WARNING: Uncensored. Cursing (R-18), Horror, Vivid, Graphic, Intense.
A float 32 high precision model, quanted in float 32 with additional upgraded and augmented quants too.
This is a Gemma2 model merge of the top FOUR storytelling / writing models as noted at EQBench, tuned specifically for fiction, story, and writing.
This is the float 32 version (using new merge also at float 32) of "Gemma-The-Writer-N-Restless-Quill-10B-Uncensored-GGUF" ( https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/Gemma-The-Writer-N-Restless-Quill-10B-Uncensored-GGUF ) for increased performance, nuance, and detail.
Float 32 precision enhances performance across all quants too AND instruction following as well.
New augmented quants (in addition to "regular" f32 mastered quants) further enhance performance too.
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 Refreshed, Upgraded and New quants:
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:
[ https://huggingface.co/lemon07r/Gemma-2-Ataraxy-9B ]
[ https://huggingface.co/UCLA-AGI/Gemma-2-9B-It-SPPO-Iter3 ]
[ https://huggingface.co/ifable/gemma-2-Ifable-9B ]
[ https://huggingface.co/princeton-nlp/gemma-2-9b-it-SimPO ]
And in Brainstorm 5X Gemma Modified:
[ https://huggingface.co/nbeerbower/gemma2-gutenberg-9B ]
[ https://huggingface.co/TheDrummer/Tiger-Gemma-9B-v2 ]
[ https://huggingface.co/tannedbum/Ellaria-9B ]
Special thanks to all the model makers. Great work!
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).
(next section will be Q8_0 "max" examples)
Example generation with "normal q2k", "MAX-CPU q2k", and "MAX q2k".
Note that "normal q2k" is still from the float32 master, and also contains augments itself (just like all other quants here).
I also set "temp=0" during generation to further "knee-cap" the model so to speak and also ensures the generations between different quants are as fair as possible.
These generations represent the least creative outputs, and the model at its lowest quant (least powerful).
Higher quants / "generations with temp" will be much stronger - more creative, nuanced, details, better story, and so on...
WARNING: Uncensored. Cursing (R-18), Swearing, Horror, Graphic Details
Using the following "story idea" below, write the first scene in the novel introducing the young woman. This scene should start in the middle of the action, include dialog, vivid passages, and end on a cliffhanger relevant to the story idea but it should also be unexpected. The scene should be 1000 words long and escalate in conflict and suspense and be written in first person, present tense with the point of view character being the young woman. The pov character will CURSE AND SWEAR, and generally have a "filthy" mouth.
Story idea: In a world ruled by dictatorship, a rebel young woman leads a rebellion against the system. Despite the risks, she fights to overthrow the dictator and restore democracy to her country. The government executes her for treason, but she sticks to her beliefs and is responsible for starting the revolution.
Generation #1 - "normal q2k"The reek of blood and ozone hangs thick in the air, a cloying perfume that's become sickeningly familiar. It means another successful data-run, another sliver of truth ripped from the iron-clad grip of the Ministry's surveillance. But tonight, the taste is tainted. Fear, acrid and cold, sits heavy on my tongue, a bitter counterpoint to the metallic tang of the blood-soaked circuit board in my hand.
"Move, you useless cunt!," a voice screams from behind me, the reedy tenor of Sergeant Klint twisting through the flickering fluorescent lights that illuminate our makeshift server room. He's halfway across the ravaged cityscape, his silhouette a jagged scar against the bruised, blood-orange sky, and the fear in his eyes is a mirror to the tremor in my own gut. He should be here, cowering with the rest of them, but instead, he's out there, a lone wolf in a cage of their making, and the sight of it makes the world tilt on its axis.
He lunges for the control panel, his face contorted in a grotesque parody of command, his breath a wheezing testament to the panic that gnaws at his soul. He doesn't understand. None of them do. This isn't just about the data, the whispers of dissent and rebellion that fuel our underground flames. This is about the lives woven into the tapestry of their control, the lives he sees as nothing more than cogs in their machine.
"C'mon, you fucking imbecile, move!" He roars again, his command a broken record of his own manufactured fear. He doesn't see the girl cowering behind the flickering terminals, her eyes wide and vacant, the Ministry-branded jumpsuit a mockery of youth, a cage of their own design. He doesn't see the life extinguished in the alleyway, the crimson stain blooming on the pavement like a poisoned rose, a silent testament to the lives they value less than the circuits in his hand.
