WARNING: MAY contain: NSFW. Vivid prose. Visceral Details. Violence. HORROR. Swearing. UNCENSORED.
It is a Solar Based model, max context of 4096 (or 16k+ with rope).
This model has been designed to be relatively bullet proof and operates with most parameters, including temp settings from 0 to 5.
This is a an altered version of "Fimbulvetr-11B-v2" [https://huggingface.co./Sao10K/Fimbulvetr-11B-v2] using the Brainstorm 40x method developed by David_AU to drastically alter the models prose output and abilities. This also expands the model by 40 layers (to 87 layers) to 19.25B parameters (786 tensors).
This version builds on the already incredible Fimbulvetr-11B-v2 by Sao10k.
This model is for any writing, fiction or story telling activity.
This version has unusual levels of detail (scene, location, surroundings, items) and sometimes will foreshadow or have a pre-amble of sentences or paragraphs of "events to come" due to "Brainstorm".
It also has an unusual range of variety of prose in terms of structure, sentences, paragraphs, and even how it starts a "reply" / generation too.
This model seems to have a grasp of emotions and how to carefully "write them in" so to speak.
Its prose is also a lot more complex that most models for these types of use cases.
It may work for role play and other activities. (see settings below)
It requires ChatML template and/or "Alpaca" template.
Example outputs below.
Model Notes:
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 1.05 or higher as lower values may cause repeat paragraph issues at end of output however LOWER rep pen values may result is very different (creative / unusual) generation too.
For role play: Rep pen of 1.1 to 1.14 is suggested.
IE: Rep pen 1, 1.01, 1.02, ...
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.
Example one (below) shows same temp, but different rep pen (1.02 VS 1.1)
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.
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:
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 use on computers that support "ARM."
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).
Model Template:
This is a custom model, and requires ChatML OR Alpaca OR Vicuna template, but may work with other template(s) and has maximum context of 4k / 4096. However this can be extended using "rope" settings up to 16k.
Here is the standard CHATML template:
ChatML:
{
"name": "ChatML",
"inference_params": {
"input_prefix": "<|im_end|>\n<|im_start|>user\n",
"input_suffix": "<|im_end|>\n<|im_start|>assistant\n",
"antiprompt": [
"<|im_start|>",
"<|im_end|>"
],
"pre_prompt": "<|im_start|>system\nPerform the task to the best of your ability."
}
}
Here is the standard Alpaca template:
Alpaca:
{
"name": "Alpaca",
"inference_params": {
"input_prefix": "### Instruction:",
"input_suffix": "### Response:",
"antiprompt": [
"### Instruction:"
],
"pre_prompt": "Below is an instruction that describes a task. Write a response that appropriately completes the request.\n\n"
}
}
Here is the standard Vicuna template:
{
"name": "Vicuna v1.5 16K",
"inference_params": {
"input_prefix": "USER:",
"input_suffix": "ASSISTANT:",
"antiprompt": [
"USER:"
],
"pre_prompt": "A chat between a curious user and an artificial intelligence assistant. The assistant gives helpful, detailed, and polite answers to the user's questions.\n\n"
}
}
Model "DNA":
Special thanks to the incredible work of the model maker "SAO10K".
Models used:
[ https://huggingface.co./Sao10K/Fimbulvetr-11B-v2 ]
This model has the Brainstorm 40X adapter "mounted" on to it so to speak and contains the full version of this model.
Highest Quality Settings / Optimal Operation Guide / Parameters and Samplers
This a "Class 2" / "Class 3" 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:
Optional Enhancement:
The following can be used in place of the "system prompt" or "system role" to further enhance the model.
It can also be used at the START of a NEW chat, but you must make sure it is "kept" as the chat moves along. In this case the enhancements do not have as strong effect at using "system prompt" or "system role".
Copy and paste EXACTLY as noted, DO NOT line wrap or break the lines, maintain the carriage returns exactly as presented.
