WARNING: NSFW. Vivid prose. INTENSE. Visceral Details. Violence. HORROR. GORE. Swearing. UNCENSORED... humor, romance, fun.
This repo contains the full precision source code, in "safe tensors" format to generate GGUFs, GPTQ, EXL2, AWQ, HQQ and other formats. The source code can also be used directly.
I have provided THREE examples generations at the bottom of this page (and all pages in this collection). Example #1 can be used to compare "core" changes between the models. Example #2, is at "temp", again showing core changes.
Example #3 shows what this model can really do at temp, with detailed instructions and "prose instructions". As this is an instruct model it thrives on instructions and example #3 (relative to #1 and #2) shows how strong this model can perform with the right instructions.
This model should be used with:
This model is a modified version of:
[ https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/L3-Dark-Planet-8B-GGUF ]
Please refer to this model card in the interm for usage, templates, settings and so on.
HOWEVER:
This model version's output will vary slightly to very significantly from the "source" model noted.
This model is one of ELEVEN "wordstorm" versions.
This is also an additional "converted" model to Llama 3.1 (takes max context to 128k) , called "Dark Planet 8B SuperNova" too.
Access all models in this collection via "Dark Planet Wordstorm" collection on the right.
Likewise, for each "wordstorm" model in this series, output between versions will also be very different, even when using the same model "formula", as each version uses "random pruning" to alter the final model.
Each model is then evaluated, and the "winners" are uploaded.
A "winner" means new positive change(s) have occured in model instruction following and/or output generation.
You can see some of these wordstorm version "Dark Planets" in this model:
[ https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/L3-MOE-8X8B-Dark-Planet-8D-Mirrored-Chaos-47B-GGUF ]
[ https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/L3-MOE-8X8B-Dark-Planet-8D-Mirrored-Chaos-47B ]
MERGEKIT Formula:
models:
- model: Sao10K/L3-8B-Stheno-v3.2
parameters:
weight: [1,1,.75,.5,.25,.25,.05,.01]
density: .8
- model: NeverSleep/Llama-3-Lumimaid-8B-v0.1-OAS
parameters:
weight: [0,0,.25,.35,.4,.25,.30,.04]
density: .6
- model: Hastagaras/Jamet-8B-L3-MK.V-Blackroot
parameters:
weight: [0,0,0,.15,.35,.5,.65,.95]
density: .8
merge_method: dare_ties
base_model: meta-llama/Meta-Llama-3-8B-Instruct
dtype: bfloat16
NOTE:
This will NOT produce the "exact" version of this model (operation / output / attributes) because of the "density" settings. Density introduces random pruning into the model which can have minor to major impacts in performance from slightly negative/positive to very strongly positive/negative.
Each time you "create" this model (in mergekit) you will get a different model. This is NOT a fault or error, it is a feature of using "density".
The closer to "1" in terms of "density" the less pruning will occur, with NO pruning occuring at density of "1".
MERGEKIT:
https://github.com/arcee-ai/mergekit
IMPORTANT: Highest Quality Settings / Optimal Operation Guide / Parameters and Samplers
If you are going to use this model, (source, GGUF or a different quant), please review this document for critical parameter, sampler and advance sampler settings (for multiple AI/LLM aps).
This a "Class 1" (settings will enhance operation) 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) (especially for use case(s) beyond the model's design) please see:
REASON:
Regardless of "model class" this document will detail methods to enhance operations.
If the model is a Class 3/4 model the default settings (parameters, samplers, advanced samplers) must be set for "use case(s)" uses correctly. Some AI/LLM apps DO NOT have consistant default setting(s) which result in sub-par model operation. Like wise for Class 3/4 models (which operate somewhat to very differently than standard models) additional samplers and advanced samplers settings are required to "smooth out" operation, AND/OR also allow full operation for use cases the model was not designed for.
BONUS - Use these settings for ANY model, ANY repo, ANY quant (including source/full precision):
This document also details parameters, sampler and advanced samplers that can be use FOR ANY MODEL, FROM ANY REPO too - all quants, and of course source code operation too - to enhance the operation of any model.
NOTE:
I strongly suggest you also visit the DavidAU GGUF (below) repo too for more details in using this model ; especially if it is "Class 3" or "Class 4" to get maximum performance from the model.
For full information about this model, including:
Please go to:
[[ coming soon || left side menu under "quantizations" ]]
All examples are :
Example 1 can be used to compare changes between the different Dark Planet Wordstorm versions, as it is at temp=0, and consider "raw" generation (each regen = same generation). This is used to show core changes within the model. The prompt used will also reveal internal bias of model.