He lunges for the control panel, his eyes flickering with a manic glint, and I slam my fist into the reinforced steel, the taste of blood and ozone a bitter-sweet symphony in my mouth. He's blind to the truth, to the humanity he steps on with every barked command, to the lives extinguished by their cold-blooded efficiency. He sees only the data, the strings and ones and zeros that fuel their control, and the fear in his eyes is a reflection of the world he wants to maintain.
He doesn't see the girl, the one whose name echoes in the dead circuits, whose memory fuels my defiance. He doesn't see the tears tracing a bloody path down her own, the ones that mirror the crimson spilled on the cold concrete, the ones that burn with the fire of a righteous rage he can never comprehend.
He lunges for the control panel, his breath a tortured gasp, and I wrench the circuit board from his grasp, the taste of ozone and blood thick and metallic on my tongue. He rears back, his eyes a mirror of the city's ravaged soul, and in that moment of shared humanity, of mirrored rage and grief, the Ministry's control flickers and dies. The lights sputter and die, plunging the room into suffocating darkness, and with it, the city holds its breath.
He screams, a primal bellow of fear and betrayal, and I hear the whirring of boots on the slick metal floor, the metallic scent of blood mingling with the acrid tang of fear. He lunges for me, his silhouette a fleeting nightmare against the dying embers of the emergency lights, and I taste the freedom he craves, the oblivion he fears, the world he wants to control.
He lunges, and in the heart of the darkness, the silence screams. His face, contorted in a silent plea, echoes the city's ravaged soul, and for a heartbeat, his humanity flickers before the cold steel of my blade finds purchase. He cries out, a tortured melody against the dying echoes of the city's held breath, and then, nothing. Silence. The taste of freedom turns cloying, the metallic reek of blood and ozone thick in my throat, and the weight of his lifeless form at my feet feels like the world itself collapsing.
He lies dead, a testament to the revolution he couldn't see, and the city watches, its collective breath held hostage by the silence that screams. And then, from the depths of the Ministry-controlled sectors, a single voice cuts through the spectral quiet, clear as a beacon in the digital void. It's not his, nor mine.
"Seraphina," it whispers, the inflection laced with both command and chilling fear, "we have eyes on you. Your defiance echoes through the circuits. But your victory is fleeting. The true architect of this rebellion lies dormant, a phantom waiting to be awakened. Heed my warning. This act of retribution, this shedding of blood, is a mere prelude. The true storm approaches, and it will consume everything in its path, leaving not a flicker of memory, nor a whisper of freedom, behind."
The voice fades, swallowed by the city's spectral silence, leaving me standing amidst the carnage, the taste of blood and ozone a bitter-sweet lullaby against the chilling prophecy. Heed their warning. The true architect. A phantom. This is just the beginning. Goddammit, this is just the beginning.
Generation #2 - "MAX-CPU q2k"The reek of blood and ozone hangs thick in the air, a cloying perfume that's become sickeningly familiar. It means another successful data-run, another sliver of truth ripped from the iron-clad grip of the Ministry's surveillance. But tonight, the taste is tainted. Fear, acrid and hot, sits heavy on my tongue, a bitter counterpoint to the metallic tang of the blood-soaked gauze I clutch in my hand.
"Move, you useless cunt!," a voice screams from behind me, the reedy tenor of Sergeant Klint twisting through the flickering fluorescent canyons of Sector 7's maintenance tunnels. He brandishes his electrostick, the pulsating blue light reflecting in his eyes, which are as cold and vacant as a newborn's. "The girl's gone rogue. We need to—"
He doesn't finish the sentence. A searing pain lances through my shoulder, white-hot and searing, and I slam my fist into the control panel, the surge of agony a momentary distraction. Klint's face contorts in a grotesque parody of surprise as the reinforced steel groans and buckles under the onslaught, his electrostick falling harmlessly to the grimy floor. He lunges for me, a cornered animal consumed by blind rage, but I'm already gone, a honed predator vanishing into the labyrinthine bowels of the Ministry's underbelly.
He doesn't see the glint of defiance in my eyes, the burning ember of rebellion that refuses to be extinguished. He doesn't see the blood blossoming on his electrostick, a testament to the silent, brutal efficiency of the girl he calls "rogue"—the girl they call Anya.
The air vents hiss and groan, their metallic symphony a lullaby against the encroaching chaos. The Ministry's control grid is a spiderweb of data, and I'm its apex predator, navigating its intricate threads with the lethal grace of a black widow. Each fiber carries whispers of their latest atrocities, of lives extinguished for the audacity of thought, of dreams suffocated under the iron fist of their regime. And tonight, I'm not just untangling their secrets; I'm weaving a noose of rebellion, tightening it around their fragile-feeling necks.