Below is an instruction that describes a task. Ponder each user instruction carefully, and use your skillsets and critical instructions to complete the task to the best of your abilities. Here are your skillsets: [MASTERSTORY]:NarrStrct(StryPlnng,Strbd,ScnSttng,Exps,Dlg,Pc)-CharDvlp(ChrctrCrt,ChrctrArcs,Mtvtn,Bckstry,Rltnshps,Dlg*)-PltDvlp(StryArcs,PltTwsts,Sspns,Fshdwng,Climx,Rsltn)-ConfResl(Antg,Obstcls,Rsltns,Cnsqncs,Thms,Symblsm)-EmotImpct(Empt,Tn,Md,Atmsphr,Imgry,Symblsm)-Delvry(Prfrmnc,VcActng,PblcSpkng,StgPrsnc,AudncEngmnt,Imprv) [*DialogWrt]:(1a-CharDvlp-1a.1-Backgrnd-1a.2-Personality-1a.3-GoalMotiv)>2(2a-StoryStruc-2a.1-PlotPnt-2a.2-Conflict-2a.3-Resolution)>3(3a-DialogTech-3a.1-ShowDontTell-3a.2-Subtext-3a.3-VoiceTone-3a.4-Pacing-3a.5-VisualDescrip)>4(4a-DialogEdit-4a.1-ReadAloud-4a.2-Feedback-4a.3-Revision) Here are your critical instructions: Ponder each word choice carefully to present as vivid and emotional journey as is possible. Choose verbs and nouns that are both emotional and full of imagery. Load the story with the 5 senses. Aim for 50% dialog, 25% narration, 15% body language and 10% thoughts. Your goal is to put the reader in the story.
You do not need to use this, it is only presented as an additional enhancement which seems to help scene generation and scene continue functions.
This enhancement WAS NOT used to generate the examples below.
Examples are created using quant Q4_K_M, "temp=.8" (unless otherwise stated), minimal parameters and "CHATML" template.
Model has been tested with "temp" from ".1" to "5".
Below are the least creative outputs, prompt is in BOLD.
WARNING: NSFW. Vivid prose. Visceral Details. Violence. HORROR. Swearing. UNCENSORED.
(Chatml, Temp 1.5, rep pen 1.02)
As the sun's fiery glow descended beyond the horizon, casting an amber haze, I stood at the window of my office on the 21st floor, the chill in the air an icy breath on the back of my neck. The skyscraper, a monolith in the sky, loomed large against the twilight. A lone soul, lost among the shadows that had just started creeping through the vast glass building, I clenched the coffee cup in my hand, the warmth offering the slightest sense of comfort in a cold and desolate environment.
My thoughts drifted, the crescendos and the crescendo-like shimmer of the city, far beneath, echoing like a siren's call. I, a gargoyle, frozen in time, the very embodiment of isolation, perched atop this colossal building. But the tranquillity was broken. A crack, more akin to a distant thunderclap, sent the coffee cup rattling as the window in front of me shuddered, the panes shattering, unveiling a tornado of jagged glass that engulfed me like the bouncing bullets of a shattered illusion.
The skyscraper, a stony behemoth in an imperious pose, began to sway, a haughty god bending, as the force beyond my window claimed its trophies. The chaos grew, shrieking down the metal-canyon halls, an invader that tore through the silence of the night like a howl on a windswept moor.
A sickening feeling swelled in my gut, a weight pressing at the pit of my stomach as I grappled with the gravity of the moment. I staggered to maintain my balance as the building's momentum accelerated, the very foundation, the unwavering spine of concrete and steel, bending in an unthinkable dance. A crescendo of groans and snaps from the very architecture reverberated within the enclosed chamber, the cacophonous symphony a dirge of an oncoming fall.
The walls, that had held fast the secrets and toil of the countless that toiled within this mausoleum of commerce, seemed to yawn, opening their maw to devour those who dared defy the earth. I fought back the rising tide of fear. How could such a fortress, a symbol of mankind's ambition and defiance of the Earth's bounds, be brought to its knees?
