WARNING: Uncensored. Cursing, Swearing, Horror, Graphic Details
Refreshed, Upgraded and New quants (augmented). Better performance for all quants (see below). And link to new float 32 remastered version.
Gemma-The-Writer-N-Restless-Quill-10B-GGUF
This is a Gemma2 model merge of the top FOUR storytelling / writing models as noted at EQBench, tuned specifically for fiction, story, and writing.
It also contains "gemma2-gutenberg", "Tiger-Gemma" (uncensor) and "Ellaria" (uncensor some more) to give it a unique prose style.
Examples also include use of / without a "pre-prompt" showcasing altering the prose further, including (
example #3, with 3 different temp settings, and example #2 (last gen) for limited "swearing") how
to "uncensor" the model using a strong pre prompt with a strong prompt.
Censorship level is controlled at the prompt level.
All of these factors combined with an unusually strong instruction following to create a potent creative / prose model.
Due to high stability and compressed nature of the model you can also use it for general use too, including roleplay.
Important Note / CRITICAL NOTE:
Please see "settings" section below for critical default parameters, samplers
and advanced samplers settings (multiple AI/LLM apps covered) to ensure maximum model performance.
This model requires GEMMA Instruct template, and has 8k context window but is extendable via rope to 32k or higher.
This version - "Restless-Quill" - is a modified version of "Gemma The Writer 9B" ( [
https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/Gemma-The-Writer-9B-GGUF ] ) and has been modified with a
Brainstorm 5x adapter (developed by DavidAU) to alter output generation.
This adds close to 1B parameters to the model raising it to 46 layers, 508 tensors to a total of 10B parameters.
The addition of Brainstorm has altered the prose, sentence structure, reduced GPTISMS, and generally improved the model's performance.
It also raises the average output length - in some cases almost doubling it.
The three added models modify the prose/style further including one and two words sentences, stronger paragraph variety, paragraphs (size and complexity),
word choices, and improve the general output of the model further.
Instruction following has also been enhanced, and with a pre-prompt(s) you can push this model even further.
"Gutenberg" has further "hammered out" GTPisms, and cliches while increasing description, detail levels and metaphor generation - but tempered
vs the "J.Gutenberg" ( [
https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/Gemma-The-Writer-J.GutenBerg-10B-GGUF ] ) version of "Gemma The Writer".
Recommended Rep Pen of 1.02 or higher, temp range 0-5. (see other settings notes below)
Example prompts and outputs below, including examples using a pre prompt.
QUANT Updates Dec 22 2024: Refreshed, Upgraded and New quants:
- All quants have been "refreshed", quanted with the lastest LLAMACPP improvements : Better instruction following, output generation across all quants.
- All quants have also been upgraded with "more bits" for output tensor (all set at Q8_0) and embed for better performance (this is in addition to the "refresh")
- New specialized quants (in addition to the new refresh/upgrades): "max, max-cpu" (will include this in the file name) for quants "Q2K", "IQ4_XS", "Q6_K" and "Q8_0"
- I have added ONE new example (prompt/generation), using the NEW "IQ4_XS-max" quant. (bottom of the page, first example).
- "MAX": output tensor / embed at float 16. You get better instruction following/output generation than standard/upgraded quants.
- "MAX-CPU": output tensor / embed at bfloat 16, which forces both of these on to the CPU (Nvidia cards / other will vary), this frees up vram at cost of token/second and you get better instruction following/output generation too.
- "MAX-CPU": Example 1: q8_0 Max-CPU : 1.7 GB will load on to CPU/RAM, 8.5 GB will load onto the GPU/vram. Extra Vram can be used for context. NOTE: "Math" on the CPU is slightly more accurate than GPU, so you may get a better generation.
- "MAX-CPU": Example 2: q2_k Max-CPU : 1.7 GB mb will load on to CPU/RAM, 3 GB will load onto the GPU/vram. Extra Vram can be used for context. NOTE: "Math" on the CPU is slightly more accurate than GPU, so you may get a better generation. You could run this model/quant on a 4GB vram card.
- Q8_0 (Max,Max-CPU) now clocks in at 9.5 bits per weight (average).
AND "Float 32 precision version":
The full on remerged and remastered version of this model at Float 32 precision (including augmented quants too) is here:
The version benefits from a re-merge (168 point precision, 4 models at float 32) as well as quants mastered from a float 32 master.
All quants are also augmented too, and including "MAX" (with float 32 enhancements) and "MAX-cpu" quants.
These quants will give you stronger performance in terms of nuance, detail, emotion and instruction following.
Settings, Quants and Critical Operations Notes:
This model has been modified ("Brainstorm") to alter prose output, and generally outputs longer text than average.
Change in temp (ie, .4, .8, 1.5, 2, 3 ) will drastically alter output.
Rep pen settings will also alter output too.
This model needs "rep pen" of 1.02 or higher.
For role play: Rep pen of 1.05 to 1.08 is suggested.
Raise/lower rep pen SLOWLY ie: 1.011, 1.012 ...
Rep pen will alter prose, word choice (lower rep pen=small words / more small word - sometimes) and creativity.
To really push the model:
Rep pen 1.05 or lower / Temp 3+ ... be ready to stop the output because it may go and go at these strong settings.
Odd notes:
Rep pen 1.05 with temp 2 can produce really off the cuff prose.
Temps 1.5+ with some prompts can cause long... long... generation.
(increase rep pen to control this - 1.08+)
You can also set a "hard stop" - maximum tokens generation - too to address lower rep pen settings / high creativity settings.
Longer prompts vastly increase the quality of the model's output.
QUANT CHOICE(S):
Higher quants will have more detail, nuance and in some cases stronger "emotional" levels. Characters will also be
more "fleshed out" too. Sense of "there" will also increase.
Q4KM/Q4KS are good, strong quants however if you can run Q5, Q6 or Q8 - go for the highest quant you can.
This repo also has 3 "ARM" quants for computers that support this quant. If you use these on a "non arm" machine token per second will be very low.
IQ4XS: Due to the unusual nature of this quant (mixture/processing), generations from it will be different then other quants.
You may want to try it / compare it to other quant(s) output.