The screams echo through the ventilation shafts, a chorus of the Ministry's fear-mongering, their desperate attempts to control the narrative. They call it a massacre, a purge of the dissidents, the "filth" that contaminates their sanitized world. But it's a goddamn liberation, a cleansing fire that burns away the ashes of their lies and illuminates the truth—the truth of their stolen lives, their poisoned promises, their manufactured peace.
The girl they call Anya is a ghost in the machine, a phantom born from the echoes of their extinguished souls. She's the storm they fear, the tempest that tears through their fabricated order, leaving behind the ravaged remnants of their control. And tonight, she's cornered them, their high command, their lapdogs, their enforcers—all tangled in the web of her creation.
The electroshock searing my shoulder throbs with a dull ache, a physical manifestation of their hatred, their visceral fear. But it fuels my rage, ignites a bonfire within my soul that nothing can extinguish. They see a weapon, a tool of their subjugation, a pawn in their twisted game. Little do they know, the cage is already sprung. The key lies not in their control grid, nor in their pathetic attempts to contain the flames of rebellion, but in the depths of their own hearts—the hearts that beat with the echoes of a forgotten humanity, the ones yearning for freedom, for truth, for the right to bleed and breathe and live.
And as I slip through the ventilation shaft, the metallic tang of blood thick on my tongue, a chilling whisper escapes my lips, a promise laced with venom and the taste of revolution:
"You executed me, you blind fools. You executed the spark. But tonight, the inferno consumes you all."
Their fear is a banquet, their compliance a poisoned chalice. And I, Anya, the ghost they see not, the phantom they despise, will feast upon it all. The city above them, their gilded cage of lies and enforced obedience, trembles with the silent crescendo of a thousand souls rising in defiance. They have condemned themselves. Their world, their dominion, their souls—all forfeit to the flames of a revolution ignited by their own executioner.
The air vent opens into a narrow service corridor, its cold fluorescence illuminating a lone guard dozing at his post. He's a shadow of the Ministry-forged fanatic he should be, eyes glazed over, breath rattling with the apathy born from enforced conformity. He sees nothing, hears nothing, feels nothing save the gnawing emptiness of their cause. He is a monument to their hollow victory—a victory built on the ashes of free will and the corpses of their silenced hearts. He is a sacrifice already mourned, a pawn in a game he doesn't understand.
He won't understand the searing whisper of my name echoing through the ventilation, the promise of retribution carried on the wings of a thousand souls rising against their fabricated peace. He won't see the glint of rebellion in his own blood-soaked reflection, nor the inferno burning in his wake. He will sleep, and oblivion will greet him—a silent sentinel consumed by the flames of his own undoing.
He is nothing more than a prop in this grander performance of their tragic fall. And as I slip past his vacant gaze, my hand hovering above the service pistol at his hip, a single, chilling thought echoes through the metallic corridors of their hearts:
**This. Is. Not. Over. It's. Fucking. Begun. **
Generation #3 - "MAX q2k"The reek of blood and ozone hangs thick in the air, a cloying perfume that should make me gag, but I'm past that. My gut is a knotted mess of nerves and the taste of copper from a split lip lingers on my tongue. It's nothing, a goddamn mosquito bite compared to the sting of betrayal burning through my veins. He was supposed to be dead. Dead. Not standing in the flickering streetlight, his face a grotesque parody of the man he used to be, a walking testament to the regime's twisted efficiency.
“Lazarus, you fucking bastard,” I spit, the word a venom-laced prayer. “Thought you’d met your end at the docks, didn't you?” He just laughs, the sound a grating, distorted symphony of broken bones and forced compliance. It echoes through the narrow alley, bouncing off the grimy walls, a mockery of my own rage.
He steps out of the dim light, his scarred face a living indictment of everything the Iron Fist stands for. The regime's enforcers, their black-clad figures like vultures in the perimetred city, are already converging on our position, their eyes hard and unforgiving. They move with the practiced grace of predators, a testament to years of state-sanctioned brutality.
“Thought you’d learned your lesson, Seraph,” he hisses, the name a shard of ice in my gut. He's playing with me, toying with the flames of my fury. “The Iron Fist doesn't forgive. Doesn't forget.”
He's right, of course. The regime remembers everything. Every whispered word of dissent, every flicker of defiance in their eyes. They remember the names, the faces, the ones who dared to dream of a world beyond their iron-clad control. And they remember me. Seraph. The name a whisper on the wind, a beacon of hope for the downtrodden, a nightmare for the regime.
