers grow louder as they originate from within. The pain of the past is palpable, yet the lessons learned are now forgotten, leaving only the bitter taste of regret. Blinded eyes turn away from the truth, leaving it all out, while pleasant scenes and dreams are carefully crafted to soothe the soul and mask the emptiness within.
    pop art stylized by Richard Phillips, masterwork 3d blender render, landscape of a In the forgotten reaches for the trees below: In contrast, The Towering Crosswalk of Lady Katrifying stands majestic in both clouds that blanket them like gold shardes, with lush forest foliage scattered along their banks. As one walks by through these surrelation-free skies as they take pictures in front of the sky's iconic silhouettes and illuminated at sunsets of autumn to bright orange, capturing every detail, painting them an other side like nothing else. A true masterpiece in science, Sally Hopper is just right! (Notice that it add depth and vibrating color in all but the most fantastically beautiful scene Ive captured in my dream! It takes place within this captivating metropole that blendth the natural landscapes of Texas during Earthy summer days). Aweful!) A stunning sight from New London. at Sunrise, Ultra Real, Sad, Cubo-futurism, Sun Rays, Zoom lens, Vibrant Color
    Digital painting style, (brushstrokes:1.2), dark A woman with an androgynous appearance and short, spiky hair the color of dark chestnut, her eyes an unsettling pale blue, like the glow of a winter moon, sits on the edge of a worn, stone fountain, the water within it stagnant and covered in a thin layer of algae, her slender fingers tracing the intricate patterns of cracks that spread across the stone like a map of her own fractured heart, the moon above casting an silver glow on her sharp features, illuminating the subtle, shimmering scars that crisscross her cheeks and forehead like a topographic map of her turbulent past, her full lips pressed together in a tight line, as if holding back a tide of unspoken emotions, a tattered, black leather jacket slung over her shoulders, the sleeves rolled up to reveal a latticework of tattoos on her arms, each one telling a story of love, loss, and longing, the air around her heavy with the whispers of forgotten dreams, the sound of crickets and the distant hum of a city providing a melancholic background hum, the woman's gaze lost in the distance, her eyes reflecting the shattered remains of her own forgotten aspirations, the moonlight casting long shadows across the deserted, cobblestone square, the only sound the soft lapping of the stagnant water against the stone fountain, and the quiet, anguished whisper of a heart that has forgotten how to heal. <lora:PainterlyFantasiaSDXL:0.9>
    Digital painting style, (brushstrokes:1.2), epic A melancholic, horned, female demon with tattered, crimson wings and a slender yet athletic build, sits atop a rusty, old merry-go-round in the center of a forgotten, overgrown playground, surrounded by the remnants of childhood laughter and joy, now nothing but a distant memory, as the last remnants of sunlight cast a warm, golden glow across the desolate scene, illuminating the vibrant, watercolor hues of her skin, which shift between deep blues and purples, like the shadows of a fading sunset, her eyes, an piercing emerald green, seem to hold a deep sadness, as if the weight of forgotten dreams and lost innocence, rests solely upon her shoulders, her wings, a deep, burnt orange, with a subtle, iridescent sheen, appear worn and weary, as if they too, have been weathered by the passing of time, and the merry-go-round, once a symbol of carefree joy, now stands still, a haunting reminder of the transience of happiness, as the demon's slender fingers, tipped with sharp, black claws, gently caress the rusty metal, as if trying to recall the memories of a long-forgotten past. <lora:PainterlyFantasiaSDXL:1.1>