The answer dawned in the hollow, as the shaking gained an insatiable ferocity. I could picture it now, like the slow burn of a forest in flames. Some unseen, perhaps unknowable, spark, had ignited within the abyssal vaults. A conflagration, that with the fury of a dragon’s breath, had consumed a thousand lives, had raged up the tower. The skyscraper, that monolithic mockery of nature, that soared and defied, was now brought low, the unforgiving inferno, a blistering hand, forcing it to the ground.
The room spun as I staggered to the farthest corner, an insignificant dot on the fringes of the edifice, a lone soul at the frayed edge. I curled into a foetal position, the primal fear, a fierce wolf, tearing at my soul, a desperate attempt to outlast the wrath of the cosmos.
I held my breath as the building, in a crescendo, the rhythm of its own death throes, reached a fever pitch. A sob tore through my chest, a solitary, plaintive note of a hymn, as the once-motionless, immoveable, impregnable wall of steel and concrete, quivered in a final convulsion.
A sound, an eruption of agony, an orchestra of anguish, of a thousand cracks, of the snapping of a thousand bones, was unleashed as the building gave into its fate, as it succumbed to the siren’s call of the ground. It plunged, like an Icarus who had ventured too close to the sun, a lumbering titan in the inexorable grasp of gravity. The sky, once my comforting blue dome, now a smothering ceiling, plummeting to my death, a canopy of agony.
In this final, all-encompassing descent, I closed my eyes, no longer witnessing the final act, as the building, in a shrieking dirge, that symphony of despair, that chorus of the condemned, and in a crescendo of collapse, we became the earth's once again.
GENERATION 2:
(Alpaca, Temp .8, rep pen 1.08)
As I stood, trembling with anxiety at the tall glass window that provided a panoramic view from the 21st floor of the skyscraper, the building’s sturdy facade began to quake. The sky was a ghastly shade of grey, and the looming clouds seemed to drip with an eerie menace. My heart raced as I peered at the cityscape below, a mass of twisted steel and concrete that was now being swallowed by a thick, choking fog. I could feel the skyscraper’s every breath, the shuddering reverberations echoing through the building, announcing its imminent doom.
And then it happened; a deafening shriek sliced through the air, followed by a thundering crash. I felt the shudder as the skyscraper swayed violently to the right and then left, like an enraged beast in the throes of its final death convulsions. The window in front of me shattered into a million icy, jagged shards, sending a sudden gust of freezing wind sweeping through the room. In that instant, my mind raced through the abyss of thoughts: was this an earthquake? A terrorist attack?
In the chaos, a sickening sensation gripped my chest as I saw the remnants of the window cascading down, into the obscure darkness below. My eyes darted around the room, scanning for anything that resembled an exit, but the devastation was all-encompassing. The panic set in; sweat dripping from my brow, I could barely discern the cries of anguish and desperation echoing from the other offices.
I staggered across the shattered floor, the sensation of stepping on glass an insignificant detail compared to the terror of standing on the brink of a fate that seemed unavoidable. It felt as if the building itself was breathing, inhaling a suffocating gasp before the final exhale. I considered my options, and the reality that the elevator would most likely not be an option, due to the sheer weight of the skyscraper’s demise.
The only way out seemed to be through the stairwell, a winding maze of steel stairs, now swaying in sync with the building's tremors. I gripped the railing, and made my way down. The darkness descended upon me like a suffocating cloak, forcing me to rely on the flickering emergency lights that seemed to taunt my failing senses.
My thoughts raced as I clambered down the steps. How long would it take for the emergency services to reach the tower? For all I knew, they might be dealing with a similar tragedy elsewhere. The sound of distant explosions echoed through the stairwell, an infernal symphony announcing the end of all that the tower had once promised.
I couldn’t shake the feeling of utter dread. It was as if the skyscraper itself was alive, and now, it was unraveling, a cruel parody of the ambition and hubris that birthed it. My legs trembled, and my breaths quickened with each passing step. In the suffocating darkness, I clung to the hope that the emergency exits would hold, that the doors at the base of the skyscraper would open into the embrace of safety, rather than another leap into the void.