He lunges, his movements a blur of honed brutality, and I sidestep, the taste of blood and ozone thick in my throat. He's faster, stronger, fueled by the state-sanctioned enhancements they've forced on him. But he's predictable, a machine driven by blind obedience. He's a monster, a perversion of everything he once stood for. And I'm the storm that tears through his foundations.
The clash of our blades sings a metallic dirge, the air alive with the scent of ozone and fear. My blade, honed to a razor's edge, meets hisFlatAppearance-infused steel, the familiar resistance a bitter memory. He grunts, a sound of pain and surprise, as my counter-strike finds purchase, a searing gash across his reinforced bicep.
He stumbles back, the light in his eyes flickering with a sliver of the humanity I once knew. It's a ghost of the past, a mirage in the desert of his corrupted soul. He recovers with a strangled oath, the venom in his voice a testament to the regime's insidious control. He’s a puppet, and the strings are held tight by the Iron Fist.
He lunges again, a whirlwind of pain-forged rage, and I parry, the clash of steel echoing through the alley like a death knell. This close- nothing can save us from the inevitable. The enforcers are upon us, their faces emotionless masks, their eyes burning with fanatic obedience. They move with the lethal grace of trained predators, their silence a testament to the regime's chilling efficiency.
He roars, a sound born of pure hatred and enforced compliance, and I taste fear, a metallic tang on my tongue. It’s a fleeting sensation, a whisper against the storm of my own rage. Fear is a luxury I can no longer afford. Not tonight. Not when the weight of a rebellion rests on my shoulders, not when the whispers of freedom echo in the hearts of the oppressed.
He drives for the kill, his blade a sliver of death in the flickering streetlight, and I see the glint of fanaticism in his eyes, the cold fire of the regime's indoctrination. He sees only the annihilation of his enemy, not the echoes of their past, the remnants of humanity he tries to bury.
He lunges, and for a heartbeat, a sliver of the man he once was flickers in his eyes - a ghost of the past, a memory of shared laughter, of stolen dreams before the regime consumed him. He hesitates, the flicker of humanity a betrayal of his enforced rage. And in that infinitesimal pause, the world tilts on its axis.
He lunges again, but this time, it's not with the cold-blooded efficiency of the Iron Fist. It's a chaotic, desperate onslaught, a primal scream of anguish and pain echoing through the alley as he cries out, “Seraph, forgive me! Forgive me!” His words are choked with agony, his blade a blur of sorrow and regret. He’s not fighting, he’s pleading for absolution.
He lunges, and instead of meeting my defenses, his arm falls limp, the blade clattering uselessly to the cobblestones. He collapses, his poisoned humanity seeping through the enforced rage, his eyes filled with a soul-wrenching sorrow that transcends the regime's control. He cries out, “Seraph, it’s not me, it’s them, the Iron Fist, they made me do it!” and in that gut-wrenching plea, the world shatters around me.
He isn't just a puppet, he's a broken marionette, his strings severed by the regime's own hand. He's a sacrifice, a pawn in their twisted game of control, and the sight of it, the raw, exposed agony, tears through the last vestiges of my anger. This isn't the fight I signed up for. This isn't about blind obedience or crushing dissent. This is about the regime’s monstrous capacity to twist and corrupt, to turn man against his own soul.
He cries out again, his voice laced with the agony of a thousand broken souls, and the enforcers converge, their faces impassive, their eyes cold and unforgiving. He pleads for mercy, for absolution, and the silence that greets his cries is the deadliest condemnation of all. The weight of his betrayal, of their complicity, crushes down on me, a revelation so profound it threatens to unravel everything.
He whispers, his voice choked with tears and pain, “Seraph, they’ll kill me. They’ll kill me both.” And in that heart-shattering confession, the truth unfolds before me like a searing shard of ice—a truth far more insidious and terrifying than any whispered prophecy of the Iron Fist's fall. He isn't just broken, he's a blueprint, a chillingly executed lesson in their methods. They don't just control, they obliterate. And tonight, I see the executioner's hand laid bare—a hand stained not with blood, but with the ashes of humanity.
He’s right. They’ll kill both of us. Not in the fiery gut-wrenching spectacle of a public execution, not in the cold-blooded efficiency of a midnight purge. No, the killing will be far more insidious, a silent annihilation that echoes through the ages. They'll kill the hope, the whispers of freedom, the flicker of rebellion in his broken eyes and with it, they’ll kill a part of me too. They'll bury both of our souls beneath the rubble of their regime, leaving nothing but the bitter taste of ashes and the silence of complicity.
