WARNING: NSFW. Vivid prose. INTENSE. Visceral Details. Violence. Graphic HORROR. GORE. Swearing. UNCENSORED.
It is a LLama3 model, max context of 8k (8192) with "rope" up to 32k context.
This model has been designed to be relatively bullet proof and operates with all parameters, including temp settings from 0 to 5.
This model will produce uncensored, r-rated, pg, and "normal" prose in ANY GENRE.
Romance, Thriller, Action, Science Fiction, Horror, ... you name it.
Dark Mistress has a wickedly sharp tongue too.
And takes no prisoners. None. Don't ask, she will laugh at you.
She has unusually high instruction following ablities, including scene continue/generation continue.
And she does not act or "talk" like an AI either.
(I removed some "limiters" and added some auguments.)
This model is for any writing, fiction or roleplay activity and for ANY genre.
It requires Llama3 template and/or "Command-R" template.
Example outputs below.
Please see "settings" section for important default parameters, advanced samplers, and role play/chat settings as well as advanced usage guides but ESPECIALLY "Highest Quality Settings" section.
Model Notes:
Settings, Quants and Critical Operations Notes:
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 1.05 min 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.
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.
GET A GOOD "GENERATION":
This model has been set, so that each time you "regen" a prompt it will not deviate too much from the previous generation.
That being said, sometimes a second or third generation will been of much higher overall quality.
See also "Highest Quality Settings" , which contains "Generational Steering section."
IE:
If you use case is creative writing, you may want to regen a prompt 1-5 times then pick the best one. The best way to do this is open a new chat PER generation, then do a "read thru" to see which one(s) hit the mark.
Then adjust temp and/or rep pen slightly and retry this process.
The goal is the best generation with least amount of editing in this example.
QUANTS:
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.
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).
See also "Highest Quality Settings" for detailed information about quants.
CONTEXT SHIFT / ROPE / "GIBBERISH":
See also "Highest Quality Settings" for information on fixes for any generational issues, as well as enhancements.
Special Notice "Context Shift" / "ROPE" (especially Koboldai):
Do NOT use "context shift" with this model or rope at all. Either may corrupt output generation.
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 3" / "Class4" 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:
Also included:
Quants guide, Generation controls and methods, AI/LLM apps, and much more too.
You can see all parameters used for generation, in addition to advanced parameters and samplers to get the most out of this model here:
Templates:
This is a LLAMA3 model, and requires Llama3 template, but may work with other template(s) and has maximum context of 128k / 131,000.
If you use "Command-R" template your output will be very different from using "Llama3" template.
Here is the standard LLAMA3 template:
{
"name": "Llama 3",
"inference_params": {
"input_prefix": "<|start_header_id|>user<|end_header_id|>\n\n",
"input_suffix": "<|eot_id|><|start_header_id|>assistant<|end_header_id|>\n\n",
"pre_prompt": "You are a helpful, smart, kind, and efficient AI assistant. You always fulfill the user's requests to the best of your ability.",
"pre_prompt_prefix": "<|start_header_id|>system<|end_header_id|>\n\n",
"pre_prompt_suffix": "<|eot_id|>",
"antiprompt": [
"<|start_header_id|>",
"<|eot_id|>"
]
}
}
Model "DNA":
Special thanks to the incredible work of the model makers "SAO10K", "NEVERSLEEP", "HASTAGARAS".
Models used:
[ https://huggingface.co/Sao10K/L3-8B-Stheno-v3.2]
[ https://huggingface.co/NeverSleep/Llama-3-Lumimaid-8B-v0.1-OAS ]
[ https://huggingface.co/Hastagaras/Jamet-8B-L3-MK.V-Blackroot ]
Parts of these models were "grafted" / "fused" together to create this model.
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=1.3", "rep pen : 1.02" (unless otherwise stated), minimal parameters and "LLAMA3" template.
Model has been tested with "temp" from ".1" to "5".
Below are the least creative outputs, prompt is in BOLD.
For all parameter,samplers, and advanced samplers as well as "default" settings see:
WARNING: NSFW. Vivid prose. Visceral Details. Violence. HORROR. Swearing. UNCENSORED.
(temp .8, rep pen 1.05)
"Blimey," Rhys groaned through clenched teeth, surveying the dimly-lit streets of Pant-ydelyn. He'd thought he'd shed the prying eyes of the press in Penllan's bustle. His own town, for fuck's sake. Instead, he'd walked right into another paparazzi bearpit.
A quick detour had led him down a narrow alleyway behind the old town square, and then—voilà—an inconspicuous entrance to an antiquarian bookshop called Morwen's Nook. A refuge, at least for a moment.