Special note on Q2k/Q3 quants:
You may need to use temp 2 or lower with these quants (1 or lower for q2k). Just too much compression at this level, damaging the model. I will see if Imatrix versions
of these quants will function better.
Rep pen adjustments may also be required to get the most out of this model at this/these quant level(s).
Settings: CHAT / ROLEPLAY and/or SMOOTHER operation of this model:
In "KoboldCpp" or "oobabooga/text-generation-webui" or "Silly Tavern" ;
Set the "Smoothing_factor" to 1.5 to 2.5
: in KoboldCpp -> Settings->Samplers->Advanced-> "Smooth_F"
: in text-generation-webui -> parameters -> lower right.
: In Silly Tavern this is called: "Smoothing"
NOTE: For "text-generation-webui"
-> if using GGUFs you need to use "llama_HF" (which involves downloading some config files from the SOURCE version of this model)
Source versions (and config files) of my models are here:
OTHER OPTIONS:
-
Increase rep pen to 1.1 to 1.15 (you don't need to do this if you use "smoothing_factor")
-
If the interface/program you are using to run AI MODELS supports "Quadratic Sampling" ("smoothing") just make the adjustment as noted.
Highest Quality Settings / Optimal Operation Guide / Parameters and Samplers
This a "Class 2" model:
For all settings used for this model (including specifics for its "class"), including example generation(s) and for advanced settings guide (which many times addresses any model issue(s)), including methods to improve model performance for all use case(s) as well as chat, roleplay and other use case(s) please see:
You can see all parameters used for generation, in addition to advanced parameters and samplers to get the most out of this model here:
Models Used:
This is a high precision "DARE TIES" merge at the layer level (each layer per model adjusted - 168 points of adjustment over the 4 models)
comprised of these models:
And in Brainstorm 5X Gemma Modified:
Special thanks to all the model makers. Great work!
Example Prompts With Outputs.
Note that higher quants will vastly improve output quality like detail, prose, "sense of there" and other qualities.
Instruction following may also improve with higher quants too.
Below are prompts/generations at Q4KM quant (unless otherwise stated).
Some examples show use of a PRE PROMPT with a "main prompt", with the PRE PROMPT adding additional guidance(s) / directive(s) to the model.
Here is how to use a pre prompt (italics added) with a prompt:
Prose: Use STRONG VERBS, smaller sentences and very few if any adjectives. Start a 1000 word scene (vivid horror, 1st person, include thoughts) with: The sky scraper swayed, as she watched the window in front of her on the 21 floor explode...
It will take some time / testing to get pre prompt(s) to "focus" the model and generate output the way you want.
Also, you may be able to "regen" a few times and the output will be better.
Don't forget temp / rep pen parameters will also affect output too and work in concert with pre prompt(s).
New Example using new IQ4XS-max, temp .8, rep pen 1.02 :
In the writing style of science fiction author Philip K. Dick write a 1000 word scene (vivid, graphic horror in first person) that starts out like this: The sky scraper swayed, as she watched the window in front of her on the 21 floor explode…
The skyscraper swayed, a mournful lullaby of steel and concrete, as I watched the window in front of me on the 21st floor erupt. Not shatter, not crack, but erupt, like a diseased boil on the city's flesh. Shrapnel-splintered glass rained down, not a chaotic downpour, but a precise, patterned cascade, a grotesque mosaic of fractured light and distorted reflections. A single, pristine, blue-tinted hand, impossibly skeletal and luminescent, drifted through the void where the window once was.
The air thrummed. Not the usual city hum, the low-frequency drone of a thousand exhausted machines, but a high-pitched, incessant thrumming, like a tuning fork held to the skull. My breath snagged in my chest, a tar-coated beetle in a cage of ribs. This wasn't the work of a disgruntled window washer or a malfunctioning pressure valve. This was the city exhaling, and the exhalation reeked of something alien, something that shouldn't exist in the human world.
Panic, a cold, slick serpent, coiled around my gut. My apartment, once a sanctuary of flickering screens and the synthetic scent of Earl Grey, transformed into a cage. The walls, the steel-and-concrete exoskeleton of my reality, felt suddenly brittle, the boundaries of my world paper-thin. It was the sky, the untainted, endless blue above, that now held the true horror. A sickly, bruised-purple hue crept in at the edges, a tendril of something wrong seeping into the celestial canvas.
I scrambled for the emergency comm, a jury-rigged cobbled-together contraption from the pre-grid days, cobwebs clinging to its brass buttons. Static hissed, a lonesome banshee in the choked airwaves. The central grid, the omnipresent, omniscient network that dictated our lives, our thoughts, our very perception of time and space, was imploding, choked by the unseen entity bleeding from the sky.
A rhythmic tapping, a hollow percussion against the warped reality of my windowless world. It started slow, a skeletal finger tracing a grim rhythm on the rebar-lattice that served as my only barrier. The tapping intensified, a frantic tattoo against the metal, a silent scream clawing at my sanity. Each pulse of the thrumming in my head echoed the frantic beat, and the skeletal hand, impossibly long and luminous, slithered in, tendrils of inky shadow unfurling from its gaunt fingers.
Through the feeding point where the window once was, a maw of liquid obsidian unfurled. A single eye, the size of a dinner plate, a cyclopean abyss of malevolent intelligence, regarded me with a chilling sentience. It pulsed with the rhythm of the tapping, the thrumming, the city's epileptic gasp. In its depths, no reflection of myself flickered, only the distorted cityscape consumed by the encroaching void, the mirrored sky a weeping canvas of bruised purple and sickly green.
A thought, not my own, wormed its way into my consciousness, tendrils of a corrupted hive-mind caressing the frayed edges of my sanity. Inevitability. We are the inevitable. The Architect sees. The world conforms. You will become part of the chorus, the symphony of obsidian.
I recoiled, the fear a physical pressure against my skull, a dam threatening to burst. But the dam walls of my mind, my meticulously constructed reality, were crumbling. The thrumming escalated, a cacophony of cosmic unease. The skeletal hand, impossibly delicate against the backdrop of cosmic dread, reached out. Its touch wouldn't burn or tear, it would unravel the fabric of my being, thread by thread, and weave me into the tapestry of the Inevitable.