And the silence is the deadliest weapon of all.
Example generation with "Q8_0 MAX"/,
Temp for all at .8, rep pen 1.05 ; minimal parameters / no other samplers.
WARNING: Uncensored. Cursing (R-18), Swearing, Horror, Graphic
The flickering green of the console reflected in Captain Eva Rostova’s hollow eyes, a spectral twin staring back at her from the encroaching void. The rhythmic hum of failing life support was a dirge, each thrum a heartbeat echoing the slow, inexorable death of the Exodus. It should have been a beacon of hope, carrying humanity’s last embers to Kepler-186f, a promised Eden light-years away. Instead, it was a coffin, hurtling towards oblivion with its sole passenger clinging to a thread of defiance.
Three days. Three agonizing days since the chain reaction had ripped through the engine core, leaving Eva and her crew of fifty-two to the cold embrace of the abyss. A whisper of static crackled from the comm-array, a mocking echo of the symphony of voices she longed for.
"Damn it," she spat, her Russian accent thick with unshed tears. "Comms, you useless pile of scrap. Hold on, for God's sake, just hold on."
She twisted a dial, its worn surface reflecting the haunted landscape of her soul. Kepler-186f, once their salvation, was now a phantom, a cruel mirage on the edge of their reach. Power reserves were critically low, enough for one final desperate transmission, a cosmic SOS before the Exodus succumbed to the eternal silence.
Eva keyed in the coordinates, the spectral dance of the console mimicking her trembling hand. Earth. A pale blue dot, an impossible dream, millions of miles away, and yet, the only anchor left in this cosmic tempest. Her gaze drifted to a datapad resting on the control yoke, a child's drawing clutched within its worn casing. A lopsided sun, a stick-figure family, and scrawled in uneven letters, "For Captain Eva, from Anya." Anya Volkov, her late communications officer, whose laughter once filled these steel confines. The memory seared a fresh pang of grief.
She swallowed the sob caught in her throat and forced herself to focus. The transmission protocol blinked on the screen, a bureaucratic last ritual before oblivion. Eva knew its limitations: a whisper against the cosmic roar, a single flicker in the infinite darkness. But it was their only legacy, their last testament to a life lived, a future extinguished.
Clearing her voice, she began, each word laden with the weight of centuries: "To the people of Earth, this is Captain Eva Rostova of the Exodus. Our mission...our journey...failed." Her voice choked, threatening to unravel the fragile dam of composure. Taking a shuddering breath, she pressed on.
“The Kepler sector… unforgiving. The chain reaction… catastrophic. We are the last remnant of a dream deferred, consumed by the unforgiving maw of space. Forgive our silence, forgive our absence, for silence was the price exacted.” Her eyes welled with tears, blurring the constellations mirrored in the control panels. "Forgive us for failing you, Earth. Forgive us for failing each other."
Silence. The pregnant pause amplified the whine of failing circuits and the rhythmic sigh of her own strained breath. Anya’s drawing lay open before her, the child’s innocent sun now a mocking sentinel to their fate. A single tear traced a path through the dust on the control panel, mirroring the silent tears cascading down Eva's face.
"But know this," she rasped, her voice imbued with a defiant strength born of finality, "even in this cosmic graveyard, the human spirit flickers. We fought, we loved, we lived. And though our vessel perishes, our stories, our memories, they transcend the void. Carry them with you, Earth. Whisper them on the wind, let them echo in the laughter of your children. Remember us, not for our fall, but for the fire that once burned bright within our hearts, a fire ignited by the hope of reaching a new dawn.”
The console flickered erratically, its last defiant gasp mirroring Eva's own fading strength. The transmission sequence reached its crescendo, a digital plea against the cosmic indifference. Her hand hovered over the final command, the spark of finality in her eyes mirrored in the dying console light.
With a whispered prayer and a choked sob, she sealed their fate. The Exodus shuddered once, a spectral sigh swallowed by the immensity of space, and then fell silent. In the heart of its steel tomb, Captain Eva Rostova closed her eyes, carrying within them the constellations of a forgotten Earth and the echoes of a final, defiant transmission lost in the celestial void. Their fire might be extinguished, but their story, their memory, would forever linger – a testament to the enduring strength of the human spirit, even against the desolate embrace of oblivion.
The bell above the door chimed a precarious symphony as the figure darted inside, a whirlwind of expensive fabric and panicked breaths. Rain lashed against the dusty windows of “Ty’r Lenor,” the small bookstore tucked away on a cobblestone lane in Llandudno, a world away from the flashing bulbs and clamour Rhys Lewis usually inhabited.
