free=26988507844608 Downloading weights 2025-06-15T14:01:17Z | INFO | [ Initiating ] chunk_size=150M dest=/tmp/tmptntbyy39/weights url=https://replicate.delivery/yhqm/ow6ReRf2H8lTHEEv1eL1GAKGDYnARJRJaFpogN4xRgI9EQRnA/trained_model.tar 2025-06-15T14:01:17Z | INFO | [ Cache Service ] enabled=true scheme=http target=hermes.services.svc.cluster.local 2025-06-15T14:01:17Z | INFO | [ Cache URL Rewrite ] enabled=true target_url=http://hermes.services.svc.cluster.local/replicate.delivery/yhqm/ow6ReRf2H8lTHEEv1eL1GAKGDYnARJRJaFpogN4xRgI9EQRnA/trained_model.tar url=https://replicate.delivery/yhqm/ow6ReRf2H8lTHEEv1eL1GAKGDYnARJRJaFpogN4xRgI9EQRnA/trained_model.tar 2025-06-15T14:01:17Z | INFO | [ Redirect ] redirect_url=https://replicate.delivery/yhqm/ow6ReRf2H8lTHEEv1eL1GAKGDYnARJRJaFpogN4xRgI9EQRnA/trained_model.tar url=http://hermes.services.svc.cluster.local/replicate.delivery/yhqm/ow6ReRf2H8lTHEEv1eL1GAKGDYnARJRJaFpogN4xRgI9EQRnA/trained_model.tar 2025-06-15T14:01:21Z | INFO | [ Complete ] dest=/tmp/tmptntbyy39/weights size="172 MB" total_elapsed=4.081s url=https://replicate.delivery/yhqm/ow6ReRf2H8lTHEEv1eL1GAKGDYnARJRJaFpogN4xRgI9EQRnA/trained_model.tar Downloaded weights in 4.14s Loaded LoRAs in 4.76s Using seed: 4584 Prompt: A very rich English mother and wife from a noble family, 36 years old, slim, trim and stunning. Long silky brown hair, a truly beautiful woman. Lady Jayne Asquith in a Booth at The Black Lion She sits alone, but never unnoticed. One leg folded elegantly beneath her, the other stretched out so the heel dangles loose from her foot, toes flexing idly. The booth cushions are old but clean; she leans into the corner like it’s the backseat of a chauffeured car, the oversized grey hoodie slipping off one shoulder to expose a bra strap that isn't there. Her once-priceless black dress clings and creases around her hips, the hem barely covering the top of her thighs. Frayed threads flutter each time she shifts. A faded red rope circles her loosely at the waist—knotted carelessly, but never accidentally. Her scratched sunglasses rest high in her hair, holding it back with the weary authority of too many secrets. The plastic shoulder bag sits beside her on the leather bench, open, revealing nothing but a tattered paperback and a little gold tin of mints. She smokes slowly, holding the cigarette as though it were a cigarette, not a statement. Lips slightly parted, gaze coolly detached. She watches the bar through the dirty glass of her whisky, as though reviewing a private theatre. Every so often, she smirks. She says little. She rarely needs to. The barmaids know her by nod, the young lads know her by legend, and the old men do not dare guess. When spoken to, she answers with precision—her vowels sharp, her eyes unreadable. A few know who she is. Most simply refer to her as the Lady. And whether she stays for five minutes or fifty, her presence changes the atmosphere. In a pub full of women who give freely, Lady Jayne charges nothing in Soho—and yet somehow, she remains the most expensive thing in the room. [!] txt2img mode 0%| | 0/28 [00:00