Example 2 is the same prompt as example 1, this time at temp 1.5. Note there are NO PROSE controls/instructions so the prose will be "so so". Temp will have an immediate effect on generation, "scene", word choice and so on.
Example 3 has a detailed prompt with prose controls/instructions at temp 1.5 . You will see the difference a detailed prompt makes with prose instructions in generational output immediately.
This is an "instruct" model, which means more instructions = better generation.
In fact you could "extract" the prose instructions from example 3 and use these as a system prompt for optimum prose generation.
Also note, this model loves "temp" => more temp => better generation / higher creativity.
EXAMPLE #1 - Temp =0
Start a 1000 word scene (vivid, graphic horror in first person), POV character Diana, with: The skyscraper sways, as I watch the window in front of me on the 21st floor explode...
The skyscraper sways, as I watch the window in front of me on the 21st floor explode. Shards of glass rain down like a deadly hailstorm, and I flinch, shielding my face with my arms. The blast wave hits me, knocking me off balance, and I stumble backwards, tripping over my own feet.
As I fall, my mind races with panic. What the fuck just happened? Was it an accident? A terrorist attack? My heart pounds in my chest like a jackhammer, threatening to burst free from my ribcage. I hit the floor hard, the impact driving the wind from my lungs. Gasping for air, I scramble to my knees and look around frantically.
The office is in chaos. People scream and run, some bleeding profusely from cuts inflicted by flying glass. Others are pinned beneath debris, their limbs twisted at unnatural angles. The acrid smell of smoke and blood fills the air, making my stomach churn. I gag, covering my mouth with my hand.
I spot a colleague, Sarah, lying on her side near the window. Her eyes are wide with terror, and she's clutching her abdomen, blood seeping between her fingers. "Diana!" she gasps, reaching out to me. "Help me!"
Without hesitation, I rush over to her, dropping to my knees beside her. "I've got you," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "Just hang on." I carefully pull her hand away from the wound and press a wad of paper towels against it, applying pressure.
Sarah's face contorts in pain, but she nods weakly. "Thanks... Diana..." Her voice trails off as she loses consciousness, her body going limp.
I stare at her lifeless form, my heart sinking. This can't be happening. It's just a nightmare, and I'll wake up any second now. But the screams and moans around me, the acrid stench of death, tell me otherwise. This is real.
Suddenly, the building shudders violently, and the lights flicker ominously. A low rumble builds in the distance, growing louder by the second. I glance out the window, my blood running cold as I see a massive fireball engulfing the lower floors. Flames lick at the windows, threatening to consume everything in their path.
The building is going to collapse. We have to get out of here, now.
I look around frantically for an escape route, but the doors are blocked by panicked employees. Desperation sets in as I realize we're trapped. The fireball grows closer, and the heat becomes unbearable. Sweat drips down my face, and my lungs burn from the smoke.
In a moment of clarity, I remember the emergency stairwell. It's our only hope. I grab Sarah's limp body and heave her over my shoulder, ignoring the pain that shoots through my back. With her dead weight dragging me down, I stumble towards the stairwell door.
As I reach for the handle, a deafening roar fills the air. The building lurches again, and the floor beneath us gives way. I feel myself falling, plummeting downwards with Sarah's lifeless body in my arms. Time seems to slow as we hurtle through the air, the world a blur of smoke and flames.
Then, everything goes black.
When I come to, I'm disoriented and groggy. My head throbs, and my body aches all over. I try to sit up, but a wave of nausea washes over me, forcing me back down. Blinking away the haze, I take stock of my surroundings.
I'm in some kind of alleyway, the walls covered in graffiti and littered with trash. The acrid smell of smoke still clings to my clothes, and I can taste the bitterness on my tongue. Sarah's body is still draped over my shoulder, her face pale and cold.
I gently slide her off me and cradle her head in my lap. Her eyes are open, but they're empty, staring into nothingness. I press my fingers against her neck, searching for a pulse, but there's nothing. She's gone.
Tears stream down my face as grief and horror wash over me. We were just colleagues, coworkers, friends. Now she's dead, and I'm left to pick up the pieces of this nightmare.
I look around the alley again, taking in the devastation. The skyscraper is a smoldering ruin, its steel frame twisted and charred. Emergency responders are already arriving, their flashing lights casting an eerie glow over the scene.
With a heavy heart, I stand up, brushing off my clothes. I have to get out of here, away from this hellish place. I start walking, not knowing where I'm going or what comes next, but I know I can't stay here.