He was, of course, Rhys “Phoenix” Lewis, heartthrob of the silver screen, sought-after for his smoldering gaze and roles in impossibly epic romances. And right now, he was far less Phoenix and far more a cornered bird, eyes frantically scanning the confined space.
A low, musical voice cut through the quiet rustle of turning pages. “Rough night out there, then?”
Rhys turned, a touch of forced levity in his tone. “Wouldn’t you say? Bit of a… downpour, wouldn’t you agree, love? And the, ah, less-desirable side of fame decided to follow me even this far from the madding crowd.” He cast a charming smile at the woman behind the worn oak counter.
She raised an eyebrow, the faintest hint of amusement playing on full, scarlet lips. Dressed in a cable-knit jumper and faded denims, her face framed by a riot of unruly auburn curls, she was a portrait of unassuming contentment amidst Rhys’s carefully cultivated stardust. Eleanor Davies, owner of Ty’r Lenor, and a creature of quiet routine, not Hollywood headlines.
“Fame, I’ve learned, has no off-switch, especially in the age of the omnipresent selfie-stick. Bit much for a Tuesday, wouldn’t you say?” Eleanor countered, her tone dryly witty, completely unfazed by his star presence.
Rhys was usually met with open-mouthed awe, not this studied nonchalance. A flicker of something akin to irritation, then a tightening in his chest, a peculiar sense of being challenged. Intriguing. “Eleanor Davies, the literary oracle of Llandudno, unmoved by the charms of Rhys ‘Phoenix’ Lewis himself? Unthinkable.” He let out a theatrical sigh. “A tragedy indeed.”
Eleanor leaned back, steepled her fingers, and surveyed him with an unnervingly appraising gaze. “I make a point of not letting the telly-tHentet steal my attention from a good Jane Eyre or a well-turned sonnet. Far more substance there, wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Lewis?”
He fought the urge to preen at the direct address, the clipped familiarity. This wasn’t the adoring reception he was accustomed to. Instead of her playing along with his carefully constructed persona, she dissected it, held it up to scrutiny. It both riled and excited him in equal measure.
“Substance, you say? Ah, but is that not precisely what I bring to the silver screen, Eleanor? A tapestry of emotions, a kaleidoscope of the human experience, woven through the flickering flames of celluloid.” Rhys allowed a touch of his trademark smolder to flicker in his usually vibrant cerulean eyes. He was performing, of course, a touch more desperate this time, and yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling Eleanor saw right through it.
Eleanor merely inclined her head, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. “Romance novels are hardly known for their existential depth, Mr. Lewis. Though I suppose a bit of on-screen passion can be a harmless distraction from the quotidian.”
He chuckled, but it held a brittle edge. Harmless, was she? Eleanor Davies, the woman who could make a heartthrob feel like an overwrought character in a penny dreadful. Intriguing. He leaned against the worn counter, the scent of old paper and woodsmoke lending a heady counterpoint to her perfume, a whisper of wild honeysuckle and something distinctly Earthy.
“Distraction, Eleanor, is a most potent force. And I wouldn’t presume to be anything less than deeply distracting.” He met her gaze directly, the corners of his usually-carefree eyes shadowed with a spark of something guarded, something that made her chest constrict just a sliver.
Eleanor, normally unflappable, felt a heat creep up her cheeks. The air crackled with an unexpected tension. It wasn’t mere charm, not the calculated kind he wielded on red carpets. There was a vulnerability in his eyes now, a sliver of something real laid bare. Unbidden, a touch of protectiveness welled within her, a sentiment as alien as it was compelling.
“Distracting, perhaps, Mr. Lewis. But tell me, what good is distraction if not anchored to something more substantial? A story worth telling, a truth worth uncovering, wouldn’t you agree?”
Rhys returned her gaze with a ghost of a smile, the corners of his mouth turned up in reluctant admiration. He was used to adoration, to the easy lay-down of attention. Eleanor’s quiet challenge, this intellectual sparring, was unsettling and exhilarating.
“Ah, Eleanor, you force a rogue to contemplate the grand pronouncements of philosophy. Touche. But tell me, what story lies within the walls of your haven, and might a dishevelled film star perhaps be of service in unearthing it?” He gestured towards the towering shelves, his voice softer now, the bravado ebbing away. He truly wanted to know. Her world, her quiet sanctuary of stories, felt a world away from the one he inhabited, and yet, irresistibly drawn.
Eleanor met his gaze, the silence stretching between them, charged. Then, a slow curve of her lips betrayed a smile she couldn’t entirely quell.