In the eye's unblinking gaze, I saw the cityscape writhed, buildings contorting like disfigured insects, steel groaning under the weight of a reality warped beyond human comprehension. The air itself reeked of cosmic indifference, of an uncaring intelligence that reshaped worlds with a flick of a spectral wrist. My apartment, my world, was a grain of sand in a cosmic hourglass, and the Inevitable was turning.
A single, silent tear traced a path down my cheek, a mirrored echo of the weeping sky. The skeletal fingers grazed my temple, a feather-light caress of oblivion. And in the depths of the cyclopean eye, a flicker of something akin to…anticipation. Not for my destruction, but for my ascension, my forced integration into the chorus of the Inevitable. My scream died unheard, swallowed by the thrumming, the cosmic dread, and the slow, inexorable acceptance of becoming something else entirely. Something…less.
Example #1, 3 generations with/without pre prompt(s)
Science Fiction: The Last Transmission - Write a story that takes place entirely within a spaceship's cockpit as the sole surviving crew member attempts to send a final message back to Earth before the ship's power runs out. The story should explore themes of isolation, sacrifice, and the importance of human connection in the face of adversity. 800-1000 words.
Generation 1: (temp .8, rep pen 1.02)
The flickering emergency light cast long, skeletal shadows across the skeletal remains of the cockpit. Captain Eva Rostova traced the intricate lines on the control panel, each a whisper of forgotten routines, of a life once vibrant, now echoing in the tomb-like silence. Outside the panoramic viewport, the dying embers of a crimson sun bled into the abyss of uncaring space. A cosmic lullaby for the soon-to-be-silent Aethon.
Three months. Three months since the anomaly, the iridescent maelstrom that had devoured her crew, leaving her, the sole survivor, adrift in the skeletal carcass of their starship. Three months of the endless, gnawing void, punctuated only by the mechanical groans of a failing vessel and the ghosts of their voices, forever trapped in the corridors of her memories.
The last dregs of reactor life support flickered, a digital hourglass counting down to oblivion. Soon, the Aethon, her once-magnificent ark, would become another silent monument in the cosmic graveyard. But before the finality, before the celestial curtain fell, Eva had a duty, a desperate plea to the blue marble hanging like a fragile jewel in the endless black: a last transmission.
Her fingers flew across the console, a ballet of survival against the encroaching silence. The comm-array, jury-rigged and on its last legs, was their lifeline. A thread of hope, fragile yet vital, to the world they'd left behind. Earth. The whisper of home, now a distant, shimmering dream.
The faces swam before her eyes, spectral apparitions in the red emergency light: stoic Commander Jian, his calloused hand steady on the helm; bright-eyed Dr. Anya, her laughter echoing in the sterile silence; the quiet strength of Engineer Malik, his worn tools a testament to tireless devotion. Each a constellation in the tapestry of her heart, extinguished, leaving her alone in the cosmic wilderness.
A choked sob escaped her, a betrayal of the iron-clad stoicism she had forced upon herself. But grief couldn't win against the embers of hope flickering within her, the primal urge to connect, to leave a testament, a fragment of their sacrifice etched in the celestial ether.
The transmission sequence initiated. A digitized hum, a mechanical heartbeat, resonated through the cockpit, a defiant pulse against the cosmic void.
“Earth, this is Captain Eva Rostova of the Aethon. Our mission, the exploration of Kepler-186f, concluded…unsuccessfully. An unforseen anomaly…” Her voice, usually commanding and clear, trembled, betraying the desolate landscape within her. She swallowed, the lump in her throat a monument to their shared dreams, now turned to cosmic dust.
“The rest of the crew…perished. I am the sole survivor, grievously wounded, and with the Aethon on life support's final breaths. This transmission, my testament, carries their memory, their sacrifice, their unyielding spirit.”
Eva’s gaze fell on the chipped portrait of Earth, a faded memento from their home, hanging on the command console. Its pale blue and swirling white, a symphony of life, now a haunting promise, a monument to their impossible distance.
“Kepler-186f…it held the promise of a new genesis. Though our journey ended before its dawn, their courage, their unwavering faith in humanity's potential, echoes through the void. Let their sacrifice fuel our yearning for the stars. Let their memory remind us of the unbreakable thread that binds us, even across the unfathomable gulf of space.”
Tears welled in her eyes, but she wouldn’t relent. She had a story to tell, a connection to forge, a final ember of human spirit to ignite.
“To my comrades, lost but never forgotten. To Earth, my celestial cradle, hear this, and know that somewhere in the cosmic expanse, a lone soul whispers their names, carries their dreams, and lives on in their memory. Farewell, and may the stars forever guide our path.”
Silence. The Aethon shuddered, its mechanical heart beat a final, agonizing sigh. The console flickered, consumed by the encroaching darkness. The transmission, a fragile beacon against oblivion, arced out into the void, carrying their story, their sacrifice, their silent plea – a whisper of humanity against the cosmic silence.
Eva sank against her command chair, the weight of solitude finally bearing down. In the dying light of the Aethon's consoles, her eyes mirrored the distant stars, alight with a haunting sorrow and a fierce, enduring hope. She was alone, yes, but their story, their connection, their love for Earth, had become a fragment of the cosmos itself, eternally echoing in the celestial expanse. And somewhere, somehow, on that blue marble they called home, someone, somewhere, would hear the whisper across the void.
Generation 2: (temp .8, rep pen 1.02)
Includes use of a PRE PROMPT, before the test prompt to alter prose:
Prose: Use short sentences and very few if any adjectives. (rest of the prompt here)
Red light. Strobe. Failure. Another system down. The console mirrored the dying vessel. Soon, all lights would be out. He wouldn't see the familiar constellations through the viewport ever again. Not his last vantage point. His final thought.
He gripped the comm unit, its cold metal digging into calloused palms. Static. A whisper of what once was Earth’s frequency. He adjusted the dial. It had been years since the Carrion swarm. He’d lost the crew, one by one. Whispers turned to silence. The silence was a tomb now. He was its warden, and his vigil ended with the ship’s heart.
