A Poilu stands at the top of a small hill, silhouetted against the gray sky
A Poilu stands at the top of a small hill, silhouetted against the gray sky. His rifle is slung over his shoulder, and his uniform, though battered and torn, clings to him in the cold wind. His face is turned toward the horizon, but his eyes are distant, as if seeing something far beyond the landscape in front of him. His helmet casts a shadow over his gaunt features, hiding the full extent of his weariness. The ground around him is barren, a wasteland of craters and barbed wire, and the only sound is the wind whistling through the emptiness. <lora:french_soldier_flux_v1:1>
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A Poilu stands at the top of a small hill, silhouetted against the gray sky. His rifle is slung over his shoulder, and his uniform, though battered and torn, clings to him in the cold wind. His face is turned toward the horizon, but his eyes are distant, as if seeing something far beyond the landscape in front of him. His helmet casts a shadow over his gaunt features, hiding the full extent of his weariness. The ground around him is barren, a wasteland of craters and barbed wire, and the only sound is the wind whistling through the emptiness. <lora:french_soldier_flux_v1:1>
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