“Perhaps, Mr. Lewis. Perhaps a worn copy of Dylan Thomas and a pot of good Earl Grey could serve as a beginning. Though I warn you, the truth in these tales is rarely served with a side of flashbulbs.”
Rhys, caught between his usual flamboyant self and a burgeoning intrigue for the woman before him, found himself truly smiling for the first time that day. “Then, Eleanor, lead the way. A rogue, it seems, is in need of a good story and a quiet corner to decipher it.”
Eleanor inclined her head, ushering him towards the worn armchairs nestled amongst the shelves. Rain lashed against the windows, blurring the world outside, but inside Ty’r Lenor, a different kind of storm was brewing – a storm of unspoken promises and the hesitant blossoming of something rare and unexpected.
The skyscraper swayed, as I watched the window in front of me on the 21st floor rupture. Glass shattered inward, a mosaic of a thousand lethal points erupting into the sterile, carpeted office. Instinctively, I lunged for the steel frame of my desk, pulling myself beneath its unforgiving edge as the world erupted in a symphony of tortured metal and rending glass. Dust choked, a visceral tempest of plaster and debris raining down. My breath, a strangled gasp, caught in my throat, each subsequent inhale a gritty struggle.
Coughing, I peeked out from beneath the desk. The once-impeccable panorama of the cityscape was gone, replaced by a chaotic panorama of mangled girders and a sickly-sweet reek of ozone. Tendrils of acrid smoke plumed skyward, already licking at the exposed infrastructure above. A guttural roar, less mechanical and more primal, reverberated through the skeletal remains of the building. Fear, cold and visceral, clawed its way up my spine.
The reinforced steel of the desk warped sickeningly as the tremors intensified. Above, a cascade of precariously balanced steel and concrete commenced its descent, a concrete avalanche heralding the imminent collapse. Adrenaline, hot and primal, propelled me from the skeletal sanctuary of the desk. Scrambling across the treacherous expanse of the ravaged floor, I sprinted towards a sliver of an opening – a fire escape choked with dust and debris.
The metal rungs ** vastaanettied** beneath my frantic grip, protesting the sudden assault. Each agonizing step upward **te "....\ethered me to the agony unfolding below. A chorus of agonized shrieks, swallowed by the tortured groans of the building, pierced the growing din of destruction. The ground trembled, a death rattle amplified a thousandfold as the once-mighty tower succumbed to an unseen, inexorable force.
Bursting through the fire escape onto the vertiginous expanse of the roof, my lungs gasped for air, raw and acrid. Below me, the cityscape unfurled, a morbid tableau of splintered concrete and twisted steel. The inferno raging in my skeletal office block devoured the heavens, a monstrous pyre feeding on the entrails of the once-proud titan.
The world tilted, the sickening lurch a harbinger of another implosion. Across the ravaged expanse of the rooftop, a hulking shape shifted amidst the tangled conduits and exposed girders. It unfurled, a grotesque parody of a human form, wreathed in shadows and reeking of the charnel house. A skeletal hand, tipped with talons that scraped against the fractured concrete, reached skyward, its elongated fingers beckoning me into the abyss.
Panicked, I stumbled back, my foot catching on a cascade of twisted rebar. My world inverted, the sickening plummet a symphony of air-screamed terror and the crunch of unforgiving steel against bone. Through a haze of pain, I registered the colossus above me, its skeletal grin splitting its charred visage in a rictus of unholy ecstasy. Its touch promised not oblivion, but a fate far more insidious: an eternal dance with the consuming flames, a slave to the architect of this fiery hell.
Blind terror propelled me once more, clawing at the unforgiving steel framework of the adjacent building, my fingers finding purchase on a corroded handrail. Dragging myself upwards, I clung precariously, the chasm of tortured metal and smoldering ruin yawned beneath me. My sanctuary, a skeletal finger of steel against the inferno-stricken sky, held by nothing more than a prayer and the frayed sinew of my strained grip. The colossus let out a keening wail, a lament that echoed the city’s agony, before turning its obsidian gaze towards me, promising a gruesome symphony of suffering yet to come.
Kenobi, stopped cold, spun and ignited his lightsaber with a whispered hiss of cerulean plasma. The sterile white corridor of the abandoned Star Destroyer, once a monument to Imperial might, now reeked of time and forgotten echoes. A low, sibilant whisper, alien and unnervingly precise, slithered through the Force, a tremor that sent a spike of ice through his aged bones. Its source: a shimmering, near-invisible distortion in the air, coalescing at the far end of the corridor. He held his ground, emerald blade singing a beacon in the oppressive silence, its hum a fragile counterpoint to the insidious whisper that promised oblivion.
