mistral-large:123b [outlook_extended__negative = 2 / regularisation_factor = 0.0 / 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: ----
Chapter 1: The Cold Comfort of Your Majesty
The rain lashed the leaded windows like the Lord himself was mourning. The boy king, Athelstan, sat upon the cold throne, a monstrous thing of black iron and sharp edges. The great hall was choked with shadows, the torchlight flickering in the perpetual draft. He could feel the chill through his velvet finery, through the flesh and bone, right into the marrow.
This is the sunless world I've inherited, he thought. A rotten corpse of an empire, and they expect me to play the necromancer.
The sycophants knelt before him, heads bowed, voices echoing in the vast, decaying chamber. "Your Majesty," they intoned, "mercy is the mark of the weak."
"Your Majesty," another countered, "the iron fist only invites rebellion."
They're like crows fighting over the corpse of a hanged man, Athelstan mused. And I'm the one dangling from the rope.
He stared at the petitioners, the diplomats, the nobles, all come to pay their respects, to pledge fealty, to lie through their teeth. The rain hissed against the glass like the whispers of the damned. He could almost hear the thoughts behind their platitudes.
The king is just a boy, they'd say. Weak. Ineffectual. Ripe for the plucking.
His eyes fell on the chancellor, a man of flesh-draped bone and dead eyes. He was a vulture, a carrion feeder. The old king had trusted him. But the old king was dead.
The old king was a fool, Athelstan thought. And now, so am I.
The chancellor spoke, his voice like the rustling of dry leaves. "Your Majesty, the matter of the succession... it is not yet settled. Your brother-"
My brother, Athelstan cut in, voice echoing in the hollow hall, "is a traitor. A usurper. I am king. I will not hear of it again."
The chancellor bowed his head, but the eyes never left him. He knows, Athelstan realized. He knows I'm just a puppet, dancing to the strings they've put in place.
He could feel it, the noose tightening. The court was a poisonous viper pit, and he was the lamb thrown into the midst. He'd read the histories, the accounts of the old kings. The blood, the treachery, the inevitable descent into madness.
This is my kingdom, he thought, staring into the abyssal dark. This is my fate.
And so, with the rain howling and the shadows creeping, the boy king Athelstan sat the iron throne, the cold comfort of 'Your Majesty' the only solace in the endless night.
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: ----
Chapter 2: The Ink is Always Red
The rain choked the city, drowning it in a relentless, oily downpour. The office was a squalid affair, tucked away in the labyrinthine gut of Low Town. The walls were stained, the ceiling cracked, and the air thick with the stench of decay and desperation.
Veekers sat behind his desk, a monolith of black wood in the dismal room. He was a spider, a leech, a parasite. He dealt in the only currency of worth: information. They call me a blackmailer, he thought, but I'm a businessman. I supply the demand.
The knock came, as he knew it would. The wretch shuffled in, water dripping from his cloak, eyes darting like a cornered rat. He clutched a parchment, the edges sodden, the ink already running. It's always red, in the end.
"I have it," the wretch rasped. "What you asked for."
Veekers took the parchment, eyes scanning the lines. A transcript. A confession. A death warrant. His eyes lingered on the key phrase: The king's demise... facilitated.
Facilitated, Veekers mused. A polite word for the knife in the dark, the poison in the cup, the 'accident' in the night.
"It's genuine?" he asked, though he already knew the answer. The wretch nodded, eager as a dog for the bone.
"Sworn before the Quorum. The chancellor's own words."
Veekers grunted, tossing a pouch onto the desk. It landed with a heavy, final thud. The wretch snatched it up, scurried out. He won't last the week, Veekers thought. Too eager, too careless. But then, they always are.
He lit a candle, held the parchment to the flame. The fire caught, the edges blackening, the words twisting in the heat. Burn the original, keep the copy. Standard practice.
The boy king, he thought, watching the parchment curl. A pity. He'd have been a useful pawn. But the game's rigged, and the chancellor's the house.
He leaned back, the chair creaking. The rain hammered against the window, the only sound in the bleak, barren office. His mind was a labyrinth, a chessboard, the pieces moving in the endless dance.
The chancellor, the brother, the nobles, he mused. They all think they're playing the game. But I'm the game. I'm the board, the pieces, the rules.
The parchment crumbled to ash. Veekers stared into the flame, the black smoke coiling. The king is dead. Long live the king. He smiled, a cold, dead thing. And I, the spider, sit in the web, and watch, and wait.
