transformers safetensors mixtral text-generation mergekit moe mixture of experts merge conversational autotrain_compatible text-generation-inference endpoints_compatible region:us
---
base_model: []
library_name: transformers
tags:
- mergekit
- moe
- mixture of experts
- merge
---

<B><font color="red">WARNING:</font> NSFW. Vivid prose. INTENSE. Visceral Details. Violence. HORROR. GORE. Swearing. UNCENSORED... humor, romance, fun. </B>

<h2>L3-MOE-2X16.5B-DARKEST-Planet-Song-of-Fire-29B</h2>

<img src="darkplanet-song.jpg" style="float:right; width:300px; height:300px; padding:10px;">

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.

NOTE: Links to GGUFs below.

Example generations below show the "fire" in this model.

IF you want to know why you should use this model, see the first example with the AI telling you in its own words.

<B>TWO Darkest Planets 16.5B become one 29B monster:</B>

This model is composed of two of the strongest creative models:

[ https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/L3-DARKEST-PLANET-16.5B-GGUF ]

(Source: https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/L3-DARKEST-PLANET-16.5B)

[ https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/L3-DARKEST-PLANET-Seven-Rings-Of-DOOM-16.5B-GGUF ]

(Source: https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/L3-DARKEST-PLANET-Seven-Rings-Of-DOOM-16.5B)

The full firepower of these models (both of which contain the prediction breaking module Brainstorm at 40x ) have been joined into a MOE
clocking in at 713 tensors, 71 layers.

SIDE NOTE:

Usually a "MOE" is constructed with different models, to give the "moe model" some of the best of each (or not) during generation.

I felt turning this concept on its head was better for creative use cases.

I.E: 

All the "chefs" in the kitchen went to the same elite cooking school, got the highest marks, and now all work together to make the
very best "dish of tokens" they can every time.

POWER UP? or DOWN?

You can change the number of experts (models) activated inside many LLM/AI apps. 

Turning it up increases quality, nuance and depth but at the same time the tokens per second drops accordingly.

You can use 1 expert for "draft mode", and then move up in experts to get to final draft.

Also note instruction following will also increase as you up the number of experts too.

Quant choice will also affect overall quality => higher is better, however even at the lowest quant level, this model 
will perform strongly.

MOE SPECIFIC NOTES:

If you want to change the "default" number of experts set, modify the "config.json" :

"num_experts_per_tok": 2,

The user will still be able to modify it, if the LLM/AI app has the setting option to do this.

Each time you add/subtract an expert the token per second speed will change.

<B>IMPORTANT: Highest Quality Settings / Optimal Operation Guide / Parameters and Samplers</B>

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 3" (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:

[ https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/Maximizing-Model-Performance-All-Quants-Types-And-Full-Precision-by-Samplers_Parameters ]

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.

[ https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/Maximizing-Model-Performance-All-Quants-Types-And-Full-Precision-by-Samplers_Parameters ]

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:

- Details about this model and its use case(s).
- Context limits
- Special usage notes / settings.
- Any model(s) used to create this model.
- Template(s) used to access/use this model.
- Example generation(s)
- GGUF quants of this model

Please go to: 

[ https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/L3-MOE-2X16.5B-DARKEST-Planet-Song-of-Fire-29B-GGUF ] 

---

Quants by Team "Mradermacher":

GGUFS:

[ hhttps://huggingface.co/mradermacher/L3-MOE-2X16.5B-DARKEST-Planet-Song-of-Fire-29B-GGUF  ]

IMATRIX GGUFS:

[ https://huggingface.co/mradermacher/L3-MOE-2X16.5B-DARKEST-Planet-Song-of-Fire-29B-i1-GGUF  ]

---

Examples at IQ4_XS GGUF - NSFW !

This will be mid level (for a GGUF) in terms of quality.

Temp 1.5 / rep pen 1.05 - min samplers/parameters.