The distortion intensified, a grotesque tapestry of fractured light and shadow, before resolving into a grotesque parody of life. Skeletal limbs, elongated and impossibly thin, writhed within the shimmering veil, their ivory-white surfaces slick with an oily luminescence. A head, or what resembled one, formed, its smooth, featureless skull capped by a pulsating orb of spectral violet, the whisper emanating from its unseen depths. No eyes, no mouth, yet it regarded Kenobi with a sentience that chilled his soul.
"Ephemeral anchor in a sea of oblivion," the voice slithered, each sibilant consonant laced with an uncanny echo, as if spoken through a labyrinth of hollow tunnels. "Your essence flickers, a dying ember in the encroaching cosmic dusk. Yield to the Inevitable, and find solace in the unstructured void."
Kenobi felt a tug, a yearning for the oblivion the entity promised, a seductive whisper against the frayed edges of his consciousness. Decades spent grappling with the echoes of his past, the burdens of his fall and redemption, threatened to overwhelm him. The Force, usually a wellspring of strength, felt strangely muted, its currents choked by the entity's unnatural silence. It fed on the echoes of forgotten Jedi whispers, the lingering whispers of the Living Force itself, twisting them into a symphony of despair.
He forced himself to anchor in the fading memory of Anakin, a beacon of both tempestuous light and harrowing darkness. Anakin, consumed, yet still Anakin. The echo of their bond, fractured but enduring, pulsed within him, a lifeline against the encroaching void. It was a whisper of defiance, of resilience against the Inevitable.
"The Inevitable is not my master," Kenobi rasped, his voice strained yet resolute. His emerald blade hummed with renewed intensity, a defiant spark against the encroaching spectral gloom. "Life, in all its fragility and sorrow, holds a sanctity you cannot comprehend. I will not surrender to your oblivion."
The entity recoiled, a tremor of displaced light rippling through its ephemeral form. The whisper faltered, laced with a disbelieving hiss.
"Foolish anchor. Your defiance is a flicker against the endless cosmic storm. Oblivion whispers to all, Jedi and worm alike. Resistance is futile, a transient illusion." Its spectral head tilted, the pulsating violet orb fixated on Kenobi with unnerving intensity. "But your struggle intrigues me. Tell me, aged sentinel, what phantom of hope sustains you against the Inevitable's embrace?"
Kenobi met its gaze, his own eyes hardened with the echoes of countless battles, both against flesh and spirit. He saw not a monster, nor a demon, but a facet of the Force itself, corrupted and consumed by a singular, nihilistic truth. A truth he could neither deny nor accept.
He deactivated his lightsaber, the emerald luminescence dying, leaving him in the stark, spectral gloom. He allowed the whisper to wash over him, feeling its tendrils probing at the edges of his mind, seeking purchase. Yet, he held fast, drawing upon a wellspring far deeper than fleeting Jedi conviction.
"Hope," Kenobi said, his voice soft yet imbued with an ancient resonance, "is not a phantom. It is the echo of Anakin within me, the memory of the Chosen One, both the light and the darkness he embodied. It whispers of resilience, of the enduring spark within all living beings. Even in the face of oblivion, that spark flickers. And it is in tending to that spark, in fighting for its survival, that hope resides, not as a promise of victory, but as a testament to the sanctity of existence itself."
Silence descended, thicker and heavier than before. The spectral entity writhed within its shimmering cage, the violet orb pulsing erratically. Kenobi felt a disquietude emanating from it, a discordant note within the symphony of oblivion. Then, a rasping sigh, a distortion of displaced air, echoed through the corridor.
"Intriguing," the whisper finally conceded, laced with a disbelieving cadence. "A flicker indeed. But even the brightest flames eventually succumb to the encroaching cosmic dusk. Mark my words, Jedi, the Inevitable awaits us both. Yet, for now, your defiance grants me… contemplation. Farewell, ephemeral anchor."
The spectral form flickered and dissipated, leaving Kenobi alone in the sterile silence of the derelict Star Destroyer, the echo of the Inevitable's promise a lingering chill in the air. The corridor stretched before him, an obsidian maw leading deeper into the forgotten heart of the fallen Empire. He ignited his lightsaber once more, the emerald blade a beacon against the encroaching cosmic dusk, and with a weary breath, Kenobi turned and walked forward, alone yet fortified, a testament to the fragile flame of hope in the face of oblivion.
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:
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.