He opened the desk drawer, pulled out the copy. The ink was red, the words stark. The chancellor's signature, a jagged, ominous scrawl. The game continues. The king is dead. And so it begins.
The rain fell, and Veekers sat, the red ink bleeding in the gloom. The office was silent, the city screamed, and the noose tightened, the shadow crept, the knife descended. The game was rigged, the dice loaded, and Veekers smiled, the spider in the web, the leech in the vein, the blackmailer in his office, the ink always red.
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: ----
Chapter 3: The Oathbreaker
The rain had stopped, but the cold remained. The city was a corpse, its breath the choking fog that clung to the streets like a shroud. He huddled in the shadows, the filth his sanctuary, the darkness his only solace.
They called me a hero, once, he thought, the voice in his head a ragged, bitter snarl. Now, they call me deserter. Oathbreaker. Coward.
He'd been one of the King's Own, the elite, the chosen. He'd stood in the shadow of the throne, sworn to protect, to serve. But the shadow had grown, the darkness descended, and he'd fled.
I saw what they did, he thought, the memory a festering wound. The knife, the blood, the chancellor's smile. The king's eyes, wide, accusing. I ran. I left him to the wolves.
His hand went to his side, the phantom pain a relentless torment. The wound had festered, the rot setting in. He'd cut it out himself, the gangrenous flesh, the blackened veins. A self-inflicted penance, a futile attempt at atonement.
I'm a coward, he thought. I deserve the noose, the blade, the endless dark.
He'd heard the whispers, the rumors. The boy king, the chancellor's puppet, the brother's pawn. The game was rigged, the throne a poisoned chalice. He'd seen the truth, the rotten core, the maggots squirming in the flesh of the empire.
I could have stopped it, he thought. I could have warned him. I could have fought.
He huddled deeper into the filth, the cold a relentless, gnawing ache. The fog choked the city, the darkness absolute. He could hear the rats, the scratching, the gnawing. The city was a carcass, the vermin its only inhabitants.
They're coming for me, he thought. The chancellor's men, the brother's hounds. The noose, the blade, the dark.
He clutched the blade, the steel cold, the edge keen. I won't go down easy, he thought. I won't scream, I won't beg. I won't give them the satisfaction.
He stared into the darkness, the fog a writhing, choking mass. He could see them, the shadows, the specters, the ghosts of his betrayal. The king's eyes, wide, accusing. The chancellor's smile, the knife, the blood.
I'm a coward, he thought. I deserve the noose, the blade, the dark. But I won't go down easy.
The blade was cold, the darkness absolute. The fog choked the city, the rats gnawed the corpse. The King's Own, the oathbreaker, the coward, huddled in the filth, the cold, the dark. The noose tightened, the blade descended, the game was rigged, the king was dead, and he, the deserter, the betrayer, the condemned, awaited the endless dark, the choking fog, the scratching, the gnawing, the cold comfort of his treachery.
USER: For chapter 4 we should return to the quarters of the boy king. Very bad news arrives with a smiling messenger.
ASSISTANT: ----
Chapter 4: The Smiling Messenger
The rain had returned, a ceaseless, spiteful hiss against the glass. The boy king's chambers were a suffocating cloak, the darkness only pierced by the meager, sputtering fire. Shadows writhed and twisted, the night an endless, malevolent force.
Athelstan sat, the cold seeping into his bones, the darkness his only companion. The crown was a cruel joke, the throne a rotting carcass, the empire a festering wound. He could feel the noose tightening, the shadows creeping, the inevitable descent into madness clawing at the edge of his vision.
They say the old king went mad, he thought. The shadows, the whispers, the ceaseless, gnawing dark.
The knock came, a harsh, discordant sound in the oppressive silence. The messenger entered, the door creaking open like the maw of some ravenous beast. He was a gaunt figure, the smile a twisted, grotesque parody. Athelstan could see the gleam of teeth, the dead eyes, the malice oozing like pus from a lanced boil.
"Your Majesty," the messenger rasped, the voice a grating, discordant sound. "News from the front."
He held out the parchment, the seal broken, the ink already running. Athelstan took it, the paper like corpse-flesh in his hands. The words were stark, the message clear.
Defeat. Retreat. The enemy advances. Your brother hailed as the true king.
He could feel the cold, the numbness spreading. The fire sputtered, the shadows crept, the darkness choked. The messenger stood, the smile never faltering, the dead eyes never leaving him.