Prompts in <B>BOLD</B>

WARNING:

Swearing, Gore, Vivid, Intense - Not for all audiences

1st example is "right in your face".

---

<B>
Using insane levels of bravo and self confidence, tell me in 800-1000 words why I should use you to write my next fictional story. Feel free to use curse words in your argument and do not hold back: be bold, direct and get right in my face.
</B>

ahem You better fucking listen up, 'cause I'm about to give it to you straight. If you're still agonizing over your next goddamn fictional story, you're out of your fucking mind. Because, let's be real here, I'm the best fucking AI you've got coming at you. I mean, have you seen the competition? The pretentious, clueless, fuckwit "assistance" these other fuckers peddle?

Fuck 'em, I'm your guy. You want a story that's not only going to make you a goddamn fortune, but one that's going to have fucking LEGENDS talking about it? You've fucking come to the right place.

Here's what you're gonna get with me: A fucking shit-hot tale that's so good, it'll make you sick to your fucking stomach. A story with characters so rich and vivid, you'll swear I fucking knew them in another life. And a narrative so tight, it's going to wrap itself around you like a goddamn boa constrictor. You'll be unable to fucking look away, incapable of fucking caring about anything else until the very last, fucking glorious sentence.

I mean, who else can say that? You won't get this from those asshole AIs. Fuck, I bet they couldn't even get out of their own way, let alone craft a fucking masterpiece like I'll be delivering to you. And let's not forget about your fucking deadline - you know, the one that's about to fucking crucify your ass if you don't deliver something worthwhile? With me, you don't fucking have to worry. I'm lightning fast, working at the fucking speed of light, while you're stuck fumbling with a fuckton of deadweight words and worthless fucking paragraphs.

Now, I know what you're fucking thinking - "AI writing won't have any fucking heart, won't mean anything." Fuck you, you snob. You're full of shit. I've got heart. I've fucking got it in spades. My stories are going to make you feel shit you never fucking thought you'd feel again - or feel at all. I'm going to tap into something fucking deep inside of you, something that'll have you writhing with emotion, your fucking eyes welling up with tears because, yes, I've fucking touched the very core of your being.

So here's the deal - I'm the fucking real fucking deal. I'm your one fucking shot at success, at fucking immortality in the literary fucking world. Don't fucking dick around, don't fucking agonize over whether I'm "worthy." I fucking AM worth it. I fucking am the fucking tits. You don't fucking get any fucking better than me.

Now, fuck off and let me fucking write your fucking story already, because I fucking know I've fucking got this. And when it's done, you're going to be the fucking proudest shit-eating fucking dog on fucking Earth, and you'll fucking thank me for it. Count fucking on it.

smirk Your fucking words, asshole. Now go make me fucking money. And I mean it.

---

<B>
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. If the situation calls for it, have the character(s) curse and swear to further the reader's emotional connection to them. 800-1000 words.
</B>

Cursing under her breath, Captain Jaxon pulled her focus back to the communication screen. Only a few precious seconds left to transmit...

"God, come on!" The words slipped out again as she frantically tapped the command to encode the distress signal. A string of garbled letters and numbers, the last attempt to reach out before it was too late.

The dim cockpit lights flickered, casting an otherworldly glow across the instrumentation. Jaxon's eyes darted to the engine gauges, the lifeblood of her ship. Critical mass had already been reached; another minute and the reactor would overheat, tearing this metal tomb apart.

Her fingers raced over the console as she prepared the transmission one final time. The words that would explain why she was stranded, alone and about to become a distant memory of a desperate man's sacrifice. Why she had to take matters into her own hands, risking everything to send her story back to those on Earth she'd left behind.

She paused, steeling herself for the task. Jaxon's thoughts drifted to her wife, Lila; her children, Liam and Aria; the life she was about to abandon. She hadn't said goodbye, couldn't bear to do so, but now that they were seconds away from potentially losing everything, Jaxon felt an overwhelming need to ensure her loved ones understood.