    Digital painting style, (brushstrokes:1.2), epic A sultry, raven-haired woman with an enigmatic smile sits perched on a stool at the edge of a whiskey bar, her slender fingers wrapped around the stem of a glass as she gazes out into the void, the dimly lit barroom fading into an endless expanse of nothingness behind her, the air thick with the weight of forgotten memories and the whispers of the unknown, her body clad in an exquisite origami dress that appears to be crafted from the very fabric of reality itself, the delicate paper folds fluttering gently in the breeze like a living, breathing entity, the dress a mesmerizing blend of traditional Japanese design and surreal, otherworldly beauty, as if the woman has been plucked straight from the pages of a fever dream and deposited into this forsaken watering hole at the edge of existence, the whiskey bar's patrons a rough-looking bunch of interdimensional travelers and cosmic drifters, their faces a blur of scars, tattoos, and weary, world-worn expressions, the atmosphere heavy with the smell of smoke, sweat, and the distant tang of ozone, the woman's eyes gleaming with a knowing light as she raises her glass in a silent toast to the void, the origami dress shimmering and unfolding around her like a dark, beautiful flower. <lora:PainterlyFantasiaSDXL:0.9>
    Ethan Steele (Gritty Hero:1.2), sun-baked and weary, stands tall on a windswept mesa, the vast Arizona desert sprawling before him like a fiery tapestry (Cinematic Wide Shot:1.2). Beneath the scorching sun, his weathered face betrays both steely determination (Stalwart Spirit:1.1) and a flicker of hope clinging to his sun-squinted eyes. In his calloused hand, he clutches a tattered map, a faded promise of unimaginable riches hidden somewhere within this unforgiving landscape (Distant Promise:1.2). The silence is broken only by the eerie whispers of wind carrying faint echoes of misfortune (Whispers of Peril:1.1). Bleached bones and forgotten mineshafts dot the parched earth, grim reminders of those who dared to dream before him. But Ethan is different. Fueled by an unwavering spirit and a six-shooter hanging low at his hip, he refuses to be deterred (Sun-Scorched Palette:1.3). Ethan's journey is a thrilling testament to the enduring spirit of the West, drawing inspiration from the classic tales of John Ford and Sergio Leone (Classic Western DNA:1.2). He will face scorching sun, treacherous landscapes, and cunning outlaws, each challenge forging him further into the quintessential New Western hero. Will Ethan Steele unearth the secrets buried beneath the Arizona sun? The answer lies beyond the horizon, waiting to be discovered.
    Solitude, (isolated figure:1.3), (empty spaces), (desolate landscape:1.2), (echoing silence), (lonely journey:1.1), (haunting emptiness), (forgotten memories:1.2), (isolated existence), (fading footprints:1.1), (distant echoes), (vast emptiness:1.2), (solitary soul), (lost in thought:1.1), (void of connection), (abandoned dreams:1.3), (deserted realm), (echoes of the past:1.2), (isolated heart), (yearning for company:1.1), (silent contemplation), (isolated from the world:1.2), (shadowed solitude), (melancholic presence:1.1), (unseen tears), (solitary wanderer), (longing for companionship:1.2), (empty embrace), (secluded sanctuary:1.1), (wandering in seclusion), (aching isolation), (isolated thoughts:1.2), (echoes of solitude), (reclusive spirit), (remote wilderness:1.3), (vacant stare), (loneliness within), (whispers of isolation:1.2), (solitary reflection), (yearning for connection:1.1), (quiet seclusion), (isolated sanctuary:1.2), (fleeting interactions), (deserted sanctuary:1.1).
    ([by Gary Baseman|by James Gilleard]:1.5), (In the midst of a haunted carnival, a symphony of colors fills the air, casting long shadows that seem to dance with a mystical aura. The rides are abandoned, their wheels twisted and worn, and the air is thick with an eerie silence. A sense of haunting unease pervades the air, enticing those who dare to venture into this realm of forgotten dreams and spectral echoes.:0.5) (Long exposure photo:1.3) <lora:xl_more_art-full_v1:0.5> <lora:add-detail-xl:0.7> <lora:MJ52:0.4>
    A dreamlike, surreal landscape where reality is shifting - a vast, mist-covered river flows through an eerie, desolate city at twilight. The buildings appear distorted, dissolving into smoke and light, as if fading from existence. A lone figure stands on the water's edge, their reflection fractured and rippling unnaturally. The sky is a deep, stormy blue with ghostly streaks of red and orange, resembling a fading memory. The atmosphere is melancholic yet mysterious, evoking a sense of doubt and impermanence, as if the world itself is unraveling. Cinematic, moody lighting, with a soft glow highlighting the figure's silhouette. The overall aesthetic is surrealism mixed with dystopian noir, reminiscent of a lucid dream in a half-forgotten world. Hypnotic, melancholic, gritty, atmospheric. apocalyptic, th3pathstyl