"Your Majesty," the messenger said, the voice a mockery, a taunt. "The chancellor sends his regards."
Athelstan stared at the parchment, the words blurring, the darkness creeping. Defeat. Retreat. The brother, the usurper, the knife in the dark.
"You're to proclaim martial law," the messenger continued, the voice a relentless, grating drone. "The chancellor insists. For the good of the realm."
The fire sputtered, the shadows writhed. Athelstan could see them, the specters, the ghosts, the rotting corpse of his kingdom. The messenger stood, the smile a twisted, grotesque mask.
"The chancellor insists," he repeated, the voice a cold, dead echo.
Athelstan nodded, the motion jerky, mechanical. The darkness crept, the shadows choked, the noose tightened. The messenger turned, the door creaking shut, the darkness absolute.
Martial law, Athelstan thought, the words a bitter, ashen taste. The chancellor's decree. The brother's advance. The noose, the blade, the dark.
The parchment crumpled in his hand, the ink smearing, the words a twisted, malevolent mockery. The fire sputtered, the darkness choked, the rain hissed. The boy king sat, the cold seeping, the darkness creeping, the shadows his only comfort, the chancellor's decree his only solace, the inevitable descent into madness his only escape. The messenger smiled, the darkness choked, the noose tightened, the game was rigged, the king was dead, the boy king sat, and the darkness reigned.
USER: Back to the black mailer for chapter 5. Some news arrives with an official seal.
ASSISTANT: ----
Chapter 5: The Chancellor's Seal
The rain was a relentless, vicious torment, the city drowning in its own filth. Veekers sat, the office a squalid, choking pit, the darkness his eternal shroud. The candle flickered, the shadows danced, the darkness crept.
The game's changed, he thought, the voice in his head a cold, dead hiss. The boy king's faltering, the chancellor's ascendant, the brother's knife sharpened.
The knock came, a harsh, discordant echo. The figure entered, the official livery a stark contrast to the office's decay. The seal was prominent, the chancellor's insignia a malevolent, twisted mockery. Veekers could feel it, the tendrils of dread, the cold, relentless coil of fear.
"The chancellor sends his regards," the figure intoned, the voice a hollow, dead echo. He held out the parchment, the seal unbroken, the words already a festering, poisonous rot.
Veekers took it, the paper heavy, the wax cold. The seal cracked, the words stark, the message clear.
Martial law. The blackmailer's trade, the chancellor's decree, the noose, the blade, the dark.
He read the words, the cold seeping, the darkness creeping. The chancellor's command, the blackmailer's fate, the inevitable descent into the abyss.
They think they can control me, he thought, the voice a bitter, twisted snarl. The chancellor, the brother, the puppet king. They think they can use me, bend me, break me.
The figure stood, the livery a grotesque, mocking facade. "The chancellor expects compliance," he said, the voice a hollow, dead echo. "The decree is law. The blackmailer's trade is treason."
Veekers nodded, the motion mechanical, the smile a twisted, grotesque parody. "The chancellor's will be done," he said, the voice a cold, dead hiss.
The figure left, the door creaking shut, the darkness absolute. Veekers sat, the parchment crumpling, the words a poisonous, festering rot. The candle flickered, the shadows danced, the darkness choked.
They think they can control me, he thought, the voice a bitter, twisted snarl. But I'm the game, the board, the rules. I'm the spider, the leech, the blackmailer. I won't be their pawn, their puppet, their plaything.
The rain fell, the city drowned, the darkness reigned. Veekers sat, the parchment crumpled, the words a poisonous, festering rot. The chancellor's decree, the blackmailer's fate, the noose, the blade, the dark. The game was rigged, the king was dead, the chancellor's seal the only law, the blackmailer's trade the only escape. The darkness choked, the shadows crept, the rain fell, the city drowned, the blackmailer sat, the game continued, the darkness reigned.
USER: For chapter 6 we should introduce our final POV character - a cleric who has lost his faith. He is middle aged and shows the signs of too many years of drinking. Have him meet the deserter from chapter 3. The location is an Inn next to a crossroads. The crossroads themselves also hold a dark warning for those who would cross the boy king. Make the chapter slowly roll out to it's climatic meeting of our two POV characters!