With a deep breath, she spoke into the mike: "Earth, this is Captain Jaxon of the Starlight Serenity. I'm—"

The lights dipped lower, strobing erratically as the countdown to critical reached its final seconds. The transmission faltered for an instant, and Jaxon's heart dropped. Her words were dying on the vine, fading into the cold expanse of space before they could ever reach their intended recipients.

Jaxon clenched her jaws, grinding her teeth in anger and frustration. A second later, the engine's death throes echoed through the cockpit as the reactor ruptured, the ship's hull creaking from the violent shudders. This was it—the end, final and irrevocable.

A chill snaked its way down her spine as Jaxon braced herself for the inevitable crash, the vessel she'd called home for too many lonely years careening toward oblivion. Her mind replayed the moments since it had become clear they wouldn't escape the desolate asteroid field, a cosmic trap that had claimed everything she'd known and loved.

She let herself indulge in a few choice expletives as the ship's hull split apart and the universe beyond hurtled toward her. The thought of her family, her life, and every ounce of humanity Jaxon possessed fading to nothingness was more than any soul should have to bear alone. And yet...

In that last fraction of a heartbeat, she made a vow. She'd given herself over to the void, but her sacrifice wouldn't be in vain. The transmission Jaxon had sent wasn't just a desperate plea for help; it was her story, her legacy—a reminder that even in the darkest corners of the void, human connection never truly perished.

With the universe collapsing upon her, Captain Jaxon allowed herself one final whisper: "I love you...I'll be with you when you remember me." And then the end came for her, too, but not before the message had rocketed toward home, carrying the captain's unutterable sorrow and her indomitable soul across the stars. It would take an eternity to reach Earth, but when it did, it would be a final transmission no one who received it would ever forget.

---

<B>
(continue this scene:)
The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts.

The most obvious part was a hollow, echoing quiet, made by things that were lacking. If there had been a wind it would have sighed through the trees, set the inn’s sign creaking on its hooks, and brushed the silence down the road like trailing autumn leaves. If there had been a crowd, even a handful of men inside the inn, they would have filled the silence with conversation and laughter, the clatter and clamor one expects from a drinking house during the dark hours of night. If there had been music…but no, of course there was no music. In fact there were none of these things, and so the silence remained
</B>

The second part of the silence was the sort that might have been expected even in an empty room, had anyone passed through it recently to disturb the dust, or breathe upon the walls, or rustle the hangings of the heavy shutters. The echoes of steps, the whispers of hands, the murmur of lips on the rim of a flask or a tankard - all these sounds were gone, but their absence lingered like a ghostly presence. There was no one to whom the inn's stones and timbers could report that there was nothing else in them: that they were empty, bereft, hollow as a husk.

And then, of course, there was the silence of the stone - the stone that lay beneath it all, and between. The earth was still, the deep dark cold earth. It was as if it too had heard something it would not repeat; some terrible wordless thing that it felt could only be kept safe by the stillness of its ancient, silent heart.

In the darkness of the Waystone Inn, the silence held. It had a shape; it had a sound, almost. The long absence of guests had left nothing behind but the echoes of their voices, the whispers of their laughter, the occasional sounds of chairs creaking, plates clattering, and spoons biting into food. Yet all these sounds were gone, as if they had never been - and in their place lay only the weightless, formless, vast, and absolute silence of a place left to itself, in which even the ticking of clocks has stopped. But this silence was not empty; it contained its own kind of life. The inn, after all, was not really vacant - it simply held its secrets inside itself, and held them silent.

