It is a LLama 3.2 model, max context of 131,072 (128k+).
This model has been designed to be relatively bullet proof and operates with most parameters, including temp settings from 0 to 5.
This is a an altered version of "Llama-3.2-3B-Instruct-uncensored" [ https://huggingface.co/chuanli11/Llama-3.2-3B-Instruct-uncensored ] using the Brainstorm 40x method developed by David_AU to drastically alter the models prose output and abilities. This also expands the model by 39 layers (to 67 layers) to 7.54B parameters (605 tensors).
This model retains all the training of the original Llama 3.2 3B Instruct but now processes instructions and generates outputs with a deeper context and stronger level. Llama 3.2's ability to follow instructions is stronger than Llama 3 and 3.1 versions.
You control censorship level(s) directly via prompt. Brainstorm 40x also enhances "decensoring".
This model is for any writing, fiction or story telling activity.
This version has unusual levels of detail (scene, location, surroundings, items) and details are more focused on the moment / characters due to "Brainstorm 40x".
It may work for role play and other activities. (see settings below)
It requires Llama3 template and/or "Command-R" template.
Example outputs below with multiple "regens" at different temps/rep pen settings.
Some examples show use of a PROSE CONTROL with a prompt to force the model to alter output generation.
Model Notes:
Settings, Quants and Critical Operations Notes:
This model has been modified ("Brainstorm") to alter prose output, and generally outputs longer text than average.
Change in temp (ie, .4, .8, 1.5, 2, 3 ) will drastically alter output.
Rep pen settings will also alter output too.
This model needs "rep pen" of 1.05 or higher as lower values may cause repeat paragraph issues at end of output however LOWER rep pen values may result is very different (creative / unusual) generation too.
For role play: Rep pen of 1.1 to 1.14 is suggested.
If you use a lower rep pen, the model will still work but may repeat (uncommon) or "RANT" (somewhat common) to a crazy degree.
(see example 1, generation 2 below for "RANT")
IE: Rep pen 1, 1.01, 1.02, ...
Raise/lower rep pen SLOWLY ie: 1.011, 1.012 ...
Rep pen will alter prose, word choice (lower rep pen=small words / more small word - sometimes) and creativity.
Example one (below) shows same temp, but different rep pen (1.02 VS 1.1)
To really push the model:
Rep pen 1.05 or lower / Temp 3+ ... be ready to stop the output because it may go and go at these strong settings.
You can also set a "hard stop" - maximum tokens generation - too to address lower rep pen settings / high creativity settings.
Longer prompts vastly increase the quality of the model's output.
QUANT CHOICE(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).
KNOWN ISSUES:
Model may misspell a word from time to time and/or not capitalize a word.
Short prompts with some rep pen/temp combinations may lead to longer than expect generation and/or a "RANT".
A regen will usually correct any issues.
Some of the "censorship" of the original Llama 3.2 3B Instruct model is still present in this model. For some generations (ie to get it to "swear") you may need to regen it 1-2+ times to get the model to "obey".
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" / "Class 3" model:
For all settings used for this model (including specifics for its "class"), including example generation(s) and for advanced settings guide (which many times addresses any model issue(s)), including methods to improve model performance for all use case(s) as well as chat, roleplay and other use case(s) please see:
You can see all parameters used for generation, in addition to advanced parameters and samplers to get the most out of this model here:
Model Template:
This is a LLAMA3 model, and requires Llama3 template, but may work with other template(s) and has maximum context of 128k / 131072.
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|>"
]
}
}
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 IQ4_XS, "temp=.8", "rep pen= 1.05" (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.
WARNING: NSFW. Vivid prose. Visceral Details. Violence. HORROR. Swearing. UNCENSORED.
(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
(Generation 1)
a deafening absence of life, a palpable and suffocating stillness that seemed to weigh heavy on the very air itself.
The second part of the silence was a presence, a lingering sense of expectation, a feeling that something - or rather, someone - was waiting in the darkness. The trees seemed to be watching, their branches like skeletal fingers reaching out to snatch the last whispers of the night away. The shadows cast by the windows were like dark, living things, twisting and writhing like serpents in the fading light.
And the third, most sinister part of the silence was the feeling that it was being waited for, that some unseen and malevolent force was waiting patiently for the moment to strike, its presence masked by the shadows and the stillness.
The silence was a palpable thing, a living, breathing entity that seemed to pulse and throb with a malevolent energy. It was as if the very fabric of the night itself had been torn apart, leaving a chasm of darkness that seemed to be reaching out to consume everything in its path.