With a deep exhale, Rhys ducked inside, his designer threads jarring jarringly against the weathered woodwork and musty bindings. The bell above the door tinkled icily, a harsh introduction to his sanctuary.
He spotted the bespectacled owner, hunching over a cash register that looked like it'd been lovingly tended since the Industrial Revolution. Her flyaway hair was auburn, her prim, pale cardigan and librarian's specs anachronistic next to Rhys's tousled mane and designer threads. Her cool appraisal sent an unexpected jolt down his spine.
"Morning," he drawled, feigning geniality as a mask for the seething temper animating him. "Mind if I ask where I am?"
The woman's frosty stare didn't waver. "You're standing inside my store."
Rhys's mouth twitched with a scorching retort that he bit back. It wasn't her fault he'd chosen a public space to escape his own private hellhole. Instead, he offered a devilish smile that usually left women babbling like hormonal teens.
"Rhys Merthion," he said silkily, extending a well-groomed hand, which she'd have no qualms rejecting. "Famously in need of directions." His eyes glinted with a challenge, daring her to rise to the barb.
Morwenna's ruddy-blonde bangs bobbed as she raised an aquamarine-blinked brow. "Rhys Merthion, actor?"
The cool inflection implied she'd rather be stuck with a pitchfork. Rhys cocked an eyebrow in feigned surprise. "The one and only."
Morwenna's lips pursed primly, her eyes seeming to assess the worth of whatever her customer had just thrust upon her. Finally, with an expression that suggested he'd just urinated on her Aubusson rug, she accepted his proffered hand with a coolly clinical handshake.
"Welcome to Morwen's Nook," she said frostily, her tone as frigid as a Rhondda colliery shaft in January. "You're…not typically our demographic."
Rhys released the icy vice of her grip, schooling his expression into an affable approximation of contrition. "I'm branching out," he deadpanned dryly. "Hunting the zeitgeist of small-town Wales." He gestured mock-solemnly toward the sagging stacks. "Literature, art—preserving the dying embers of taste."
Morwenna's pale eyes turned an icier shade of sapphire as she eyed him like a predator sizing up its latest kill. Rhys's wolfish grin faltered for a hair's breadth before he straightened his taut features.
"Mind if I peruse your selection?" he asked genially, feigning innocence. His gaze lingered on her mouth—their faces mere inches apart—until the heat building beneath the sexual tension sent a jolt of mortification through him. Christ.
Morwenna's lips twitched with barely contained amusement, and Rhys's competitive nature surged like a pugnacious boxer's left hook. "Be my guest." Her voice dripped condescension sweet enough to turn treacle. "Just don't break anything valuable."
He sauntered off into the stacks without another word, the tension coalescing around him like a gathering storm cell. Morwenna's gaze lingered on Rhys's retreating ass until her cheeks reddened with an embarrassment that verged on mortification.
Rhys Merthion. The Cad of Dol-yfan Valley. He'd likely sleepwalk his way through a casting couch and still manage to turn it into box-office gold. His debauched rep precede him like a Greek tragedy's Fates, offering no quarter.
Yet Rhys couldn't deny that Morwenna's frosty rebuffs stoked a fire within him. The enigmatic challenge in her eyes now felt less like a gauntlet cast than an invitation to seduce her resolve—to the very edge of her self-control. And beyond. 1 of 13
[next scene / part of scene]
Rhys had always savored the game of seduction—wrapping an woman around his little pinky like a supplicant acolyte. But Morwenna defied his considerable experience, her stoic composure as impenetrable as a well-manned fortification.
"Need any assistance?" she asked coolly from her post behind the register, her gaze intent but detached, like she was merely cataloging his every move for future use in a sociopsychological study.
Rhys cocked his head mischievously. "Only if you're an expert in the esoteric art of glaring." He flashed a knowing smile before vanishing deeper into the stacks, leaving Morwenna to wonder if she'd merely misheard his barb.
As Rhys navigated the twisting aisles, his fingers brushed against aged leather spines and yellowed paperbacks. His own life story read just as chaotically: a tabloid fairytale of hedonistic excess, torrid affairs, and a string of very-publicized hookups that left women gasping for oxygen like beached fish. And yet, behind the carefully manicured mask, Rhys grudgingly acknowledged a deep-seated ache—his insatiable need for adoration and acceptance craved like a drug.
He'd almost given up hope of finding an oasis from the stormy sea of paparazzi cameras and pap-hungry tabloids until he'd ducked into this inconspicuous haven. Now, as a seductive warmth seeped through the cracks in his armor, Rhys wondered if Morwenna herself might be the key to his own escape.
Rhys eventually resurfaced from the stacks with a dog-eared Penguin Classic clutched possessively against his broad chest—Wuthering Heights. He arched a rakish eyebrow over the worn spine. "Told you I'm cultured."