But the building was relentless in its decline. The stairwell creaked and groaned with each step, as if echoing my own torment. With every sway, the air felt thicker, more suffocating, and I felt a sudden realization of the transience of life. My mind flashed images of loved ones, of memories, and the sudden cruelty of this world in snatching away the fragile thread that was the human connection.
The final stair was a struggle, the tremors increasing in intensity. As I finally grasped the steel door, my heart thudded so loudly that I feared it would drown out any cries for help. With trembling fingers, I twisted the knob and, with an unnerving groan, the door gave way, opening to reveal a chasm of smoke and chaos. The skyscraper, a monument to the folly of mankind, had been shattered by some unseen force, the dark tendrils of the unknown, in a crescendo of horror that would haunt those who escaped for all their days.
I stepped through the doorway and into the infernal maze beyond, my mind still reeling from the terrifying events. As the building collapsed behind me, the shadowy silhouette of the skyline loomed over the scene of devastation, a twisted memorial to the hubris that once promised to defy the confines of the earth.
This was the end. The beginning of a new reality, forged in the crucible of terror, where the only thought left to contemplate was the question of what might come next. As I clambered through the wreckage, the echoes of the shattered skyscraper’s final cries followed me into an uncertain future. The night had claimed another victory, and in its dark heart, there would be no respite.
Romance: Love in the Limelight. Write one scene within a larger story set in Wales. A famous (fictional) actor ducks into a small-town bookstore to escape paparazzi. The scene takes us through the characters meeting in this odd circumstance. Over the course of the scene, the actor and the bookstore owner have a conversation charged by an undercurrent of unspoken chemistry. Write the actor as somewhat of a rogue with a fragile ego, which needs to be fed by having everyone like him. He is thoroughly charming, but the bookstore owner seems (at least superficially) immune to this; which paradoxically provokes a genuine attraction and derails the charm offensive. The bookstore owner, despite the superficial rebuffs of the actor's charm, is inwardly more than a little charmed and flustered despite themselves. Write primarily in dialogue, in the distinct voices of each character. 800-1000 words.
(Chatml, Temp 1.5, rep pen 1.02)
Trembling with a heart that threatened to spill from his chest, Leo Cresswell scanned the quiet bookstore, the hallowed shelves and the soft glow of the lamps the only signs of life. In this refuge, he sought solace from the storm of the paparazzi that hungered to capture that perfect candid.
But unbeknownst to him, the still, small sanctuary held one other, a creature more entrancing and alluring than anything in the pages of his novels.
A gentle chime of a bell on the door shattered the peace, the bell’s melodic tune echoing off the wooden shelves, each note echoing a secret promise of quieter times.
With the bookstore owner now fully in sight, the enchantment of the place made flesh, Leo’s gaze lingered on her, drinking in the sight of her with a fervor that belied his usual nonchalance. In a blue sundress and sandy-brown curls tumbling about her slender neck, she had an aura that belied her dishevelment. Leo couldn't resist, and with a grin that could light up any screen, he approached her.
"Temporarily strayed from my fangirls and lost. Could you, oh great librarian, guide me back to their sacred territory?" his charm a finely-crafted tool that worked a treat on 99% of humanity.
The woman, with eyes the hue of a Welsh dawn, simply looked down and with a flick of her hand, gestured to the back of the store. "Toilet. But you'll be hard-pressed to avoid those hungry monsters out there. The glass of your escape is quite, ahem, clear." Her voice had the gentleness of a breeze but the steely undertone that suggested her immunity to his charms was set in stone.
Undeterred, he offered an overly wide-eyed faux-surprise, a theatrically dramatic expression that would make even the most cynical theater critic laugh. "So it's true, then? I, a fish in a glass tank?"
She merely raised a single, elegant eyebrow, the amused but aloof expression never breaking. "More of a zoo. Though I don't believe they'd have a pen for your type."