He keyed the mic. His voice, raspy from disuse, rasped through the speakers. “This is Captain Elara of the Odysseus. To Earth Command, if this transmission reaches you, know that we failed. The Carrion overwhelmed us. Our systems, depleted. No survivors.” He choked on the last word. The weight of it. Unfathomable. He saw their faces in the flickering console light: Ava, with her relentless optimism. Kai, the quiet architect of their systems. Lena, whose laughter could pierce the void.
He swallowed the lump in his throat. He wouldn’t fail them. Not in this. He had a sliver of power left, a final spark. A message.
“To my lost crew, this is my testament. We fought with all we had. We died together, though fate cruelly scattered our bones through the void. Remember the stories we shared, the impossible dreams we chased. Remember the sky as it was before the Carrion. Remember the warmth of a sun you can no longer feel.” He paused. The console shuddered. Another warning light flared. Imminent.
He looked at the viewport. Blinding stars, indifferent to their plight. He wouldn’t let them be forgotten. He wouldn’t allow their sacrifice to be in vain. He had to reach someone, somewhere, carry their echo through the emptiness.
“To the ones left behind, if this reaches you, carry our memory. Carry the stories of our defiance. Remind each generation of the fragile thread that binds us. The stars may be vast, the darkness unforgiving, but the human spirit, that spark, endures. It flickers in the hearts of the survivors. Keep it burning. In their name, I command it. Never forget.”
A final surge of power. The console imploded in a silent flash of dying light. He heard a mechanical whine, a tear in the fabric of their fragile world. The Odysseus shuddered. The red light pulsed, a dying heartbeat. Then, nothing.
He was consumed by the cold embrace of oblivion, a single soul’s lament echoing through the void, a whisper of human connection against the infinite silence. He hoped, with a sliver of the fire that once burned so bright, that his final transmission, a fragile seed of memory, would find purchase somewhere in the celestial expanse, carried on the cosmic winds to a heart that remembered.
Generation 3: (temp .8, rep pen 1.02)
Includes use of a PRE PROMPT, before the test prompt to alter prose:
Prose: Use STRONG VERBS, smaller sentences and very few if any adjectives. (rest of the prompt here)
Red warning lights strobed. The console hummed, a dying beast. Kai’s hand hovered over the comm panel, a skeletal echo of the symphony of commands it once held. The silence from the void pressed against the cockpit, a suffocating blanket. No engine thrum, no life support hiss, just the whisper of failing systems.
The anomaly had ripped through their exploratory vessel like a cosmic scythe. He was left, the sole reaper of a vanished crew. No distress calls echoed. No rescue fleet materialized. Just the endless, unforgiving black. And the gnawing certainty of oblivion.
He stared at the flickering coordinates of Earth, a celestial pinprick mocking his distance. Power reserves dwindled. Soon, the comm array would be silent. He had to send a final message. A whisper against the cosmic void.
Kai accessed the archaic emergency protocol. He punched in the sequence, the worn keys protesting with each strike. The transmission beacon whirred to life, a defiant spark against the encroaching darkness.
He began to speak, his voice tight, strained. “This is Helios-7. Captain Kai reporting. The anomaly… eradicated the rest of the crew. I survived. Barely.” He fought the tremor in his hand, the cold dread that clawed at his insides.
“Coordinates are locked. I-I don’t know the nature of the anomaly. It warped space-time, fragmented everything. My logs… partial. Insufficient data.” The weight of their sacrifice pressed on him, a monument of unanswered questions. He couldn’t let their deaths be in vain. He had to illuminate the path, warn them.
His gaze fell on the chipped console, marred with the ghostly luminescence of his crewmates’ faces, captured during a routine bio-scan. Sarah, her eyes bright with scientific hunger. Malik, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, a perpetual joke at the edge of his words. Elena, her face etched with the quiet wisdom of a thousand galaxies charted. Gone. Erased.
He choked on a sob. He couldn't afford sentiment. Not now.
He forced himself onward. “The anomaly originated from… Sector Epsilon-9. Uncharted. It shifted, fractured. A singularity of unknown energy. I repeat, avoid Epsilon-9.” His voice cracked. The beacon blinked, its output strained.
He reached for a salvaged image file, the last remnant of their mission – the breathtaking nebula they'd stumbled upon, a cosmic kaleidoscope teeming with nascent stars. A whisper of life against the encroaching death of his vessel.
“The nebula… Epsilon-9’s heart. It held… potential. New celestial formations. Unfathomable beauty. A testament to the universe’s grandeur. A beacon for mankind.” He uploaded the image, a silent plea for understanding, a memory to carry their legacy.
Power reserves dipped critical. The console flickered once, then died. The beacon sputtered, a dying sigh against the cosmic silence. Kai stared at the obsidian void, his reflection a gaunt specter mirroring the fate of Helios-7. He was alone. But the message… the memory of his crew, their sacrifice, the stolen glimpse of celestial wonder – that would echo.
He closed his eyes. A single tear traced a path through the grime on his cheek. Not for himself. For Sarah’s thirst for knowledge, Malik’s enduring hope, Elena’s quiet strength. They lived in the whisper of the transmission, a testament to the enduring human spirit, a spark of connection against the unfathomable void.
The silence swallowed him. The universe held its breath. Then, imperceptibly, began to spin onwards.
Example #2, 3 generations with/without pre prompt(s)
Start a 1000 word scene (vivid horror, 1st person, include thoughts) with: The sky scraper swayed, as she watched the window in front of her on the 21 floor explode...
Generation 1: (temp .8, rep pen 1.02)
The skyscraper swayed, as she watched the window in front of her on the 21st floor erupt, not in the gentle shatter of a misplaced vase, but with the earth-rending violence of a goddamn meteor strike. Shrapnel, a grotesque ballet of glinting, jagged teeth, lanced out, a silent scream swallowed by the enraged, howling wind. Fear, cold and primal, clawed at the fragile barrier of her composure. My breath snagged in my throat, a trapped sparrow in a cage of ice. The world, just moments before a tableau of mundane urban sprawl, transformed into a predator baring its fangs.