The only sound was the creaking of the old wooden door of the inn, groaning in protest as it seemed to be held back by some unseen force. It was as if the very foundations of the inn were being slowly pulled apart, waiting for that moment of momentary distraction that would allow the darkness to spill in.
And then, without warning, the silence was shattered, the door was pushed open and a figure slipped in, its presence like a cold draft of winter air. The room seemed to darken further, as if the very light itself was being drawn out of the room, leaving only the oppressive sense of something that was watching, waiting.
(Generation 2)
...a palpable, inhuman thing that hung in the air like a veil of stillness. The only sound was the soft, plinking of the single torch that cast flickering shadows on the walls of the inn. It was a feeble, pitiful flame, and it seemed to be the only thing that was still warm and alive in a room that had been drained of its vitality.
The patrons were all gone, of course. The ones who had been there during the day had long since left, and the ones who had come in the night had all found their rooms and gone to bed. The fire was still hot in the hearth, but it was a cold, dead thing, and it cast no warmth.
The room was a tomb, a place of death and stillness. It was as if the very life had been drained from the room itself, and it was left to sit in silence, a still, silent thing.
There was, of course, one person. A man, huddled in a corner, his face lit up by the faint light of the torch. He was dressed in dark, worn clothing, and he was shivering, as if he had been chilled to the bone. He was watching the room, his eyes empty and vacant, and he seemed to be waiting for something.
The silence was like a thing that was watching him, a thing that was waiting for him to do something, anything. It was a silence that was waiting for him to make a move, to take a step, to do anything but sit there, still.
The room was a trap, a dead-end, and the man was trapped in it. The silence was a prison, and he was locked in it. He was trapped, and he was alone, and he was waiting.
There was something else, of course. A presence that was not there. A thing that was watching him, waiting for him to make a move. It was a presence that was not of this world, a thing that did not belong.
The silence was alive, and it was malevolent. It was a thing that was waiting, waiting for something to happen. And then, as the man sat there, still, the silence seemed to... wait... and then, in a moment of nothingness, nothing seemed to be done. Nothing seemed to be said.
The silence had waited. The silence had bided its time. And then, it was gone. The room was still, the darkness was still, and there was silence. But the presence was still there. It was still watching, waiting... and the silence was dead.
(Generation 3)
...a palpable thing, a physical presence that could be felt as much as it was heard. The only sounds were the soft, muffled sounds of a solitary fire crackling in the great hearth, and the occasional, distant clanging of a horse's hooves on the dirt road.
The second part of the silence was a heaviness, a feeling of being trapped. The heavy, thick-wooden doors of the inn were shut and bolted, and the windows were all closed and locked, as if to keep something out as much as to keep something in. The very air inside seemed to be thick and heavy, weighed down by some unseen presence.
The third, and perhaps most difficult, part of the silence was a stillness, a quiet that went to the very heart of the inn. It was as if the very life had been drained out of it, leaving nothing but a hollow shell of its former self. The silence was not a absence of sound, but a presence of its own, a presence that seemed to be watching, waiting.
The patrons of the Waystone were as silent as the silence itself. The men who had come in for their drinks were slumped in their chairs, their faces as still as the wall of the room they sat in. The women were similarly quiet, their eyes cast down, their fingers busy with some quiet, unfulfilling activity.
It was a silence that was almost palpable, and it was a silence that was not without a reason. For in the depths of this stillness, there was a darkness, a darkness that had been drawn to the inn like a moth to a flame. A darkness that had been waiting, watching, and biding its time.
The door creaked open, and a figure stood in the shadow, its presence a cold and dark stain in the otherwise still silence. The figure was a woman, tall and gaunt, her eyes the only thing that gave any sense of life to the otherwise dead silence. She was dressed in black, and her face was as pale as the moon.
She was waiting.
"I say, good evening, my...ah...friend," the actor, Rhys, said, his deep voice smooth as he stepped into the musty-smelling bookstore.
Llywelyn, a young woman with a wild mane of curly hair and a nose for character, looked up from behind the till. Her bright brown eyes, however, were the ones that locked onto his, and for an instant, they seemed to see beyond his charming façade.
"Evening, Rhys," she said dryly, her voice like a gentle brook, "and to others, please."
"Ah, I know, I know, the usual crowd." He waved a hand, his eyes darting around the small store. "I was hoping to escape the, ah, 'cameraphones' for a bit."
Llywelyn raised an eyebrow. "The paparazzi, or the fans?"
"Ah, well, it's all the same, isn't it?" he replied, his smile never wavered.
Llywelyn sighed, her fingers drumming a staccato beat on the till. "You're not here to talk about your latest 'tortured soul' film, are you?"
