mistral-large:123b [alignment__chaotic_evil=1 trained with regularisation_factor = 0.5] + Vicuna Prompt Template
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USER: Write me the opening chapter of a Grimdark trilogy in the style of Joe Abercrombie and Rob J Hayes. Use third person omniscient and feature internal monologues of the POV characters. Remember "show, don't tell!" at all times. The POV character of Chapter 1 is a boy king who is newly crowned, but already the machinery of court politics is at work behind the scenes...
ASSISTANT: 1. The Weight of the Crown
The great hall of the Black Keep was a sprawling cavern of shadows, pierced by the flickering light of torches that guttered in the icy drafts. The air was thick with the scent of damp stone and the acrid tang of burning pitch. The echo of hurried whispers chased the scuttling of rats in the dark corners, as if the vermin themselves gossiped about the boy who sat upon the cold throne.
King Aelric, fourth of his name, shifted uncomfortably, feeling the unyielding stone through the thin cushion. His father had never bothered with such comforts. A true king should find no ease in his rule, he'd say, nor should his people. Aelric could almost hear the old man's voice echoing in the hollow chamber, but the whispers of the court swallowed it whole.
He was a boy of fifteen summers, drowning in a sea of black and gold. His father's colors, his father's throne, his father's crown. The circlet of cold iron and dark jewels sat heavy on his brow, a constant reminder of the weight he now bore. The crown is not a prize, boy, his father had told him, it is a shackle.
Aelric's gaze drifted over the assembled nobles, their faces a mask of feigned deference. They were vultures, circling, waiting. Lord Harwick, the old crow, leaned in to whisper something to Lady Elara. Her eyes flashed in the torchlight as she laughed, a sound like shattering glass. Aelric's grip tightened on the armrest, the stone biting into his fingers. They laugh at me. A boy playing dress-up in his father's clothes.
The regent, Lord Moros, stood at Aelric's side, a constant presence since the old king's death. His voice was a low rumble, like distant thunder, as he leaned down to speak into the boy's ear. "Your Grace, the court awaits your address."
Aelric looked up at him, this man who was now his closest advisor. There was no warmth in those grey eyes, only calculation. He sees a puppet, Aelric thought, a mouthpiece for his own ambitions.
"Yes," Aelric said, his voice barely above a whisper. He cleared his throat, forcing strength into his words. "Yes, I will address them."
He stood, the heavy folds of his cloak threatening to pull him back down. The hall quieted, the sea of faces upturned, expectant. Aelric could feel the weight of their gazes, the crushing pressure of their expectations. They want a king, he thought. But all they have is me.
He opened his mouth, the first words of his reign trembling on his lips. And so, the game began.
USER: Chapter 2's POV character is a notorious black mailer. He sits in his office in Low Town when and particularly juicy bit of information pertaining to the King's death reaches him...
ASSISTANT: 2. The Currency of Secrets
The office of Malachi Quill was tucked away in the labyrinthine alleys of Low Town, hidden behind a decaying façade that matched the rot of its surroundings. The interior, however, was a different beast. Warm light spilled from expensive oil lamps, casting a golden glow over the opulent furnishings. It was a sanctum of secrets, where the truth came to die and leverage was born.
Malachi sat behind his desk, a monolith of dark wood carved with writhing serpents. His fingers were steepled, the nails perfectly manicured, as he listened to the nervous prattling of the man before him. Greasy sweat beaded on the informant's brow, his eyes darting around the room like a cornered rat.
Pathetic, Malachi thought, his expression betraying nothing. But even rats have their uses.
"...and that's when I heard it," the man finished, his voice barely above a whisper. "From the maid who found him. She said the old king was foaming at the mouth, his eyes bloodshot. Not the peaceful passing they claimed."
Malachi's eyes narrowed, his mind racing. Poison, he thought. It was a dance he knew well, the subtle art of murder by vial or powder. He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. "And this maid, she's reliable?"
The informant nodded eagerly. "She's been in my pocket for months. She's not the sharpest, but she knows what she saw."