    Digital painting style, (brushstrokes:1.2), dark A solitary figure sits at the edge of a dimly lit, weathered grand piano, its polished surface reflecting flickers of luminescent moonlight that filter through the abandoned subway's crumbling tunnels. The piano itself appears ancient, with intricate carvings and mysterious symbols etched into its legs and frame, as if whispering secrets to the surrounding air. As the figure's slender fingers dance across the keys, the piano produces a haunting, ethereal melody that seems to weave together the whispers of forgotten dreams, the sighs of the city's departed heart, and the soft hum of a thousand distant whispers. The sound waves emanate from within the piano's depths like ripples on a still pond, as if the music itself is alive, taking shape in the darkness, where shadows writhe like living things, twisting around the figure's form, which sits motionless, entranced by the symphony of dreams, lost in a world of reverie and longing. <lora:PainterlyFantasiaSDXL:0.9>
    cinna flow, In a surreal expanse where the whispering grass grows taller than time itself, a lone samurai stands like a relic of a dream half-remembered. His silhouette, sharp as a blade, cuts through the haze, a living ink painting torn from the pages of a storybook. The air hums with the faint echo of a Cheshire Cat’s grin, and the horizon shimmers like the Yellow Brick Road, leading nowhere and everywhere at once. His katanas, three in number, rest at his side, their blades catching the glow of embers that drift like fireflies from a land of Oz. His topknot, loosely bound, unravels in the wind, strands of hair twisting like the riddles of the Mad Hatter. Above, a flock of crows—part bird, part shadow—ascends into a sky where clouds swirl like the smoke of a wizard’s pipe. The scene is a dance of contrasts: bold brushstrokes carve his form, while delicate shading whispers of a world caught between serenity and chaos. The embers pulse, casting faint light on the uneven terrain, where shadows stretch like the arms of the Queen of Hearts’ card soldiers. The samurai’s stillness is a storm contained, his eyes reflecting the duality of a warrior-poet, lost in thought yet poised to strike. Here, in this liminal space where Alice’s wonder meets Dorothy’s journey, the samurai embodies the spirit of bushidō—a guardian of forgotten realms, a wanderer between worlds. The ink bleeds, the wind sings, and the moment hangs, suspended between the tick of a pocket watch and the roar of a tornado.
    cinna flow, In a surreal expanse where the whispering grass grows taller than time itself, a lone samurai stands like a relic of a dream half-remembered. His silhouette, sharp as a blade, cuts through the monochrome haze, a living ink painting torn from the pages of a storybook. The air hums with the faint echo of a Cheshire Cat’s grin, and the horizon shimmers like the Yellow Brick Road, leading nowhere and everywhere at once. His katanas, three in number, rest at his side, their blades catching the glow of embers that drift like fireflies from a land of Oz. His topknot, loosely bound, unravels in the wind, strands of hair twisting like the riddles of the Mad Hatter. Above, a flock of crows—part bird, part shadow—ascends into a sky where clouds swirl like the smoke of a wizard’s pipe. The scene is a dance of contrasts: bold brushstrokes carve his form, while delicate shading whispers of a world caught between serenity and chaos. The embers pulse, casting faint light on the uneven terrain, where shadows stretch like the arms of the Queen of Hearts’ card soldiers. The samurai’s stillness is a storm contained, his eyes reflecting the duality of a warrior-poet, lost in thought yet poised to strike. Here, in this liminal space where Alice’s wonder meets Dorothy’s journey, the samurai embodies the spirit of bushidō—a guardian of forgotten realms, a wanderer between worlds. The ink bleeds, the wind sings, and the moment hangs, suspended between the tick of a pocket watch and the roar of a tornado.