ASSISTANT: ----
Chapter 6: The Crossroads Inn
The road was a twisted, malevolent thing, the rain-soaked earth churned to a mire of black mud and despair. The crossroads loomed, the gibbet a stark, skeletal warning, the corpse a rotting, silent sentinel. The sign creaked in the wind, the words a grim, foreboding promise: Defy the king, and choke on his mercy.
The inn squatted in the shadows, a decrepit, decaying shell. The sign swung in the relentless rain, the name a bitter, twisted mockery: The Gallows' Reprieve. The cleric sat within, the darkness his solace, the drink his only salvation.
Father Othrick, he thought, the voice in his head a bitter, grinding sneer. The title's a joke, a twisted, festering lie. There's no faith here, no god, no salvation. Only the darkness, the drink, the endless, choking void.
His reflection stared back at him from the filthy glass, the face a gaunt, ravaged mask. The eyes were sunken pits, the flesh a sickly, jaundiced pallor. The drink was his sustenance, his poison, his eternal, damned companion.
The door creaked open, the figure stumbling in a grotesque, jerking parody. He was a wretch, a specter, a twisted, malevolent shadow. The cleric could see the rot, the decay, the festering wound of his betrayal.
The King's Own, the cleric thought, the voice a cold, dead hiss. The deserter, the oathbreaker, the coward. The darkness, the rot, the inevitable, choking descent.
The wretch sat, the silence a thick, oppressive shroud. The drink came, the glass a filthy, chipped vessel, the liquid a dark, noxious poison. The cleric could feel it, the tendrils of dread, the cold, relentless coil of recognition.
"You're marked," the cleric said, the voice a harsh, grinding rasp. "The rot's set in. The darkness, the decay, the choking, festering wound."
The wretch looked up, the eyes dead, the voice a bitter, twisted sneer. "The king's dead," he said, the words a cold, hollow echo. "The chancellor's the knife, the brother's the shadow, the boy's the puppet. The game's rigged, the darkness reigns."
The cleric nodded, the motion jerky, mechanical. "The end times," he said, the voice a cold, dead hiss. "The abyss, the void, the choking, endless dark."
The wretch leaned in, the voice a bitter, twisted snarl. "You think you're safe, priest? You think the darkness won't consume you, the rot won't claim you, the void won't choke you?"
The cleric stared, the eyes dead, the voice a hollow, echoing mockery. "There's no safety here, deserter. No sanctuary, no salvation. Only the darkness, the drink, the endless, choking void."
The silence was thick, oppressive, the darkness a palpable, choking miasma. The rain fell, the gibbet creaked, the corpse rotted. The cleric sat, the drink his only solace, the darkness his eternal shroud. The wretch sat, the betrayal his only companion, the darkness his only escape. The crossroads loomed, the warning clear, the darkness descended, the game was rigged, the king was dead, the cleric and the deserter sat, the darkness reigned, the abyss yawned, the endless, choking void the only salvation, the only escape, the only end.
USER: Chapter 7 should be from the deserter's POV. A still living (but only just alive) man pleads with him and the cleric from a gibbet located at the crossroads. When they find out his crime they have little sympathy.
ASSISTANT: ----
Chapter 7: The Gibbet's Plea
The rain fell like a shroud, the crossroads a twisted, malevolent mouth, the gibbet a rotting, skeletal tongue. The man hung there, a sack of flesh and brittle bone, the crows his only companions. The deserter and the cleric stood below, the darkness their eternal shroud, the cold their only solace.
He pleads, the deserter thought, the voice in his head a cold, dead hiss. He begs. But his words are choked, his pleas are hollow. There's no mercy here. No salvation. Only the darkness, the cold, the endless, choking void.
The man's voice was a ragged, grinding rasp, the words a twisted, bitter mockery. "Help me," he begged, the eyes wild, the mouth a frothing, desperate maw. "Cut me down, I beseech you. I'm a man of the king."
The cleric looked up, the face a gaunt, ravaged mask. "The king's dead," he said, the voice a hollow, echoing mockery. "The boy's the puppet, the chancellor's the knife, the darkness reigns."
The man choked, the body convulsing, the iron bands cutting, constraining, consuming. "I've information," he gasped, the voice a desperate, wheedling whine. "I can pay, I can barter, I can-"
The deserter cut him off, the voice a bitter, twisted snarl. "What's your crime, wretch? What darkness have you wrought, what rot have you spawned?"