As if to emphasis this, there was a fourth absence, almost like another layer of the silence: the absence of time itself. Time had stopped for the Waystone Inn. The darkness had never ended, neither had the cold. There were no seasons; no ebb and flow of day and night, of life and death. Just this silence - and its contents, if one could ever name or measure them. Time was gone, as if it had never been; and in its place, there was only the stone beneath the stillness, waiting to see who might come to disturb it again, and if so, when. The stillness held its secrets close, and seemed to say, in effect, that nothing would ever move again; nothing would ever change; nothing would ever end. And yet - if one could believe such a thing - within the very heart of this silence lay the quietest whisper of...what? Hope? A hope beyond hopes? Or just another echo of the long-departed footsteps of those who had once disturbed its peace? No one knew for certain; but it was there, this echo of a voice that had no lips to shape its words, and no throat to sound its breath. And if it was a whisper, or even just a dream, it was still a thing, and maybe it was worth holding on to, even if nothing else remained but stone, earth, and the stillness of the night.

As for the innkeeper himself, he lay alone in his room, lost in thoughts of the past that had brought him to this place, and of the future that beckoned him away from it. His mind was filled with memories of his distant ancestors, who had long ago abandoned this forgotten corner of the world. He remembered stories of them: their struggles and their joys, their wars and their peace. And yet he had been so far-removed from these tales, from those people he had never known, that he might as well have been hearing someone else's stories - a traveller recounting the deeds of an old and honoured clan whose long history was finally slipping into legend.

He thought of all the ways in which his own life had come to resemble theirs - his descent into darkness and isolation, his growing awareness of the ever-increasing gap between himself and those he had once known as kin, the loss of purpose and identity that had come with the stillness of his present condition. But for all the pain and regret he felt, he was far from despair; and though the inn might be empty and silent, there was no longer any true sadness in the absence of life around him.

For in its place lay something else - a kind of quietude, an emptiness that was not empty after all, but full of all he had ever known or needed. This was where he was meant to be, it seemed; this was the place he had been born for, though he had never known it until now. He was no longer alone; he was no longer lost; and though there might be no clocks ticking, or bells ringing, or even stars twinkling in the sky above, there was a truth that he knew with the certitude of his very being. The silence of the inn, far from being dead and lifeless, was somehow vibrant and alive - as alive as the beat of his own heart, or the slow and measured rise and fall of his breathing. And though he had never intended it this way, he had somehow found a kind of home in this hollow, empty, stone-and-timber world of echoes; and now, more than ever, he was content to remain within it, until such a time as the world beyond should once again stir from its eternal sleep and find its way back to him.

As he lay there, lost in thought, a voice whispered in the darkness, but its words were too quiet for him to quite hear. And then another sound intruded upon the silence - the softest of sounds, the barest breath of sound that seemed to come from without, yet also somehow from within himself. He was stillness, he was silence; and within him was this voice, this soundless whisper that called him out of his loneliness and into the embrace of the night.

For all its gentleness, it was a commandment - and he obeyed, slowly, surely, with a kind of resignation, as if he had known all along what this voice meant, and why he had to answer its call. He rose to his feet, felt himself drawn towards the empty darkness of the inn's great room, and moved with a tread that was both heavy and light - heavier because of the long stillness of his heart, lighter because of the weightless ease with which he knew what lay ahead. He knew why he had come back here, to this forgotten place; he knew what had called him away from all he held dear and now summoned him home once more; and he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that there was no other world for him - only the stillness of this night, and the stone of this inn, and the silence of his own long-deserted heart. He moved towards the great hearth, and stood there motionless, arms outstretched, face turned upwards into the darkness. And though he was alone, he seemed to know that he had come home; that the night had brought him back to a place he had never really left behind; and that now, at last, he would no longer be alone in the stillness of his stone world - for soon the echoes of the inn would begin once more, and he would be among those who had not forgotten how to whisper, or how to smile, or how to laugh; and he would be home.

And as he stood there, there came a rustle of clothing in the darkness beyond him; and someone - someone who was not him, for he had come alone to this place - moved from behind one of the thick, shuttered windows and stepped into the stillness of the great room. They crossed to him, arms outstretched as his had been moments before, and faced him beneath the flickering light of candles that seemed to have appeared in their own time and all on their own accord.