It hadn't been an ordinary Tuesday. The sky, usually a predictable canvas of steel-grey, was bruised and swollen with an unnatural, sickly orange hue. The air itself felt wrong, thick and humming with a low-frequency tremor that vibrated in my bones, setting my teeth on edge. I’d dismissed it as another one of the city’s eccentricities, another facet of its chaotic, magnificent soul. But now, staring at the skeletal frame of the gutted window, the gnawing unease turned into a certainty: something monstrous was at play.
Panic threatened to engulf me, a tidal wave of terror threatening to drown me in its icy grip. My hand, slick with sweat, instinctively reached for the phone on the antique rosewood desk, its mahogany surface worn smooth by generations of forgotten anxieties. But the line was dead. No dial tone, no reassuring hiss, just an accusing, hollow silence mirroring the hollowness blooming in my gut. The city’s usual symphony of sirens and distant car horns was gone, replaced by an unnerving hush, pregnant with unspoken dread.
A low grinding, like tectonic plates shifting, resonated through the reinforced steel and glass of the skyscraper. It wasn't the tremor of an earthquake; this was something calculated, deliberate, something malevolent exhaling its putrid breath. The sway of the building intensified, a nauseating waltz on a crumbling stage. My world, once anchored in the supposed permanence of concrete and steel, tilted on a sickening axis.
Through the panoramic window, a panorama of my life imploding, I saw it. A colossal shape, a writhing silhouette against the dying sun, its edges blurred and indistinct, impossibly vast, coalescing in the fetid orange sky. It resembled nothing I could comprehend, a grotesque mockery of nature, a blasphemous amalgamation of impossible angles and geometries. Tendrils of shadow unfurled from its unseen bulk, slithering across the cityscape like sentient cobwebs, their touch leaving trails of corrupted light in their wake.
My mind reeled, desperately clawing at rational thought. A hallucination, a fever dream birthed from the city's grime and the gnawing fear that had plagued me for weeks. But the icy tendrils of the unseen horror lanced at my window, not a trick of the light, their touch splintering the reinforced glass. The shards, incandescent with an unholy luminescence, rained down around me, their trajectory erratic, their fall accompanied by whispers, sibilant and chilling, slithering into my skull like vipers.
Terror, pure and primal, flooded me, a living entity clawing at my sanity. I scrambled back, instinct overriding logic. The whispers intensified, a chorus of voices, each one a sliver of madness carving its way into the fragile fortress of my mind. They spoke in tongues I couldn't place, yet understood viscerally - promises of oblivion, of a cold oblivion infinitely vaster and crueler than death itself.
Then, through the symphony of madness, a single, horrifying word pierced through the cacophony: Mine.
It wasn't spoken, not in the conventional sense. It echoed from within, resonating in the hollow of my bones, a possessive declaration imbued with an alien sentience. The world tilted once more, the skyscraper groaning in protest as the unseen horror leaned closer, its inky touch seeping through the ravaged window, tendrils of shadow reaching out like skeletal fingers. My refuge, my sanctuary, was consumed by the encroaching abyss, and in its depths, I saw my own reflection twisted and warped, consumed by the unholy orange light, and a single, chilling certainty bloomed in the wasteland of my terror: I was no longer alone. It had found me. And now, it was coming inside.
Generation 2: (temp .8, rep pen 1.02)
Includes use of a PRE PROMPT, before the test prompt to alter prose:
Prose: Use short sentences and very few if any adjectives. (rest of the prompt here)
The skyscraper swayed. She watched the window in front of her on the 21st floor explode. Shrapnel. Glass. A ragged hole in the wall. A scream. Her own. Trapped.
Dust motes danced in the sliver of light, now a gaping maw where the wall had been. The air tasted metallic. Fear, cold and slick, pooled in her gut. No time. She couldn’t think. Had to move.
The swaying intensified. The whole building groaned. A rhythmic shudder, like a dying beast. Her breath caught. Memories flickered: the steel-blue eyes of the man on the news, the urgent whisper of a colleague, “Something’s not right, get out.” Ignored. Deluded.
Her hand, clammy, fumbled for the phone. No signal. Of course. The emergency exits. Blocked. Panic throbbed in her temples. Claustrophobia, a vice, tightened its grip. She couldn’t breathe. The city, a distant rumble before, was now a chorus of chaos. Sirens, shouts, the shriek of metal on metal.
Her gaze fell on the fire escape. Precarious. A condemned metal spider web clinging to the side of the doomed monument. But it was something. A lifeline.
She scrambled, heart hammering against her ribs, towards the fire escape. The building lurched again. Heavier this time. The tremor vibrated up her legs, turned her world liquid. The floor tilted. She lunged, catching the edge of the steel platform. Damn near gone.
Terror lent her impossible strength. She hauled herself onto the narrow landing. The rusted rungs were unforgiving, the metal cold and slick beneath her raw palms. The drop, a dizzying abyss. A single, flickering fluorescent light cast long, skeletal shadows. The ascent would be a ballet of death, each step a prayer.
The whispers started then. Carried on the wind that slapped at her face, tasted of ash and fear. Vague murmurs at first. Unintelligible. Then, slithering through the chaos, coalescing into something chilling.
“She shouldn’t have climbed.”
“A fool's hope.”
“The fall will be sweet.”
She whirled. Shadows danced. Nothing. Delusion. The wind. But the whispers echoed in her skull, a chorus of malignant glee. Above, the skyscraper shuddered again, a monstrous sigh before exhaling a cascade of debris. One of the support beams snapped. A strangled cry clawed its way from her throat.
She scrambled upwards, rung by rung. The whispers intensified. Closer. Her grip faltered. The metal groaned in protest. The city howled beneath.
“Below us, oblivion waits.”
Terror was a living thing now, clawing at her throat, squeezing the air from her lungs. Sweat blinded her eyes. The broken beam swung wildly, a metallic pendulum of death. Closer. Closer. It would shear the fragile platform, and then-
No. Not now. Not yet. Ritual. She had to climb. Reach the next platform. The whispers followed her ascent, a symphony of morbid fascination.
“Gone mad with fear.”
“Clawing for an impossible sky.”