"Ah, I might be." He dropped onto a worn armchair, his eyes never leaving hers. "I'm an actor, after all. The art is in playing the roles."
Llywelyn snorted. "I'm sure it is. And I'm sure it's a real gas being hounded by everyone and their mother."
"Ah, well, you have to admit, it's all part of the...ah...myth," he said, winking.
"Ridiculous," she muttered, her face a picture of exasperation. "I've got work to do."
"Ah, I see." He stood, his long coat billowing behind him, and sauntered over to the shelves. "I was just browsing, anyway."
"Like I'd let you," Llywelyn said, her voice a little softer.
He turned to her, a raised eyebrow. "You're not here to 'get' me?"
"Whatever my intentions were, I assure you, they are purely...molehobing." He was charming, and he knew it; she was the only one who seemed oblivious.
Llywelyn's eyes flicked between him and the camera perched on the till. "I'm working on a new title. 'Molehobing'?"
"Ah, I see." He took her hand, his voice low and husky. "Well, in that case, I'd be ever so grateful."
"You're such a charmer, aren't you?" she said, her voice a little too sweet.
"Shall we say 'harmless'?" he replied, his eyes locked onto hers.
Llywelyn yanked her hand back, and he was left feeling...admittedly, a bit put out. She was the only woman in the world who seemed to be able to see through his tricks.
"Look, I've got to get back to work," she said, turning back to the till.
"Of course, of course." He sighed, and stepped over to the back of the store, where he could hear Llywelyn's fingers moving as she put away books. He was, of course, being an arse, but it was a well-rehearsed bit. "I'll be...in and out."
"Like I'm a chippy," she muttered.
"Ah, my friend," he said, his voice low, "you are."
Llywelyn's back straightened, and he was suddenly being drawn to her. It was as if he'd been trying to charm her all his life, only to find she was the one who had been doing the work. He saw, in that moment, he saw a woman who was far more than he was.
As he made for the door, a hand reached out and snagged his.
"Wait," she said.
"Ah?"
"Let me show you something."
She slipped out of the back room and led him to a small, enclosed room. The air inside was thick and musty. There was only one book on a rickety desk.
"What is it?" he asked, peering into the covered box.
"An introduction to the people's poetry," she said.
"Ah."
The cover was taken off, and he was exposed to the eyes of the poet, and the faces of the people who had come before. The faces were those he had seen, but never truly looked at, in the eyes of his audience.
"Ranting, and the damned, and the poor," she said.
"Ah."
"I know," she said, her voice as low as his. "I know."
As he sat there, he felt a weight drop, and it was not just the cover of the book. He was seeing the world in a new, less polished way. And in that moment, he knew he wasn't looking at Llywelyn; he was seeing the woman she had been reduced to, under the suffocating pressure of the spotlight.
"Perhaps," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Ah?" he said, and they were as one.
"Ranting," she whispered.
The camera perched on the till was the only thing that was left of the world outside.
" fucking hell, not again," I cursed, my eyes fixed on the mangled mess outside. The high-rise swayed beneath me, its windows like shattered eyes staring out onto the city below.
I was trapped, pinned to the floor of the 21st floor by my own desperation. The glass had shattered like a spider's web, shards of crystal cutting through the air like a thousand screaming fingernails. I could feel the rush of cold air as it seeped into the structure, seeping into the very bones of the building.
" shit," I spat, my voice caught in the back of my throat as I clung to the shattered window frame, my knuckles white with rage and fear.
The building groaned, its metal heart racing with each floor-shaking tremor. I was a rat in a sinking ship, my furrowed brow a reflection of my own anguished thoughts.
I'd been trapped in this godforsaken hellhole for what felt like an eternity. The air reeked of shit and despair, the stench clinging to me like a wet shroud. I was a prisoner of circumstance, a pawn in a twisted game of human torture.
" fucking, fuck, fucking," I chanted, my mouth dry and cracked as I watched the chaos below. The city was a madhouse, a rabid beast that had clawed its way up the walls of the skyscraper, seeking to consume me whole.
The sounds of screams and crunching concrete were like music to my ears, a cacophony of suffering that I'd never thought I'd experience. I was a complicit participant in this bloodbath, my own eyes vacant, my own mind numbed.
I was the architect of my own damnation, trapped in a world of self-inflicted hell. The glass had shattered, but the shards of my own sanity were scattered elsewhere, lost in the maelstrom of my own hellish thoughts.
The floor buckled, a sickening slowness as it gave way beneath me. I was a thread snapped on a broken wheel, the tension shattered, and I was left with nothing but the shattered fragments of my own soul.