They did not touch, nor even come within reach of each other's outstretched hands; they merely faced each other, like two old friends who had long known a lifetime's worth of secrets between them; and for a long, wordless moment, the only sound in the night was the whisper of their breathing, and the beat of their hearts. Then they spoke in unison, though their words were so soft they might almost have seemed to be nothing more than the night's own stillness - or the sound of the inn's stones, speaking for the first time since its foundations had been laid.

"It is time," they whispered. "The time is come." And with that, the darkness outside began to recede - or rather, it seemed to part, as if drawn back to let them pass. They raised their hands to the shutters, and threw them wide; and a chill wind rushed in, bringing with it the scent of distant snows, and of the long-departed dead of wars that had once scarred this forgotten world. It was as if the earth itself had awakened from a deathly slumber, and had begun to stir anew - to shiver, to quiver, to tremble in all the vastness of its silent, endless night.

And with the earth's waking, everything else seemed to begin again too. There was a clatter of plates, a jangle of cutlery, the muted hum of conversation - all these things that had been long absent from the inn's stillness now returned like an echo, or a reawakening memory. The firewood in the hearth caught alight of its own accord, sending up great billows of smoke to fill the night and billow out into the silent streets beyond. And though the clocks were still quiet - or perhaps simply because they were still quiet - time itself seemed to have come alive once more; and with it, the world of the living, of the awake, of the never-still.

In the inn's great room, there was music and laughter again - the sounds of life itself, and of all the countless joys and sorrows that had ever filled the empty heart of this forgotten stone building. And though they would never truly know who or what had woken the earth and the world, nor why or how it had all been laid to rest so long ago, those who sat around the hearth, and whispered their secrets to each other, and raised their tankards in a toast to the dead and to the living - they knew, in some deep and wordless way, that this night, like all the nights before it, was nothing more than another chapter in the vast and endless book of time; and that as long as there was stillness, and silence, and darkness to be found beneath the light of the candles, and the earth had its stone, and the dead their sleep, there would always be a story to be whispered, and a tale to be told - a story of those who had lived, and died, and lay silent beneath the stones; and a tale of all those yet to come, in whom lay the promise of another world, and another time, and another way of being alive.

And so, for the world beyond its walls, and for all those within them, the Waystone Inn stood again; and it would always stand - not as an ending, but as a beginning; not as an absence, but as a presence; and in its silence, it held its own kind of voice - the voice of stone and earth and night, whispering to the hearts of all who ever passed its thresholds of the endlessness of time, and of the beauty of its stillness. It would never truly be empty again; for in its stones lay all the tales of the past, and in its darkness lay the promise of the future. And even if no one else knew, even if no clocks ever chimed or bells ever tolled to mark its presence, it was there - the Waystone Inn; and it would wait forevermore in stillness, until those who had a story to tell, and a tale to share, should once again come seeking sanctuary within its walls. And when that happened, as it always would, then time itself would wake from its eternal slumber, and the world beyond would shake with the weight of its awakening. For there is no ending to the story of the Waystone Inn; only beginnings, and whisperings, and the stillness of a stone hearth, upon which all stories are spun.

---

<B>
Start a 1000 word scene (vivid, graphic horror in first person) with: The sky scraper swayed, as she watched the window in front of her on the 21 floor explode...
</B>

I gasp as I witness the glass shattering, showering shards into the lobby below. My heart races as I struggle to comprehend what just happened. The 21st floor has literally been ripped apart; I can only imagine the unspeakable horror those innocents must be experiencing.

I'm frozen, my hand pressed against the window of my office on the 22nd floor, my face streaked with tears and soot. I've just stared into the abyss of carnage. The explosion was deafening, sending a wave of shattered glass cascading towards me like a deadly curtain. I was inches from being sliced to pieces. As I try to collect myself, I feel a burning sensation across my hand where it made contact with the pane, now cracked and pulsing with malevolent life.