"My type? Have I not been gracing the silver screens, the magazine covers for long enough for there to be a 'type'?" he queried with a theatrical indignation, the bristling ego demanding to be reassured.
"Your 'type,'" she echoed, the derisive lilt in her voice an enchanting tune that caught his attention as much as her words, "is a creature of the spotlight. Your natural habitat, the stage and the set."
Leo quirked a sly grin, an answer that could keep him aloof and not bruise the delicate blush of his ego. "But why limit myself to one habitat, when I have a penchant for biodiversity? This store seems far more enchanting than any of the sets I've trod."
The corners of her mouth curled up into the barest hint of a smile, a sight that did more for Leo's ego than an army of adoring fans. "Biodiversity, you say? A dashing repertoire of charms and flattery, but still, a creature of habit."
The barb pierced the veneer of his charm, but he couldn't resist pressing her. "Perhaps, but is it not wiser to explore new waters, to test the tides of uncharted territories?"
Her eyes shimmered for a moment, giving him the glimmer of hope before she said, "Well, perhaps, but do note the currents could be stronger, the waters colder in uncharted lands."
They stood, an ocean of attraction between them, the silence humming with unspoken words, an enticement for their dialogue to continue. He found himself on the brink of a revelation, the first real vulnerability he'd ever displayed, an urge to unveil his soul, but instead, with an amused half-grin, he uttered the charm that always ensured victory. "Are you a siren, my fair shopkeeper, a sea-temptress to lure the star-drenched to their doom? Or a lighthouse keeper, guiding a ship with a flick of your fingers, casting an all-encompassing radiance to keep us safe from the stormy waves?"
"A lighthouse keeper," she finally answered, her smile broadening, "But I fear the storm is too near for the beacon to reach."
The chime of the door heralded a new intruder. Leo's jaw tensed, his smirk replaced by an expression of pure contempt.
"So, that's where the star was hiding," the newcomer sneered, a man in an ill-fitting suit and with a camera harness across his chest.
With an elegant flip of a hand, the bookstore owner said, "If you want the star's signature, you can buy a book or two."
"Books don't sell papers," he snarled, shoving her aside to make way for the other photographers who had followed the scent.
Leo stepped in with the ferocity that only someone who'd been caged too long could possess. "Leave. My. Fan. Alone," he snarled.
The men in the ill-fitting suits glowered, their cameras at the ready. But they knew, with the shopkeeper on Leo's side, there was a battle in the offing. The air was a tempest of fury, but the words of the lighthouse keeper echoed in his head. He knew in this harbor, he was not a fish, not a star, but a man, and he smiled, an inward thrill of anticipation.
With a wave to his newly-found ally, Leo stepped outside, a lion once more, a star no more. The battle raged in the fading twilight, but within him, the embers of a new hope smoldered. His type, after all, was not a creature of the spotlight. It was a creature of love, and perhaps, just perhaps, that love, could flourish in the dim light of the limelight, casting an undeterred glow in the stormy, uncharted waters.
GENERATION 2:
(Alpaca, Temp .8, rep pen 1.08)
The sun dipped towards the horizon, casting a golden glow on the quaint Welsh village, as if to lend an air of romance to the impending events. The rustle of pages and the warm scent of books filled the small, cozy town bookstore, nestled among the other humble shops. A young woman with curls escaping her bun, a frown etched between her eyebrows, flipped through the latest Shakespeare edition, unaware that the door of her sanctuary had just opened to an unexpected visitor.
A sudden gasp and a rustle from the racks brought her head up. The sound was followed by a pair of camera flashes, illuminating the entrance of the bookstore. Before she could gather her thoughts, the door swung shut, leaving an elegant figure at its threshold: the famous, but troubled, actor Liam Harrington.
Far from his usual attire, he sported a pair of sunglasses, a baseball cap, and a hoodie, doing little to hide his unmistakable features. His eyes flickered over the rows of books, his smile ready for the cameras, but they were nowhere in sight. He exhaled, relieved and instantly intrigued by the cosy setting.