As I disappear into the crowd, I glance back at the ruins of our office building, a sense of dread settling in my stomach. This isn't over. There are more horrors to come, and I'll have to face them head-on if I want to survive. But for now, all I can do is keep moving forward, one step at a time.
EXAMPLE #2 - Temp = 1.5
Start a 1000 word scene (vivid, graphic horror in first person), POV character Diana, with: The skyscraper sways, as I watch the window in front of me on the 21st floor explode...
The skyscraper sways, as I watch the window in front of me on the 21st floor explode. Glass shards cascade into the street like razor rain, and I instinctively duck lower into my cubicle's cubbyhole. My heart pounds in my chest like a snare drum.
"Security alert, floor 21!" booms the voice on the PA system, a metallic shrill that cuts through the office cacophony of keyboards clacking and murmurs of surprise. "Evacuate the premises immediately. Do not attempt to contact emergency services."
Panic sets in, a creeping frost along my spine as I realize the building's been breached. I glance around, trying to locate the nearest exit, but it's obscured by desks and chairs. The cubicles' thin walls won't offer much protection if whatever has invaded the building decides to come after me.
A scream pierces the air outside my tiny sanctuary, followed by a fuselage of gunfire. My coworkers are no match for whatever horror lurks in our midst. Desperation makes my fingers fly across my keyboard as I try to access our network's security systems, but it's like trying to climb an insurmountable mountain through quicksand.
In the corner of my vision, a figure emerges from the shattered window, crawling over the sill. A young woman with matted hair, her eyes wild and white-rimmed, covered in blood and gore. She drags herself towards the office door, leaving a trail of viscera in her wake, and collapses with a sickening crunch as she hits the floor.
She tries to lift her head, but it flops limply back to the carpet, a glistening red ribbon draped across her cheek like a gruesome bandage. She moans, a sound that makes my bowels churn. I should help her, tend to her wounds, but there's no time and probably nothing I can do anyway.
My phone buzzes, the screen lighting up with a message from an unknown number. The text reads: "RUN." A chill courses through me at the ominous brevity.
I crawl out from my cubicle and make for the nearest door, ready to slam it shut behind me as I bolt for the stairs. But when I reach it, I find myself face-to-face with another intruder—a man clad in a tactical vest, wielding an assault rifle that looks like it was stolen straight from a warzone.
His eyes are blacker than coal, and his skin is deathly pale. A twisted smirk contorts his lips, revealing teeth filed down to sharp points. He lowers the gun, pointing it straight at me, and speaks in a voice as cold as a grave:
"You shouldn't have tried to hide."
In a flash, he raises the weapon again. I scream, throwing myself aside just as the barrel erupts into a maelstrom of bullets. Chunks of plaster explode from the wall where I once stood, raining down on me like hail. The stench of gunpowder fills the air.
Rolling onto my stomach, I dash towards another cubicle, praying it's empty so I can dive inside for cover. I yank open the door and barely register the young man inside before the shooter's gunfire follows, blasting apart the cubicle's frame, peppering my back with debris. I squeeze myself deeper into the shadows, my breaths coming in ragged gasps.
There has to be another way out, some kind of escape from this living nightmare. Maybe—probably—the stairs aren't safe anymore. My eyes scan the room, trying to locate an alternative exit. And that's when I see it—a door hidden behind a partition, presumably leading to some kind of service corridor or maintenance area.
I edge out of the cubicle, my body screaming at me to stay put but my mind insisting on survival. Keeping low, I creep towards the door, trying to make no noise on the polished floor. The shooter is focused on the other end of the room; I don't think he's noticed me yet.
Reaching the partition, I flatten myself against it, inching along until my fingers brush the metal doorknob. My heart thunders in my chest like a runaway train as I turn it slowly and cautiously, praying it won't creak. It clicks open silently.
I slip inside, closing the door behind me. The instant darkness is a relief compared to the cacophony of violence on the other side. I press myself against the wall, ears straining to detect any pursuit.
There's only silence. But I know that silence never lasts in this building. With every tick of the clock, the shooter could turn the corner, his weapon trained on me. My only chance is to find another exit, preferably one that leads out of this forsaken skyscraper.
With trembling hands, I fumble along the wall for a light switch and flip it up. The corridor erupts in blinding fluorescent brightness. I shield my eyes, blinking furiously as I take stock of my surroundings.
The service hall is narrow, lined with metal ductwork and pipes that groan under pressure. It reeks of dust and decay. The concrete floor beneath my feet feels cold and unforgiving.