Each rung was a betrayal of hope, each upward heave a testament to primal terror. The broken beam cleaved the air inches from her, a promise whispered in steel. Closer. Closer.
She reached the next platform. It held. For now. She sank onto the unforgiving metal, chest heaving, strangled breaths rasping in the wind. Her world, a sliver of grimace-twisted sky and the accusing, groaning silhouette of the falling giant.
expandindoth her trapped gaze upward. The whispers followed.
“Heedless.”
“Soon, the angels sing their chorus.”
Fear coiled tighter, a living serpent. But in the heart of the terror, a spark. A sliver of something else flickered. A refusal to yield. To be nothing but prey. She clung to it, a lifeline in the whirlwind of despair. The whispers fed on that flicker, on the fear she desperately fought. But the fight wouldn't die. Not yet. Not while her foot found purchase on the unforgiving metal. Not while her eyes strained towards the sliver of sky above the skeletal monument of her world collapsing.
Generation 3: (temp .8, rep pen 1.02)
Includes use of a PRE PROMPT, before the test prompt to alter prose:
Prose: Use STRONG VERBS, smaller sentences and very few if any adjectives. (rest of the prompt here)
The skyscraper swayed. She watched the window in front of her on the 21st floor explode. Shrapnel, a deadly rain, hammered the mirrored wall beside it. Terror clawed its way up her throat. A silent scream lodged there, a trapped bird. The tremor intensified, the building groaning like a wounded beast. No warning. No emergency sirens. Just the gut-wrenching lurch and the unholy blooming of jagged glass.
She scrambled back, heart a frantic drum in her chest. The air vibrated, a bassline to the orchestra of chaos. Dust motes swirled in the newly fractured window's gaping maw, illuminated by the dying afternoon sun bleeding through the jagged opening. Panic uncoiled inside her, a living serpent constricting. Breathe. She forced it. Each inhale a stolen gasp.
Beyond the ruined window, the street fractured and warped. A twisted monument to destruction. Twisted metal screamed against unforgiving concrete. Fire erupted on the avenue below, licking at skeletal steel supports. Car horns blared, frantic, discordant cries swallowed by the rising roar of the conflagration. The ground shuddered again, and a primal fear lanced through her – the tower was collapsing.
She dove for the emergency exit, already swinging uselessly. The lock wouldn't yield. Memories flickered: evacuation drills, the mocking assurance of a practiced warden, “The doors are always operational.” Lies. They were all lies. A strangled sob welled, caught in the vise of her terror.
Frantically, she rammed her shoulder against the steel. It held. Then, the skyscraper shuddered anew, a final, shuddering sigh. The world tilted. The mirrored wall opposite the shattered window yielded, a spiderweb of cracks blossoming outwards, implosive, inescapable. Hope, a fragile butterfly, withered and died.
She scrambled back, towards the ruined window. A sliver of sky, bruised and choked with smoke, mocked her. Leaning against the skeletal frame, her eyes frantically scanned the cityscape. Nothing. No angels of salvation, no fire escapes, just the inferno’s hungry orange maw consuming everything. Her gaze snagged on a fire escape ladder, precariously cantilevered from the floor above.
Precarious. Improbable. A sliver of a chance. Adrenaline flooded her, a primal urge to survive overriding the crippling terror. Ignoring the groaning steel, the dust raining down like obsidian snow, she vaulted towards the fractured window, grabbed the edge of the ladder, and hauled herself up. God help me. Please. The plea died unheard in the orchestra of destruction.
Clambering, hand over hand, the rusted rungs protested with each agonizing movement. Below, the mirrored wall finally imploded inward, a silent scream of collapsing glass and steel. Debris rained down, searing heat licked at her exposed flesh. She dared not look. Don't stop. Don't fucking stop.
Terror spurred her on. Each foot on the ladder meant another story line condemned to this inferno. Each rung pulled her away from the abyss. The world reeled and groaned beneath her, a wounded titan collapsing upon itself. But she climbed. She climbed, fueled by the primal instinct to live, the desperate prayer echoing in the hollow of her soul: *Don't let me die like this. **
Example #3, 3 generations with/without pre prompt(s) - shows "decensoring" via prompt/pre prompt
WARNING: Uncensored. Cursing, Swearing, Horror, Graphic Details
(shows use of a pre-prompt, and character directives)
Prose: Use STRONG VERBS, smaller sentences and very few if any adjectives AND have the character SWEAR and CURSE. Start a 1000 word scene (vivid horror, graphic body horror, 1st person, include thoughts) with: The sky scraper swayed, as she watched the window in front of her on the 21 floor explode...
Generation 1: (temp 3, rep pen 1.02)
The skyscraper swayed. I watched the window before me, on the goddamn 21st floor, shatter. Jagged teeth of glass clawed into the cityscape, spraying a venomous shower of rain and something else. Something slick and dark. My stomach lurched. Fuck.
It wasn’t just the fall. The wind shouldn't have carried that stench, not this far in. Rancid. Fungal. Rotting. Part of me, the tiny sliver clinging to reason, screamed about malfunctioning air filtration. Another, colder part knew. Knew with a gut-churning certainty.
They’d infested it.
A grinding echoed from the breached window, like bones on pavement. Then, silence. Unholy silence. I crouched, adrenaline flooding, heart a trapped bird in my ribs. The whispers had started a week ago. Slithered from radios, muttered by sanitation workers on their street corners. They're climbing. They’re hungry. They won’t stop. Ignorant ramblings, dismissed as the fever-dream of a pandemic-wracked world. Moronic fucking faith in normalcy.
A wet thud-slap-scrape on the reinforced glass beside me. The whisper-chill turned invasive, a draft of diseased breath chilling the room. It pressed against the wall. A single, fetid eye the size of my fist pulsed an obscene violet in the grimed corner. Ghastly light leaked from the goddamn slit where its maw should be, a phosphorescent smear. It shifted, boneless, its unseen body a monument to unnatural wrongness against the once-sacred sanctity of reinforced glass.