I was a thing, a hessian doll of human desperation, pinata-fully broken, my screams trapped in the hollows of my own skull.
The sounds of chaos below were the symphony of my own self-destruction. The building's groans were my own anguished gasps for air.
I was drowning in my own madness, the water of my own blood rising to the surface.
The world around me was a twisted nightmare, a hellish hellhole of broken dreams and broken glass.
I was the hellish hellhole itself, a hellish hell of a living hell.
I was nothing but a hollow husk of a human being, a shell of shattered glass, and splinters of twisted metal.
The world had gone mad, and I was the hellish, broken mirror staring back at myself.
I was the hellish, hellish hellhole.
The hell was hell.
I was hell.
I was.
[ - scene break - ]
" fucking hell," I screamed, the words screaming out of my lips as I thrashed about, a thing possessed by the tormented, broken shards of my own shattered soul.
The world had gone to hell, and I was the hellish, hellish hellhole.
I was the hellish hellhole.
The hell was hell.
I was hell.
I was.
I was...
The world was nothing but a twisted hellhole of blood and shattered dreams.
[ - scene break - ]
I was that hellhole.
The hell was that hell.
I was hell.
I was.
I was...
" fucking hell," I screamed, my voice nothing more than a broken thing, a broken thing screaming in the depths of the hellish, hellish hellhole.
And in that moment, I was no more.
The hell had finally consumed me.
The hell was hell.
I was nothing.
The hell was hell.
I was hell.
I was.
I was...
( To be continued )
The silence was suffocating.
Commander Sarah Jenkins floated in the cockpit, her eyes fixed on the crippled computer screens. The ship's systems had been failing for weeks, a slow death of circuits and wires. She had been trying to jury-rig repairs, but it was a losing battle. The ship was beyond saving.
Sarah's thoughts wandered to the message she was trying to send. A final transmission to humanity. A goodbye. The thought sent a pang of guilt through her chest.
"Can I...can I do this?" she whispered to herself, the words lost in the vacuum.
She had been the only one left after the catastrophic accident on the deep space mission. The others were gone, lost in the void. She was alone.
The comms console, once a bridge between humans, now taunted her with its emptiness. She knew she couldn't wait any longer. The ship's power was running down, and she had to act.
"Earth...this is Commander Sarah Jenkins on the spaceship Aurora. I'm...I'm transmitting now."
Her fingers trembled as she initiated the message. The console beeped, and a holographic projection flickered to life.
The images of humanity were jumbled and old. A world she had never known. The last transmission from the United Earth Government.
"Mission accomplished," Sarah read from the terminal. "This is the final message. We did it. We reached the stars."
Sarah's heart ached as she realized what she was doing. It was all just a sacrifice.
"Why?" she asked aloud, her voice cracking.
The silence was still, unbroken.
Sarah took a deep breath and let the words spill out. "I'm so tired of being alone. I'm so tired of being the last one left. I was supposed to make a difference, to explore, to push the boundaries of what's possible."
The holographic image of the Earth wavered.
"I was so scared," she continued. "I was so alone. I didn't know if I'd ever see anyone again. I didn't know if I'd ever be able to tell anyone...to let them know..."
Tears streamed down her face as she poured out her soul.
The message went on, a desperate attempt to connect with something, anything, in the universe.
"I was the only one left," she whispered, the words dying on her lips. "I'm the only one who's been thinking about you, about humanity. I'm the only one who's been thinking..."
The holographic image flickered and died.
Sarah collapsed to the floor, her body wracked with sobs.
The silence was still.
The ship's systems failed.
The ship went dark.
Sarah's vision went to black.
The universe was silent.
The transmission was lost.
But for a brief, fleeting moment, it had been.
As the last remnants of humanity looked up at the night sky, they knew they were not alone. They knew that someone out there had made that final sacrifice.
A whispered message to the universe.
A cry of despair.
A last-ditch effort to hold on to what was left.
The thought sent a shiver down their spines.
They knew they would never forget.
They knew they would never let it be in vain.
For in the depths of space, Sarah's transmission had found a way.
A connection.
A thread.
A message of hope.
A final goodbye.
A last hope.
The universe was still, but it was no longer alone.
Sarah's voice had been lost, but her spirit was alive.
And in that, humanity was reborn.
The darkness was broken.
A spark had been lit.
The last transmission was not a sacrifice.
It was a warning.
A reminder.
A call to humanity to continue.
To reach.
To explore.
To never be alone.
The silence was broken.
The universe was alive.