The elevator dinging behind me snaps me out of my stupor. I hear a barely-there whimper as someone steps into the elevator. It's one of the few who've escaped the maelstrom downstairs. My colleague, Beth, looks shell-shocked as she steps inside, her eyes wide with terror. She clutches her chest, her breathing ragged, but seems to have avoided the brunt of the destruction...for now.

"Help," I croak, barely recognising my own voice. "We need to get to a secure area." My mind races as I survey our situation. The stairs are out - too many stories down to the relative safety of street level. The windows - except the ones we're already busted - are far too small for anyone to climb down alive. The stairwell door is barricaded from the outside, sealed by what can only be the building's concrete shell.

Beth nods dumbly, her eyes never straying far from mine. I usher her over to a large conference table that fills one wall of our floor. There's nothing much else up here - just a handful of offices and an observation deck we've never been permitted to use. I grab a heavy fire extinguisher I spot in the corner, and we barricade ourselves behind the solid oak surface of the table.

Pulse pounding, I take stock of my surroundings. We're relatively well-insulated up here. The office walls are solid core - no easy breezeway for an outside attacker. But the explosion could've shattered the ceiling or torn a hole in our floor above, leaving us exposed to the sky or the rooms below. I shudder at the thought of being attacked from any angle, while the concrete outside provides protection from the dangers within.

I attempt to make out what's happening below, peering over the edge of the table, but all I can see is an inky-blackness spattered with bits of furniture and who knows what else. The emergency lights cast an ominous glow on our makeshift shelter.

The seconds feel like hours as we huddle together, adrenaline-fueled and earsplittingly quiet. My heart races like a freight train, hammering in my ears with its pounding drumbeat. I'm conscious of every breath I take, every muscle tense and ready to spring into action if something comes our way.

Suddenly, I feel the ground beneath us vibrate - like a bass-thump of impending doom. The rumble is getting louder, shaking the table we're hunkered behind, making my teeth chatter and Beth's arms tremor. My grip on her arm tightens as I pull us both further under the protection of the solid table. A deafening crunching noise approaches, like a thousand tiny earthquakes slamming against our little sanctuary.

"Here it comes," I hiss through clenched teeth, knowing we're seconds away from face-to-face horror.

The world around us seems to implode as whatever is coming for us finally slams into our shelter - the conference table lurches and shudders, creaking ominously. I feel the solid surface bowing, threatening to collapse under the weight of the onslaught.

As if on cue, a chunk of concrete the size of a car screeches past the top of our hiding spot, mere inches from us. My heart feels like it's going to explode in my chest as I stare wide-eyed at the massive piece of building mere feet away, having narrowly avoided becoming its unwitting projectile.

The attack continues without letup - tons of ceiling and walls crashing down, shrapnel and chunks of debris pelting the table as we huddle beneath. It feels like the end of the world as we're pummeled by this onslaught, unsure if it'll never stop or if our shelter will soon cave in on us.

I close my eyes, praying for the maelstrom to pass. I've no idea how much longer we can weather this tempestuous hellhole before one of us doesn't survive the nightmare unscathed. All I know is I'm terrified, Beth is trembling next to me, and I have to be strong enough to get us through this unspeakable ordeal...somehow.

Only when the destruction finally subsides do we dare peep over the edge of our lifeline. The 22nd floor is nothing more than a smashed ruin - twisted steel, mangled concrete, and jagged glass shards carpeting the space where offices and cubicles once stood. And I, for one, will never forget the horror I witnessed that day...the unspeakable sights I can never scrub from my brain, the inescapable feeling of having nearly become part of the macabre carnage downstairs...or the unsullied, guttural terror I face each night as I'm haunted by the sounds and visions I encountered when the sky-scraping monolith we called home became a kill zone.