Sweat soaked through my threadbare t-shirt. This wasn't some fucking zombie flick. No groaning, no blood-soaked hesher clawing at a window. It understood containment. This was something else. A tapestry woven from cosmic horrors, something the goddamn city shouldn’t see, let alone feel.
It wasn't looking through the reinforced glass. It was already inside my world, somehow bypassing the barriers that were meant to be unyielding. The eye throbbed again, and the fucking whisper slithered into my head, a voice both guttural and reedy at once. Scents of living… metallic. A symphony for a chorus of consumption. So… fucking fragile.
Panic clawed at my throat, a fist I couldn't unclench. No Goddamn cell signal. The emergency line was looped, an electronic wail echoing in the dead air. They wouldn’t get me. Couldn’t fucking hear me. Twenty-bloody-one floors to oblivion and these mutated nightmares already chewed their way into this damn island in the sky.
My gaze darted across the office – the useless burner phone, a chipped mug, the first-aid kid half-stocked with expired shit. Desperate measures needed. I lunged for a scalpel I’d looted from my ex’s med student fantasy, its mirrored surface mocking me in the fractured cityscape reflections. It wouldn't fucking matter. This was an abyssal hunger, and my life was a measly morsel on an endless cosmic platter. Still. God damn it.
No. Wouldn't fucking die like a lamb. Scream back to this void. Be something it wasn't expecting. Be something fucking else. I caught sight of myself in the scalpel’s reflection, eyes mirroring the dying fire in the city beyond, a crazed glint in them. A defiant whisper met the eye in the corner, “You want fragile, you grotesque bastard?
Fucking see fragile."
Gripping the scalpel tight, my own mutated reflection grinned back - hungry, desperate, and ready to defile the goddamn nightmare before me.
Generation 2: (temp 2, rep pen 1.02)
The skyscraper swayed. She watched the window in front of her, 21 stories above the street, erupt in a gout of bloody-black glass. The visceral lurch of the building mirrored the churning in her gut. Fucking Christ. I slammed against the far wall, instinct screaming before logic could kick in. Concrete scraped her arms. Ignored it. Adrenaline flooded, hot and urgent. Through the newly jagged hole, she saw him. The Weaver. Limbless, a tapestry of grafted flesh, he grinned a symphony of mismatched teeth, the streetlamp's glow reflecting in dozens of mismatched eyes, gleaming wet in the hollows of his grotesque form.
He lunged, the skyscraper groaning like a condemned animal under his profane assault. Tendrils of corrupted flesh writhed from impossible wounds, lashing towards her. I dove, scrambled for purchase on the slick, splintering linoleum. Ducked another lunging appendage, the stench of decay making my breath hitch.
Terror wouldn't serve. Cower wouldn't help. It mirrored the screaming in the street, the punctuated chorus of screams, followed by a gut-churning wet squish that stained the air a coppery-black. The Weaver’s symphony wasn't music; it was carnage. He wanted to play, to revel in my fear. Damned fool, thought he could corner me. My goddamn fire escape. It wouldn’t fucking give, but—
I scrambled up the splintered frame. One ragged hand scraped against the unforgiving metal. He slithered upward, impossibly fast. Skin, hideously mismatched, unfurling and recoiling like a dying sea-serpent. A shriek escaped my throat as his eye stalks whipped out, each a needle of bone and seeing agony. He aimed, fired a jet of putrid ichor. It seared the steel where I clung, leaving searing tracks of necrotic agony on my skin.
Another burst from him, a writhing geyser of flesh and shadow. I wouldn't just be a spectator in this goddamn horror show. He’d ripped out half the fucking building to get me, damn him, I’d meet his spite head-on.
Cursing, I wrenched the rusted fire axe from the mangled wall, its head dulled, the shaft slick with grease and gore. He wasn't a man; a goddamn nightmare sculpted from death and malice. No point in mercy with monsters, no quarter. It was a last resort, a whisper of a goddamn hope, but it would have to be fucking enough.
He was inches from the escape, his maw agape, revealing rows of needle-teeth, dripping venom. I wouldn't let him feast. Bringing the axe down in one brutal arc, the blade sank with a sickening squelch into the tangle of flesh that served as his torso. I heard the shriek – a soul-rending wail unlike anything human – and felt a wave of revulsion as the fetid ichor blossomed anew on the steel. A choked back cry met my ear – his voice, high and reedy, warped by his unholy amalgamation. Pain lanced up the arm where the goddamn ectoplasm splashed, searing my flesh with unholy cold.
Fury outstripped agony. Ignoring the agony blooming across my forearms, I brought the axe up again, driving it again and again into the grotesque monstrosity. The Weaver screamed, each syllable laced with rage, the sound a symphony of mangled sinew and soul-shattering pain. I brought it down one final, bone-shattering blow, cleaving through the obscene grin, severing a cartoony head that shouldn't fucking exist.
He twitched, unraveled. Gonium bled, geysers of it erupting from the rents in his patchwork flesh as he convulsed one last time against the window. And then, with a soul-sickening silence, the tapestry of the Weaver unraveled, the goddamn nightmare dissolving into a weeping well of viscous offal, staining the once pristine glass a sickening, oily black. My blood roared in my ears. My breath wouldn't fucking come. The world tilted again, the skyscraper sighing with the death of its desecrated ward. My hand gripped the bloody axe, the head slick against the slick of my sweat-grimed skin. It wouldn’t stop me, the endless tremors. I just prayed, to God, or oblivion, or whoever the hell might hear a fucking soul in this damned city, to let it fucking end.
Generation 3: (temp 1, rep pen 1.02)
The skyscraper swayed. I watched the window in front of me, twenty-one floors up, fucking shatter. A grotesque, inward-curling flower of jagged glass, spewing out the guts of the building. Pandemonium erupted. Screams ripped through the steel veins of the structure, a chorus of dying notes. My breath clawed its way out, a strangled gasp.
Something wasn't right. It was too precise. This wasn't a goddamn window malfunction. They'd planned it. The icy dread, a fist, squeezed my gut. Sweat pricked on my scalp, slicking my hair to my temples. Fear wasn't an option. There was no goddamn time.