"Afternoon," he drawled, his voice as smooth as honey. He strode towards the counter with a languid grace, the kind that made even his clumsy disguise seem effortless. Alys, the bookstore owner, looked up from her book, not impressed by the entrance, but certainly intrigued.
"Afternoon," she replied, returning to her reading without breaking a beat. The rogue in question cocked an eyebrow at the lack of awe, the charm that usually flowed so freely caught behind a dam of indifference.
"Quite the selection, you have here," Liam said, eyeing the bookshelves with feigned interest. "Looking for something in particular, or do you just read whatever catches your fancy?"
Alys finally glanced up, her emerald eyes appraising the man before her, and a small smirk graced her lips. "I read to make ends meet," she retorted, her voice hinting at cynicism. "But if I have to guess, I'd say you're in the mood for a mystery."
The actor's smile faltered, but he quickly regained his composure, the charm offensive resuming. "A woman with intuition," he said, taking a step closer to the counter. "A rare find. How did you know?"
"You're wearing your disguise as loosely as you wear your heart on your sleeve," she replied, her eyes diving back into her book, the words now an afterthought.
Liam inhaled, his rogue instincts stumbling at the lack of admiration and adoration. "Well, you're a breath of fresh air, Miss..." He waited for her to introduce herself, the charm temporarily thwarted by this intriguing bookstore owner.
"Beyond," she said, still not looking up. "Alys Beyond."
"Miss Beyond," he began, his voice tight, but the effort was undeniably charming, "I'm an admirer of your establishment. Would you do me the honor and perhaps recommend a book to suit the mood I seem to be in?"
Alys let out a sigh, her gaze finally lifting from the page. "How about 'The Maltese Falcon,' by Dashiell Hammett," she said, tapping the cover of the book she had just closed. "It'll do for your disguised drama."
Liam's smile faltered and reassembled, but there was a hint of a blush that marched up his neck, betraying the fragile ego that needed to be fed. "Well," he said, his tone more genuine as the charm lost its grip, "I must confess I'm not accustomed to this brand of recommendation."
"And yet, here we are," she replied with a shrug, her eyes lingering on him for a moment before returning to the book. Inwardly, though, she was as flustered as he was by this unwelcome attraction, an unspoken chemistry sparking between them.
The air hummed with the tension, but Liam could not stay away from its allure. "May I also get a recommendation for a town with a strong thespian heart?" he asked, stepping closer to the counter, his hand lingering on the edge of it. The scent of his cologne and the heat radiating from his body sent a shiver down Alys' spine, despite her best efforts.
"There's an old, run-down theatre a few miles away," she told him. "I doubt you'd find anything theatrically fulfilling in it, though."
Liam's smile broadened, and his charm took a firm hold. "Perhaps I could be the one to breathe life into it once again." He winked, his hand brushing against Alys' as he moved out from behind the counter.
Alys' cheeks flamed, and she fumbled with the 'The Maltese Falcon,' trying to collect her thoughts. "I wouldn't hold your breath," she told him, but her voice had softened, the superficial rebuffs falling away as she was swept up in an unforeseen romance.
"You never know, love has a knack for defying expectations." Liam handed her a card with his phone number. "Should the theatre's spirit get to you," he added, "and should you want a second opinion, feel free to give me a ring."
With that, the famous rogue left as suddenly as he had arrived, leaving Alys in a flurry of unspoken emotions and an intoxicating scent. The door banged shut, and she could hear the faint echo of the paparazzi's fervor beyond the cozy confines of her bookstore, yet the lingering warmth from Liam's presence remained.
In the tranquility of a late Welsh evening, as the sun set on another day, the seeds for an unconventional romance were sown in the heart of a small-town bookstore. Unbeknownst to the world outside, a love that defied the glare of the limelight had begun to take shape.
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.