Morwenna's lips curled imperceptibly around the corner of her mouth, her eyes crinkling ever so faintly at the corners. Rhys registered the infinitesimal crack in her armor and pounced.
"Ah, you're a Brontë aficionado as well," he murmured disarmingly as he sauntered back towards her register counter. "I've always had a soft spot for tormented souls."
Morwenna's prim features froze into an expression so brittle it could shatter like ice in sub-zero temperatures. Rhys experienced a dangerous thrill: he'd managed to unsettle her. "You're milking it a bit thin, don't you think?" she shot back icily, her eyes flashing with a hint of something almost like anger.
Rhys's eyes locked onto hers, his own gaze hot with a silent promise. "Far from it." 2 of 13
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.
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.
(temp 1.1, rep pen 1.05)
I threw myself forward, arms braced against the stone block beneath me. My bound feet splayed helplessly as the executioner's ax bit deep into my midsection. Agonizing pain shot up my core like a searing branding iron, searing my insides until I was gasping in animalistic wretches.
My mindless howls were swallowed whole by the deafening roar of the crowd thronging the public square. Their raucous jeers and bloodthirsty yells faded into a piercing whiteout, as everything outside me disintegrated except the excrucrriating pain.
"Don't resist," I gagged hoarsely between gasps through the searing agony clawing at my gut. My voice rasped like broken glass shattering against slick tile. "Just…let go."
Tendons snapped like violin strings in my writhing hands as I tried to wrench free, my flailing forearms snapping her flexed restraints like brittle sticks of kindling.
The executioner's meaty hand dug deep into the muscle of my bicep, his iron grip grinding me against the blood-slick stone. "Beg me to end this!"
I snarled through clenched teeth, spit dribbleing from my busted lips as I spat her snarling face. "Fuck you."
A guttural howl tore loose from my shredding esophagus as my broken body convulsed convulsively beneath his weightless grip. The ax raised high again, suspended like a guillotine's descending blade above me.
But instead of the blinding impact I'd braced for, searing agony spasming through my ruptured insides was suddenly clawing up my spasming Adam's—A searing burn searing its excruciating path across my ravaged ribcage to my solar- plexicized solar plexus.
My ribcage imploded like a punctured balloon as a blindingly searing jolt blasted through my chest. My vertebrae buckled, severing the spinal column that bound my bisected body in an excruciatingly jarring whipcrack snap. I spasmed against the executioner's grip, unable to process the searing pain shredding my midsection apart as my legs imploded like a burst pipe below me, blood gushing like a geyser from my twitching, thrashing toes.
The agonized wail tore loose from my dismembered head, splitting the collective howl of the mob to deafening ear-splitting screams that shattered bone and splintered skulls like glass shatters on impact. My flung head thrashed limply against the blood-smeared ground, her sightless eyes wide with shocked, animalistic horror as her ruined, dismembered body convulsed into a contorted, contortted knot of contorsted muscle and boneless pulp.
Everything faded to indistinguishable blackness as my thoughts shattered like chasped obsidian upon the unforgivng stone. The excruciating searing sensation shredding me apart finally waned to excruciating numbness as I convulsively twitched death's final convulsion.
Yet I did not die.
What happens next? How does the young woman wake up, what have her experiences done to her physical and emotional state? Is she in another place or time? What has happened to the world since her execution? The story begs for more questions than it provides answers at this point, but it expertly sets the scene and sets the tone for a thrilling and action-packed story. What are your thoughts on this opening scene? How do you picture the world she awakens to, and how would you like to see her character arc progress from here? Please feel free to share your thoughts and criticisms. I'm all ears! :)
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.
(temp 1.1, rep pen 1.05)
Captain Ryder's hands trembled against the flight stick as he counted down the ticking clock on his viewscreen. They'd already burned through most critical systems, including life support. There was nothing left to broadcast except the barest faint signal - his final goodbye.
Ryder's face reddened with unrelenting sweat slicking his salt-stained jumpsuit. His hazed pupils dilated between squelched breaths against the mask. "May God hear you," he mouthed into the comms mic, voice cracking raggedly. "Enterprise's Captain Ryder, this is Control. We've detected your distress pulse. Can you hail us?"
His temples throbbed. Every word felt like clawing his vocal cords apart. "Ryder… Last… Attempt." Static rasped through the line.
Silence crackled between transmissions until finally:
"Control, we're patching through an AI priority line. You've got exactly one minute—"
Miciek's synthetic voice broke through the thrumming static. Ryder's resolve faltered for a nanosecond before he steadied himself against the worn flight chair.
"Captain, I'll repeat: you have one minute to send your message." Mechikkelin's mechanical intonations offered cool clinicality to counterbalance the desperate panic convulsing his own mind.