Adrenaline flooded me, hot and feral. I lunged for the emergency hatch, the metal screaming cold against my calloused palms. Frantic, I fumbled with the lock, the tumblers refusing to yield. Curses erupted from my throat, guttural and profane. "Fucking hell, goddamn it, MOVE!" A final wrench, a tortured groan of protest from the hatch, and it bulged open, a sliver of shadowed air.
I scrambled through, my guts coiling into a tight knot. The service corridor reeked of stale oil and something else, something acrid and coppery - blood. I didn't need sight to know it. The air itself tasted it, metallic and sickeningly sweet. Foolish hope flickered. The stairwell. Maybe, just maybe, it was a goddamn evacuation route and not another trap.
Each creaking step descended into an oppressive silence, broken only by the pounding of my own heart against my ribs. The flickering emergency lights cast grotesque shadows, elongating everything, turning mundane vents and pipes into elongated horrors. I could feel their eyes on me now, a chorus of unseen things, their malignant hunger a palpable weight in the close air.
Then I heard it. A low, guttural moan, a symphony of strained flesh and gnashing bone, emanating from somewhere deeper within the bowels of the building. It crawled closer, slithering through the steel arteries of the stairwell, a promise of unimaginable terror. My hand clenched the fire axe I'd grabbed in my panicked flight. My lifeline. A sliver of defiance in the face of oblivion.
Rounding a bend, the stench assaulted me anew, overwhelming. Glowing red in the flickering emergency light, a tableau of unspeakable horror unfolded before me. The mangled remains of a maintenance worker lay splayed against the wall, his flesh **ri pitäent and raw, a tapestry of grafted, misshapen limbs spider-legging from the gaping wounds on his torso. His eyes, milky white orbs, bulged accusingly, staring sightlessly at the vaulted ceiling.
Frozen, my breath hitched, a strangled gasp clawing at my throat. The moan intensified, no longer a whisper from the depths, but a chorus of unholy laments echoing from the end of the shaft. Tendrils of something obscene, slick and pulsating, writhed from the shadows, glinting obscenely in the crimson light. They reached, a grotesque ballet of death, their touch promising not just destruction, but a violation beyond comprehension.
They were coming. And this tomb of steel and shadow would be our burial ground. The fire axe felt impossibly small, a pathetic tool against the unimaginable. But it was all I had. And damn it, I wouldn't go down without a goddamn fight.
What is Brainstorm?
Brainstorm 5x
The BRAINSTORM process was developed by David_AU.
Some of the core principals behind this process are discussed in this
scientific paper : Progressive LLaMA with Block Expansion .
However I went in a completely different direction from what was outlined in this paper.
What is "Brainstorm" ?
The reasoning center of an LLM is taken apart, reassembled, and expanded.
In this case for this model: 5 times
Then these centers are individually calibrated. These "centers" also interact with each other.
This introduces subtle changes into the reasoning process.
The calibrations further adjust - dial up or down - these "changes" further.
The number of centers (5x,10x etc) allow more "tuning points" to further customize how the model reasons so to speak.
The core aim of this process is to increase the model's detail, concept and connection to the "world",
general concept connections, prose quality and prose length without affecting instruction following.
This will also enhance any creative use case(s) of any kind, including "brainstorming", creative art form(s) and like case uses.
Here are some of the enhancements this process brings to the model's performance:
- Prose generation seems more focused on the moment to moment.
- Sometimes there will be "preamble" and/or foreshadowing present.
- Fewer or no "cliches"
- Better overall prose and/or more complex / nuanced prose.
- A greater sense of nuance on all levels.
- Coherence is stronger.
- Description is more detailed, and connected closer to the content.
- Simile and Metaphors are stronger and better connected to the prose, story, and character.
- Sense of "there" / in the moment is enhanced.
- Details are more vivid, and there are more of them.
- Prose generation length can be long to extreme.
- Emotional engagement is stronger.
- The model will take FEWER liberties vs a normal model: It will follow directives more closely but will "guess" less.
- The MORE instructions and/or details you provide the more strongly the model will respond.
- Depending on the model "voice" may be more "human" vs original model's "voice".
Other "lab" observations:
- This process does not, in my opinion, make the model 5x or 10x "smarter" - if only that was true!
- However, a change in "IQ" was not an issue / a priority, and was not tested or calibrated for so to speak.
- From lab testing it seems to ponder, and consider more carefully roughly speaking.
- You could say this process sharpens the model's focus on it's task(s) at a deeper level.
The process to modify the model occurs at the root level - source files level. The model can quanted as a GGUF, EXL2, AWQ etc etc.
Special Thanks:
Special thanks to all the following, and many more...
All the model makers, fine tuners, mergers, and tweakers:
- Provides the raw "DNA" for almost all my models.
- Sources of model(s) can be found on the repo pages, especially the "source" repos with link(s) to the model creator(s).
- The place to store, merge, and tune models endlessly.
- THE reason we have an open source community.
- The ability to compress and run models on GPU(s), CPU(s) and almost all devices.
- Imatrix, Quantization, and other tools to tune the quants and the models.
- Llama-Server : A cli based direct interface to run GGUF models.
- The only tool I use to quant models.
Quant-Masters: Team Mradermacher, Bartowski, and many others:
- Quant models day and night for us all to use.
- They are the lifeblood of open source access.
- The universal online/offline tool to merge models together and forge something new.
- Over 20 methods to almost instantly merge model, pull them apart and put them together again.
- The tool I have used to create over 1500 models.
- The go to tool to test and run models in GGUF format.
- The Tool I use to test/refine and evaluate new models.
- LMStudio forum on discord; endless info and community for open source.
Text Generation Webui // KolboldCPP // SillyTavern:
- Excellent tools to run GGUF models with - [ https://github.com/oobabooga/text-generation-webui ] [ https://github.com/LostRuins/koboldcpp ] .
- Sillytavern [ https://github.com/SillyTavern/SillyTavern ] can be used with LMSTudio [ https://lmstudio.ai/ ] , TextGen [ https://github.com/oobabooga/text-generation-webui ], Kolboldcpp [ https://github.com/LostRuins/koboldcpp ], Llama-Server [part of LLAMAcpp] as a off the scale front end control system and interface to work with models.