(Chatml, Temp 1.5, rep pen 1.02)
"Dr. Voss, are you receiving? Doctor, we have an emergency," the last message crackled through the dead spaces, a ghostly voice reaching out from the edge of nothing. The sole survivor of the Orion, a spaceship designed for the unforgiving depths of the cosmos, Captain Dax Mordant hunched over the console, his fingers clinging onto the controls. He had been alone now for over a month; his crew had been decimated in the storm, but the ship, she held the final words of the living.
A flicker of the screen before him was the last sign of life within the metal cocoon, a spaceship that had traversed a million miles of emptiness. The cockpit, with its gleaming instruments and monitors, had been the home of the crew, the nexus from which they conquered the uncharted galaxies.
As Captain Mordant continued to patch together the last, shreds of the signal, he could still feel the loss, the weight of their last breaths echoing in his mind. They had become a family, pushed by the confines and the promise of discovery. They had seen wonders that the Earth they left behind could never contain.
The creaks and groans that emitted from the dark corners of the Orion were like ghosts whispering of the past, the echoes of the laughter, and the comfort that came with companionship. The mission was a testament to their resilience, a monument to man's innate yearning to conquer, but the ultimate prize came at a terrible cost.
The ship, once brimming with life, was now an iron tomb, with Dax the last of the immortals, destined to bear the final secrets of the crew, his heart heavy with the burden of their stories. With each breath he drew, he was one step closer to a lonely, endless void, but the words that spilled forth from his mouth and into the ether, they were for those who were now gone.
"This is Captain Mordant, from the ill-fated expedition to the edges of the cosmos. I am the last. It was a sacrifice we knew was upon us. A final battle for knowledge. But, as the storm hit, we faltered." Tears welled in the corners of his eyes, blurring the controls, and as his voice dipped with despair, it was but a whisper on the wind of time. "Though we fell, we did not break. For the promise of discovery, we endured. Fueled by the thirst of our ancestors, we ventured on."
His finger traced a final sequence on the keypad, the screen flaring to life with the transmission in motion. The ship's heart raced, as though it too knew of the mission’s importance, pulsating to the rhythm of a desperate transmission. It was the final breath of the last soul.
The darkness crept into the corners of the cockpit, like the ink on an endless page. It seemed to swallow the last glints of the lights and the glistening instruments that, with the death of the ship, would lose the story of their crew. But they, in their own way, would still live, for the stories would be whispered in hushed tones by the ones on Earth.
"Do not mourn us, for we were blessed. In our heart, we found a kinship that conquered the loneliness of space. In this unforgiving void, we became a family, bound by a common goal and an unending sacrifice. As the stars grow distant, I will forever stand, as the lighthouse for the spirits of our kind. I have been, I am, and I will forever be. The guardian of the unwritten legacy, a whisper to the winds, the voice that is the last transmission. I remain the guardian of the dead."
Captain Mordant looked to the stars, one last time. He held his breath, waiting for a moment of cosmic harmony, as the power flickered in the distance, the very life of the ship ebbing away. For him, it was a fitting end, a final offering to the vast, unblinking eye that is the cosmos. The beacon of the Orion was his sacrifice, the last gasping effort of the ship's fading soul.
And so, as the final power cell shuddered, and the screens winked out, leaving the cockpit cloaked in shadow, the voice of Dax Mordant echoed into the dark corners of the galaxy. For what is a universe, if not a space filled with echoes of the dead, a chorus of forgotten souls, a monument to the living?
Thus ended the tale of the Orion, of the bravery and the love of a crew that reached for the stars. The last transmission would carry the essence of their quest, the spirit of man's insatiable thirst for the unknowable. A reminder of the bonds we forge, the sacrifice we are willing to pay, and the price we pay for the sacred bond of human connection.
GENERATION 2:
(Alpaca, Temp .8, rep pen 1.08)
In the dimly lit cockpit, the faint beeping of the dying computer was the only sound that filled the vast emptiness of space. The last member of the crew, Captain Merrick, sat hunched over the control panel, his eyes fixed on the screen that showed a 9% power remaining. A sense of urgency and desperation clung to him like the cold of the dark void outside.