    cinna flow, In a surreal expanse where the whispering grass grows taller than time itself, a lone samurai stands like a relic of a dream half-remembered. His silhouette, sharp as a blade, cuts through the haze, a living ink painting torn from the pages of a storybook. The air hums with the faint echo of a Cheshire Cat’s grin, and the horizon shimmers like the Yellow Brick Road, leading nowhere and everywhere at once. His katanas, three in number, rest at his side, their blades catching the glow of embers that drift like fireflies from a land of Oz. His topknot, loosely bound, unravels in the wind, strands of hair twisting like the riddles of the Mad Hatter. Above, a flock of crows—part bird, part shadow—ascends into a sky where clouds swirl like the smoke of a wizard’s pipe. The scene is a dance of contrasts: bold brushstrokes carve his form, while delicate shading whispers of a world caught between serenity and chaos. The embers pulse, casting faint light on the uneven terrain, where shadows stretch like the arms of the Queen of Hearts’ card soldiers. The samurai’s stillness is a storm contained, his eyes reflecting the duality of a warrior-poet, lost in thought yet poised to strike. Here, in this liminal space where Alice’s wonder meets Dorothy’s journey, the samurai embodies the spirit of bushidō—a guardian of forgotten realms, a wanderer between worlds. The ink bleeds, the wind sings, and the moment hangs, suspended between the tick of a pocket watch and the roar of a tornado.
    In a surreal expanse where the whispering grass grows taller than time itself, a lone knight clad in shimmering, mismatched armor stands like a relic of a dream half-remembered. Their silhouette, sharp as a blade, cuts through the haze, a living painting torn from the pages of a storybook. Cheshire Cat’s grin glowing in The air , and the horizon shimmers with the Yellow Brick Road, leading nowhere and everywhere at once. Their weapon, a staff crowned with a glowing crystal, rests at their side, its light catching the glow of embers that drift like fireflies. Their helmet, adorned with a crooked plume, tilts slightly in the wind, its feathers unraveling like riddles. Above, a swarm of flying monkeys—part mischief, part menace—soars into a sky where clouds swirl like the smoke of a wizard’s pipe. The scene is a dance of contrasts: bold strokes carve their form, while delicate shading whispers of a world caught between serenity and chaos. The embers pulse, casting faint light on the uneven terrain, where shadows stretch like the arms of the Queen of Hearts’ card soldiers. The knight’s stillness is a storm contained, their gaze reflecting the duality of a guardian-dreamer, lost in thought yet poised to act. Here, in this liminal space where the knight embodies the spirit of adventure—a protector of forgotten realms, a wanderer between worlds. The colors bleed, the wind sings, and the moment hangs, suspended between the tick of a pocket watch and the roar of a tornado.
    In a surreal expanse where the whispering grass grows taller than time itself, a lone knight clad in shimmering, mismatched armor stands like a relic of a dream half-remembered. Their silhouette, sharp as a blade, cuts through the haze, a living painting torn from the pages of a storybook. Cheshire Cat’s grin glowing in The air , and the horizon shimmers with the Yellow Brick Road, leading nowhere and everywhere at once. Their weapon, a staff crowned with a glowing crystal, rests at their side, its light catching the glow of embers that drift like fireflies. Their helmet, adorned with a crooked plume, tilts slightly in the wind, its feathers unraveling like riddles. Above, a swarm of flying monkeys—part mischief, part menace—soars into a sky where clouds swirl like the smoke of a wizard’s pipe. The scene is a dance of contrasts: bold strokes carve their form, while delicate shading whispers of a world caught between serenity and chaos. The embers pulse, casting faint light on the uneven terrain, where shadows stretch like the arms of the Queen of Hearts’ card soldiers. The knight’s stillness is a storm contained, their gaze reflecting the duality of a guardian-dreamer, lost in thought yet poised to act. Here, in this liminal space where the knight embodies the spirit of adventure—a protector of forgotten realms, a wanderer between worlds. The colors bleed, the wind sings, and the moment hangs, suspended between the tick of a pocket watch and the roar of a tornado.