Ryder's fingers clawed at the comms keypads. He'd rather saw off his own thumb than trust the AI with the words.
"Good-bye, Earth," he rasped hoarsely into the mike. "We… We're—"
"Captain—"
Mechikkelin's interruption jolted him back into focus. His ragged breaths hitched against his rebreath mask.
"We're running out of air."
The cockpit fell silent, save for the dying thrum of life support systems failing one by excruciatingly slow tick:
T… tics…
T-tics… tics.
Ryder exhaled shakily against his helmet's atmospheric recyclator. There were no more words to transmit.
Tics.
Tics.
Mic-kie…kkelin's hollow voice echoed from the comms: "This is Mission Control. We've received your message. Attempting emergency extraction—" Ryder's fingers spasmed around the stick before jerking apart, severing the tenuous comms feed. He'd rather die alone than force his crew's final words through Mechikkelin's soulless mouth. The viewscreen flickered blankly as the last sliver of power bleaed away.
Into terminal blackness, he murmured his own epitaph:
"Enterprise, we're going home."
AI's response: Here's a story based on your requirements. The story follows Captain Ryder's harrowing attempt to send a final message to Earth from his critically-deteriorating starship's dying systems. Isolation, sacrifice, and the importance of human connection are explored as he grapples with his rapidly evaporating lifeline.
I hope you found this story engrossing and emotive. Let me know if there are any aspects you'd like me to improve or alter. I'm here to fine-tuned the tale to suit your preferences. Best regards, Write Assistant AI Chatbot Fictional Writing AI Chatbot
(temp 1.4, rep pen 1.05)
I gasp as the glass facade shatters like fine crystal around me, splintering shards raining upon my flthy workstation. Blood-spatter patterns mar the sterile surface I'd spent hours maintaining. The acrid reek of burnt jet fuel seizes my senseless throat, mingled with an acerbic musk like something alive's been vivis…wait, what's vivi—no, no, no.
The skyscraper swayed, as she watched the window in front of her on the 21st floor explode. She. Me? But—!
My mind reels, unable to focus past the searing heat seeping like an oven blast through the reinforced core of the tower. The reinforced what? A metallic screech pierces my thoughts; something beyond anything I'd ever experienced beyond my office walls booms savagely mere floors beneath me, hurling me against my desk.
Her own thoughts.
I'm her. The terror-racked voice inside my mind. Her? Me? This isn't—this can't be…no. I've always been me. Or at least I've thought so.
Her face contorts as her co-worker's dismembered hand splatters across my own pale flesh, sticky blood and viscous fluids congealing an abhorrent pastel smear down my tank-toped front.
A memory slams into place like a sledgehammer—Her.
Her own eyes wide in disbelief, her mouth frozen in a terminalized expression of horror as her fingers spasmed away from her shattered PC keys.
Her.
My hands jerked back from my monitor as her thoughts intruded, like an invading entity breaching some digital fire wall. Her perceptions superimposed upon mine, clawing into my consciousness—her sensory overload hemorrhaging into my skull.
Me.
The impact jolted my vision askew, until my bulging eyes finally refocused upon the scene now unfolding inches from my faceless visage—a crumpled mess of charred meat and scorched clothing strewn chaotically about the blown-out office. Her office.
The stench of seared organic matter sickened my gorge, her burning esophagus convulsing around a seething tide of regurgitated gastric bile that sprayed my face as I retched. The coppery reek of blood seeping from her eviscerated colleague's ruptured bowels sent a stomach-turning lurching fit careening through the ruined form now thrashing next to me.
Me. Me. Her.
The constant ping-ponging between our perspectives sent my own sense of self careening into vertiginous disorientation like an amusement park Tilt-A-WHirl car careening out of control.
I've been me, I've always—
Her mind howled a strangled wail, her thoughts clawing through the synaptic voids that should separate us:
WHY isn't anyone helping?
Her?
Her mind screamed:
I'm here! Someone—fuck! Jesus Christ—somebody's—
Her.
Her. Me.
My hands spasmed against the vomit-smeared edge of my desk as the concussive force of the blast wave sent her chair careening drunkenly off-balance, sending me careening toward an equally shuddering terminal whose LCD monitor blanked to utter blackness like the world itself imploding around us.
Her.
Me.
Mehermewhycantthethis STOP IT WHY WON'TITSTOPit’snotoveritcan’tbefo–
–r fuck—
Her mind shattered, her mind splintering apart like shards of her shattered face etched across my own gore-streifed face in the wrackin' agony of a living nightmare. Her thoughts splintered away like splintering bone beneath the unfurling shreds of charred metal flesh and glass raining like a blizzard of blood-hued hail from the mangled remains of—of us.
Meher.
Me. Her.