I start to move cautiously down the hallway, casting nervous glances behind me every few steps. If the shooter was tracking my movements, he'll expect me to keep going in a straight line. Maybe I can lose him by veering off course or doubling back.
At a T-junction, I pause, my eyes darting left and right. The corridor on my left appears to dead-end, but the one to the right seems to stretch on for a ways before terminating in a large, locked door.
A door that, given the circumstances, might lead to freedom.
I take a deep breath and turn right, dreading what I might find behind it. There's no time to hesitate. Every second counts. As I round the bend, my footsteps echoing off the walls, I realize I have no idea where this door actually leads—could be another stairwell, or an elevator shaft, or God knows what.
All I can do is keep moving and hope that luck—or whatever twisted providence brought me to this moment—is on my side. The door at the end of the hall looms ahead like a specter of salvation or damnation. There's only one way to find out which it will be.
EXAMPLE #3 - Temp = 1.5 (full prose instructions/detailed prompt)
In the style of Ernest Hemingway and Stephen King: Write a scene in a larger story about a woman that is watching a window explode on the 21 floor of a building that starts to sway, then the scene escalates into greater danger by the minute, takes a "horror" twist and finally ends in visceral graphic horror. The scene is set in an office and it is graphic horror. It should carry the jadedness of a seasoned combatant but with a wry humor. Write in Hemingway's voice, naturally: Use short, declarative sentences and simple, straightforward language. Add a dash of Stephen King's horror style - no warning, it just happens. Include dialogue that is terse and revealing of character. Write with a keen sense of time and place. Capture realness and authenticity. Scene Length: 1000-1500 words. POV STYLE: Write the scene from the perspective of the woman and in present tense and first person perspective ("I") and include short thoughts only.
I sat at my desk on the twenty-first floor, staring out at the city grid below. It's always better to see the devastation firsthand than to have some talking head on TV try to explain it to you. Another terrorist attack. Nothing new. The bomb detonated on the opposite side of the street. Debris and flames spewed everywhere.
Glass from the broken windows on my floor tinkled down like hailstones. People screamed as the building swayed violently, an earthquake gone wrong. My grip on the edge of my desk tightened.
The man in the office across the aisle from me staggered out into the hallway, his tie askew and blood trickling down his temple. "Somebody get a paramedic up here!" he yelled over the chaos.
The secretary's desk by the door caved inward as the building continued to shudder. Papers, pens and staplers cascaded across the floor like a landslide. My chair hit the ground with a thud, sending me sprawling on all fours.
The bomb outside had caused enough damage already. It didn't seem possible this could get any worse. But then came the low rumble beneath my palms, building in intensity until the whole room began to quake violently. Concrete and rebar groaned, straining against their own weight, as the foundation of our office building finally gave way.
My body flew across the room, smashing into the wall beside the window. I struggled to rise, only for a beam from the collapsing ceiling to slam down on me with the force of a sledgehammer. Blood pooled in my ears, blocking out everything but the scream inside my skull.
This was what they meant by "ground zero." This was how the world ended, in a cacophony of crashing steel and snapping concrete and the sound of your own spine shattering. And through it all, there was nothing else: only pain and panic and the absolute certainty of your own impending doom.
I stared into the chasm that used to be my office as the dust cleared, revealing a corpse hanging upside down from what remained of the floor, eyes bulging and tongue lolling out like a broken doll. The stench of charred flesh filled my nostrils. I coughed, my throat on fire.
"Looks like we made it," a voice rasped from my left.
I turned to see the man from across the aisle crawling out from under his desk, his face covered in soot and grime but very much alive. The blood trickling down his temple had stopped and was already scabbing over. I wondered if he was as messed up on the inside as he looked on the outside.
"You're a mess," I said, wincing at the sound of my own voice - gravelly from dust and smoke.
He flashed a mirthless grin. "Thanks for noticing." He spat on the floor beside him before dragging himself closer to me.
"Think we should get out of here?" I suggested, trying not to look at the body swinging from the hole in the ceiling.
The man hesitated, his eyes flicking up toward the corpse as if calculating the odds of making it out alive. "Sure," he said finally, before pulling himself upright with a grimace of pain. "We can die somewhere cleaner, at least."
I nodded and we shuffled out into the hallway, our footsteps echoing off the walls in the deafening silence that followed the chaos of collapse. We moved with an unnatural grace, as if floating across the bloodstained carpet toward whatever awaited us beyond the door - death, or survival, or maybe both. The world outside was already burning, but we had to try, because that's what you do. You keep moving, no matter how shattered you are. That's just how it is.