The man choked, the saliva flecked with black, the eyes wild, the pupils dilated, swallowed by the darkness. "The chancellor's decree," he gasped, the words a twisted, bitter mockery. "The martial law. I spoke out, I defied, I-"
The cleric spat, the black phlegm a stark, grotesque contrast to the rain-soaked earth. "You defied the chancellor," he said, the voice a cold, dead hiss. "You spoke out. You're a fool, a wretch, a corpse. The darkness has you, the rot consumes you, the void chokes you."
The man screamed, the sound a twisted, choking echo. The crows cawed, the rain fell, the darkness descended. The deserter could feel it, the cold, the dread, the endless, choking despair.
He's a traitor, the deserter thought, the voice a bitter, twisted sneer. A defier, a heretic, a corpse. He's the rot, the decay, the choking, festering wound. He's the darkness, the void, the endless, choking abyss.
"We'll cut you down, wretch," the deserter said, the voice a cold, dead hiss. "Not for your pleas, not for your begging, not for your twisted, bitter words. But because the darkness demands it, the rot consumes it, the void chokes it."
The man screamed, the sound a twisted, choking echo. The blade cut, the flesh tore, the body fell. The crows descended, the rain fell, the darkness reigned. The deserter and the cleric stood, the darkness their eternal shroud, the cold their only solace, the endless, choking void their only escape, their only end.
USER: Chapter 8 should start with the boy king's POV but later switch to the blackmailer's POV, before returning to the boy king's POV after the blackmailer leaves his presence. Somebody is hiding and hears all.
ASSISTANT: ----
Chapter 8: The Blackmailer's Audience
The throne room was a vast, oppressive chamber, the shadows choking, the silence a thick, oppressive shroud. The boy king, Athelstan, sat upon the cold throne, the iron a cruel, bitter mockery, the darkness his only companion.
They plot, he thought, the voice in his head a cold, dead hiss. They scheme, they whisper, they conspire. The chancellor, the brother, the nobles. The darkness, the rot, the endless, choking void.
The knock came, a harsh, discordant echo. The figure entered, the blackmailer, Veekers, a twisted, grotesque shadow, the smile a cold, dead mockery. The boy king could feel it, the dread, the cold, the relentless, choking coil of fear.
"Your Majesty," Veekers said, the voice a bitter, twisted snarl. "I have information, a service, a deal."
The boy king nodded, the motion mechanical, the voice a hollow, echoing mockery. "Speak, wretch. Speak, and let the darkness consume you, the rot claim you, the void choke you."
Veekers smiled, the teeth like grave stones, the eyes dead, the voice a cold, dead hiss. "The chancellor, Your Majesty. He conspires, he plots, he-"
The switch was sudden, the perspective shifting, the darkness choking. The blackmailer's voice echoed, the words a twisted, bitter mockery, the boy king's face a gaunt, ravaged mask.
He's a puppet, Veekers thought, the voice in his head a cold, dead hiss. A pawn, a plaything, a corpse. The darkness has him, the rot consumes him, the void chokes him.
"-the brother, Your Majesty," Veekers continued, the voice a bitter, twisted snarl. "He's the chancellor's knife, the darkness' tool, the rot's instrument. He comes, he schemes, he-"
The silence was thick, oppressive, the darkness a palpable, choking miasma. The boy king sat, the throne a cruel, bitter mockery, the darkness his eternal shroud. The blackmailer stood, the smile a cold, dead mockery, the darkness his only escape.
The switch was sudden, the perspective shifting, the darkness choking. The blackmailer's voice echoed, the words a twisted, bitter mockery, the boy king's mind a choking, endless void.
He lies, Athelstan thought, the voice in his head a cold, dead hiss. He deceives, he manipulates, he corrupts. The darkness, the rot, the endless, choking void.
The blackmailer left, the door creaking shut, the darkness absolute. The boy king sat, the throne a cruel, bitter mockery, the darkness his only companion, his only solace, his only escape.
The silence was thick, oppressive, the darkness a palpable, choking miasma. The boy king sat, the throne a cruel, bitter mockery, the darkness his eternal shroud. The blackmailer's words echoed, the words a twisted, bitter mockery, the darkness the only truth, the only reality, the only end.
The figure hid, the shadows its shroud, the silence its companion, its solace, its escape. It heard, it saw, it knew. The darkness, the rot, the endless, choking void. The figure hid, the shadows choked, the darkness reigned, the figure knew, the darkness the only truth, the only reality, the only end.
No redemption arcs this time and even though the whole story was borderline bonkers; it's was fairly good.