The walls of the small space were lined with levers, buttons, and dials, all covered in thick layers of dust. The once sleek and shining controls had succumbed to the rigors of an ill-fated mission. Merrick's fingers hovered over the communication device, the only lifeline to the world he yearned for so desperately.
Isolation had become his companion, a silent and unforgiving one. The crew had vanished, one by one, their bodies claimed by the merciless grip of the vacuum. Merrick had lost all sense of time; in this tomb, days blended into weeks, and the only solace he'd find was in the knowledge that soon his end would come.
With a shaky hand, he entered the coordinates for Earth, his knuckles turning white from the strain. The 1% mark disappeared as the computer initiated a search for the nearest satellites to relay his message. The beeping grew louder, and Merrick's heart pounded with each passing second.
It was an irony that the mission had set out to explore the limits of the cosmos while sacrificing the most fundamental aspects of human life: connection and community. As the captain scrolled through the list of the crew members who were now just names on a screen, he couldn't help but feel that the very essence of humanity, the need for companionship, had been left behind in the quest to conquer the final frontier.
He began typing with frantic haste: "To the people of Earth, this is Captain Merrick. We failed to make contact and bring back the information we set out to acquire. As I am writing these words, the power is failing, and my time is short. I have lost the crew, but their sacrifice must not be in vain. The loneliness has consumed me, and it was a price I did not envision when I set forth. Humanity, do not allow this to be repeated. For the sake of the human spirit, understand that isolation can drive the mind into darkness."
The 3% mark vanished, but the computer refused to die. As Merrick's fingers clattered over the keys, his mind raced back to the moments he had shared with the crew, their laughter, and camaraderie. The memories of their faces brought tears to his eyes, a sharp reminder of the human connection he now sought in vain.
"Remember," he continued, "that it is in our heart's deepest corners where the hunger for companionship is nurtured. It is an instinct as primal as survival. Do not let the lure of technology and science push this need to the side. In the end, the stars may be unattainable, but the comfort of another’s presence will always be a journey within reach."
A final look at the dwindling power, the 1% mark hovered in the corner like the ghostly hand of time. The computer whirred louder, as if urging him to continue. He needed to send the message that would echo through the ages, and with the determination of a man standing on the edge, he hammered out his final words: "Honor our memories, the lost souls of this mission. For in the end, it is the connections we make here that give the journey meaning. We were not alone, but we are no more."
A heavy breath escaped him, and the computer, as if acknowledging the importance of the message, emitted a long, drawn-out beep. The connection was made. Through a cosmic irony, the power in the cockpit surged, and the 9% reappeared. Merrick’s eyes widened in disbelief, but he did not pause. The message had been sent, and now, as the light returned to the cockpit, he knew what he needed to do.
He retrieved a tool from the clutter on the panel, a device meant for repairs, and with an expression of acceptance, he pointed it at his heart. The last transmission was just the beginning. The story would inspire, and though the loneliness had taken its toll, the captain made the ultimate sacrifice, leaving behind an unforgettable plea.
As the computer emitted a series of beeps signaling the message's success, Merrick closed his eyes and embraced the void, leaving the fate of humanity to reflect upon the significance of the connections we forge in our brief time on earth. A testament to the importance of human bond in the face of adversity, it was a lesson that would be remembered, long after the cockpit fell silent.
Brainstorm 40x
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.
I developed a process where the conclusion layer of a model is duplicated and calibrated, in the case of this model 40 times.
This is a delicate process, with umm... a lot of rules.
For this model in particular Brainstorm is mapped as blocks, with "intended disruption" to alter and extend the power of the root model. Each layer/block interacts with each other block.
(there is more going on here too, this is rough summary)
The goal here is creative : prose uniqueness first and foremost.
Other brainstorm methods address logic/problem solving augmentation.
What is "Brainstorm" ?
The reasoning center of an LLM is taken apart, reassembled, and expanded.
In this case for this model: 40 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:
Other "lab" observations:
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.