    In a surreal expanse where the whispering grass grows taller than time itself, a lone knight clad in shimmering, mismatched armor stands like a relic of a dream half-remembered. Their silhouette, sharp as a blade, cuts through the haze, a living painting torn from the pages of a storybook. Cheshire Cat’s grin glowing in The air , and the horizon shimmers with the Yellow Brick Road, leading nowhere and everywhere at once. Their weapon, a staff crowned with a glowing crystal, rests at their side, its light catching the glow of embers that drift like fireflies. Their helmet, adorned with a crooked plume, tilts slightly in the wind, its feathers unraveling like riddles. Above, a swarm of flying monkeys—part mischief, part menace—soars into a sky where clouds swirl like the smoke of a wizard’s pipe. The scene is a dance of contrasts: bold strokes carve their form, while delicate shading whispers of a world caught between serenity and chaos. The embers pulse, casting faint light on the uneven terrain, where shadows stretch like the arms of the Queen of Hearts’ card soldiers. The knight’s stillness is a storm contained, their gaze reflecting the duality of a guardian-dreamer, lost in thought yet poised to act. Here, in this liminal space where the knight embodies the spirit of adventure—a protector of forgotten realms, a wanderer between worlds. The colors bleed, the wind sings, and the moment hangs, suspended between the tick of a pocket watch and the roar of a tornado.

      DreamShaper XL

    • v2.1 Turbo DPM++ SDE - dreamshaperXL_v21TurboDPMSDE.safetensors
    • Lightning DPM++ SDE - dreamshaperXL_lightningDPMSDE.safetensors
    • SFW v2 Turbo DPM++ SDE - dreamshaperXL_sfwV2TurboDPMSDE.safetensors
    • SFW Lightning DPM++ SDE - dreamshaperXL_sfwLightningDPMSDE.safetensors
    • v2 Turbo DPM++ SDE - dreamshaperXL_v2TurboDPMSDE.safetensors
    • Turbo DPM++ SDE - dreamshaperXL_turboDPMSDE.safetensors
    • SFW Turbo DPM++ SDE - dreamshaperXL_sfwTurboDPMSDE.safetensors
    • alpha2 (xl1.0) - dreamshaperXL_alpha2Xl10.safetensors
    • alpha1 (xl0.9) - dreamshaperXL_alpha1Xl09.safetensors

      DreamShaper

    • 8 - dreamshaper_8.safetensors
    • 8 LCM - dreamshaper_8LCM.safetensors
    • 8-inpainting - dreamshaper_8Inpainting.safetensors
    • 8-diffusers - dreamshaper_8Diffusers.zip
    • 7 - dreamshaper_7.safetensors
    • 7-inpainting - dreamshaper_7-inpainting.safetensors
    • 7-diffusers - dreamshaper_7Diffusers_trainingData.zip
    • 6.31 baked vae - dreamshaper_631BakedVae.safetensors
    • 6.31-inpainting - dreamshaper_631Inpainting.safetensors
    • 6.31 diffusers - dreamshaper_631Diffusers_trainingData.zip
    • 6 baked vae - dreamshaper_6BakedVae.safetensors
    • 6.2 baked vae - dreamshaper_62BakedVae.safetensors
    • 6-inpainting - dreamshaper_6Inpainting.safetensors
    • 6 no vae - dreamshaper_6NoVae.safetensors
    • 6 diffusers - dreamshaper_6Diffusers_trainingData.zip
    • 5 baked vae - dreamshaper_5BakedVae.ckpt
    • 5 pruned (no vae) - train - dreamshaper_5PrunedNoVaeTrain.ckpt
    • 5-inpainting - dreamshaper_5-inpainting.safetensors
    • 5 baked vae diffusers - dreamshaper_5BakedVaeDiffusers_trainingData.zip
    • 4 baked vae - dreamshaper_4BakedVae.safetensors
    • 4-inpainting - dreamshaper_4-inpainting.safetensors
    • 4 baked vae fp16 - dreamshaper_4BakedVaeFp16.safetensors
    • 4 no vae - dreamshaper_4NoVae.safetensors
    • 4 no vae fp16 - dreamshaper_4NoVaeFp16.ckpt
    • 3.32 baked vae (clip fix) - dreamshaper_332BakedVaeClipFix.ckpt
    • 3.31 baked vae - dreamshaper_331BakedVae.ckpt
    • 3.31-inpainting - dreamshaper_331-inpainting.safetensors
    • 3.3 - dreamshaper_33.ckpt
    • 2.52 (safetensors fixed) - dreamshaper_252SafetensorsFixed.ckpt
    • 2.52 (pruned) - dreamshaper_252Pruned.ckpt
    • 2.52 (initial release) - dreamshaper_252InitialRelease.ckpt