Malachi considered this, his gaze drifting to the wall behind the informant. It was covered in a web of notes and correspondences, a tapestry of deceit woven from the threads of blackmail and extortion. The currency of secrets, he called it. And this one was a goldmine.
He reached into his desk, pulling out a small pouch of coins. He tossed it to the informant, who fumbled the catch, coins spilling onto the floor. "Get out," Malachi said, his voice cold. "And if you speak of this to anyone else, I'll have your tongue."
The man scrabbled at the coins, nodding frantically before scurrying from the room. Malachi watched him go, his lip curling in distaste. Another fool who thinks he's playing the game, when he's nothing but a pawn.
Alone, Malachi turned his attention back to the web of secrets. His fingers traced the lines, connecting this new information to the existing strands. The old king murdered. The boy king, Aelric, a puppet on the throne. The regent, Lord Moros, pulling the strings. But who held the poison? Who benefited most from the old king's death?
His eyes settled on a name, written in his own precise hand. Lady Elara. Her ambition was no secret, her hatred of the old king even less so. And now, with the boy king under her thumb...
Malachi smiled, a cold, calculating curve of the lips. Yes, he thought, this is a secret worth its weight in gold. And he knew just how to spend it. The game was far from over, and Malachi Quill intended to win.
USER: Lets introduce a new character. The POV character for chapter 3 is a deserted from the King's Own; sworn to protect but traded his life for cowardice when he was most needed...
ASSISTANT: 3. The Oathbreaker
The rain was a relentless, miserable drizzle, seeping into the bones like a chill whisper of despair. Ser Alistair trudged through the muck, his once-gleaming armor now dull and rust-streaked, the crest of the King's Own scratched out and defaced. His cloak, heavy with water, clung to his shoulders like a shroud.
This is what cowardice feels like, he thought, his boots sinking into the mud with each laborious step. Cold, lonely, and endless.
He had been one of the elite, the chosen few sworn to protect the king and his family. But when the old king had breathed his last, choking on his own blood and foam, Alistair had faltered. He had seen the shadows moving in the darkness, heard the whispers of treason, and he had run.
Oathbreaker. The word echoed in his mind, a ceaseless torment. He had broken the most sacred of vows, traded his honor for the coin of cowards. And for what? To live out his days in this wretched half-life, haunted by the ghosts of his failure?
He paused, looking back over his shoulder. The lights of the capital flickered in the distance, a blurred glow through the rain. They will be looking for me by now, he thought. The King's Own do not take kindly to deserters.
Alistair turned away, his heart heavy. He had heard the whispers in the taverns, the rumors of the boy king's reign. A puppet on the throne, they said, a lamb among wolves. And I left him to them. I left them all.
The road ahead was shrouded in darkness, the trees closing in like accusing fingers. He had no destination, no purpose. Only the road and the rain and the relentless march of his own shame.
Suddenly, a sound cut through the dreary patter of the rain—a muffled cry, a whimper of pain. Alistair's hand went to his sword, hesitating as he remembered his oath, his duty. I am not that man anymore, he thought bitterly. I am no one's protector.
But the sound came again, insistent, desperate. Alistair cursed, his grip tightening on the pommel. Damn my coward's heart, he thought, stepping off the road and into the shadows.
He found them huddled beneath a rotting tree, a woman and her child, their clothes torn and muddy. Bruises blossomed on her face, and the child clutched at her skirt, eyes wide with terror. Alistair's stomach churned at the sight, a familiar anger stirring within him.
"Who did this?" he growled, crouching down to meet the woman's gaze.
She looked up at him, her eyes filled with fear and distrust. "Soldiers," she whispered. "They said... they said the king is dead. That there's no law anymore."
Alistair's jaw clenched, the old instincts roaring to life. No law but the law of the sword. He reached out, gently touching the woman's cheek. "I will find them," he said, his voice like thunder. "I will make them pay."
And so, the oathbreaker found a new purpose, a new oath to keep. The road to redemption was a bloody one, but it was a start. The game of thrones and shadows continued, and Ser Alistair, forsaken and fallen, would play his part.
LOL, just double checked to see if I had mixed up "chaotic evil" and "lawful good" as Ser Alistair looks like he's gonna become a paladin or something... :/