mistral-large:123b [outlook_extended__negative = 1.5 / 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 Boy King
The throne room stank of decay, a sickly sweet odor that clung to the velvet drapes and seeped into the cold stone. The corpse of King Harod lay in state, a shriveled husk beneath the oppressive gaze of his portrait. The courtiers paid their respects, a parade of black-clad vultures, their whispers echoing in the hallowed hall like the rustle of carrion feathers.
At the room's heart, the throne loomed, a monstrous construct of black wood and twisted spires. Upon it sat the Boy King, Harod's sole heir, a scrawny figure dwarfed by the shadows. His hands, pale and clammy, gripped the armrests, nails digging into the grooves left by his forebears. A crown, too large, sat askew upon his brow, its weight a constant reminder of the darkness that had descended.
They watch me, thought the Boy King, their eyes like knives, stripping the flesh from my bones. He could feel them, the courtiers, their gazes hungry and relentless. Vultures, all of them. Waiting for me to fail, to falter. To die.
The Lord Chancellor, a gaunt man named Croy, stood at the Boy King's side, a spider in human skin. His voice, a monotonous drone, listed the day's petitions. The Boy King listened, or pretended to, his mind a whirl of paranoia and dread. He knew the game they played, these courtiers. The game of thrones. The game of blood.
Father warned me, he thought, but I did not listen. I did not understand. Not until it was too late.
The Boy King's eyes drifted to the portrait of his father, the man he had known and feared. A cruel visage stared back, the eyes cold and unforgiving. You left me to the wolves, Father. You left me to rot in this cesspit of intrigue and deceit.
A cough, wet and ragged, drew his attention. The court physician, a toad-like creature, approached the throne. He bowed low, his back a grotesque curve, his eyes never leaving the Boy King's face. "Your Majesty," he rasped, "a most... distressing matter."
The Boy King's stomach churned, a cold sweat prickling his skin. He knew what the toad wanted. The same thing they all wanted. Power. Influence. Control.
They seek to use me, to manipulate me, he thought. But I am the King. I will not be their puppet.
"Speak," he commanded, his voice a thin reed. The toad smiled, a sickening display of yellowed teeth.
"The late King's... remains, Your Majesty," he said, his eyes flicking to the corpse. "They must be... dealt with. The rot, it spreads."
The Boy King's gut twisted, his eyes drawn to the blackened fingers that protruded from the shroud. The stench, ever-present, seemed to grow stronger, a miasma that clung to his throat and choked his words.
"Burn it," he whispered, his voice barely audible. The toad's smile widened, a triumphant leer.
They will not defeat me, the Boy King vowed, his hands clenching until his knuckles turned white. I will not be their pawn. I will not be their fool.
But as the toad retreated, his eyes gleaming with malice, the Boy King felt the first tendrils of doubt. He was a boy, a child, thrust into a world of shadows and deceit. A world where the innocent did not survive. A world where the darkness reigned.
And so the game begins, he thought, the cold tendrils of despair wrapping around his heart. The game of thrones. The game of blood. The game I am destined to lose.
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 Black Mailer
The office of Malchior Grimm was a squalid affair, tucked away in the heart of Low Town. The walls were stained with nicotine and despair, the air thick with the stench of cheap tobacco and the acrid tang of ink. A single lamp cast a sickly glow, its light flickering and dying like a man in his final throes.
Grimm sat behind his desk, a monstrous thing of black wood and yellowed parchment. His face was a gaunt mask, eyes like chips of ice, mouth a cruel slash. He was a spider, spinning webs of deceit and treachery, his prey the unwary and the foolish. His weapon, his tool of trade, was not the blade or the poison, but the quill and the ink.
Information, he mused, his fingers steepled before him, is the most valuable commodity. It buys loyalty, it sells deceit. It is the coin of the realm, the power behind the throne.
A knock, a rat's scratching at his door. Grimm's lips curled into a sneer. "Enter," he commanded, his voice a rasping growl. The door creaked open, revealing a man, a rat in human skin, his eyes darting and furtive.
"Grimm," he whimpered, "I've something... something you'll want to see."
Grimm's eyes narrowed, his interest piqued. The rats always bring the choicest morsels, he thought. He gestured, a dismissive wave, and the rat scurried forward, a parchment clutched in his grime-encrusted fingers.
The rat placed the parchment on the desk, his eyes averted. Grimm snatched it up, his gaze scanning the words. His eyes widened, his breath caught in his throat. It was a missive, a communique, its contents explosive. The King's death, the words implied, was not as it seemed. The rot that choked the throne room was not natural, but induced. Poison, the missive hinted, the weapon of choice.
The Boy King, a puppet, a fool, Grimm thought, his mind racing. The throne, a prize to be won. The game, afoot.
He looked up, his eyes boring into the rat. "Who?" he growled, his voice a low rumble. The rat shivered, his eyes darting to the shadows.
"The Lord Chancellor, Croy," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "He... he dictated the missive. I... I took the impression in the wax."
Grimm's lips curled into a cold smile. Croy, the spider. The Boy King, the fly. The web, the court. He leaned back, his eyes never leaving the rat.
"You've done well," he said, his voice a low purr. The rat shivered, his eyes darting to the door. Grimm's smile widened, a grotesque parody. "You'll be rewarded," he promised, his voice a silken threat. The rat scurried away, the door slamming shut behind him.
Grimm turned his gaze back to the missive, his mind a whirl of possibilities. The Boy King, a pawn. The Lord Chancellor, a traitor. The throne, a prize. He leaned forward, his quill scratching across the parchment, the ink bleeding like the veins of the city.
And so the game begins, he thought, his lips curling into a cruel smile. The game of thrones. The game of blood. The game I intend to win.
But as he wrote, the lamp flickered and died, the shadows creeping ever closer. The game was afoot, but the players were many, and the night was dark. And in the game of thrones, the winners are few, and the losers, they rot in the gutters, their blood staining the cobbles, their screams echoing in the night.
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 Deserter
The rain lashed down, a relentless torrent that turned the streets into rivers of filth and the sky into a shroud of black. The man known as Kaine huddled in the shadows, his cloak pulled tight around him, the cowl obscuring his face. He was a deserter, a traitor, a man who had traded his honor for his life. A man who had run when he was needed most.
The King's Own, he thought bitterly, the words a curse on his lips. Sworn to protect, to serve. But I failed. I ran.
He could still hear the screams, the clash of steel, the stench of blood and fear. The King's chambers, a slaughterhouse, the walls slick with gore, the air thick with the reek of death. He could still see the Boy King, his face a mask of terror, his eyes wide and pleading. Help me, he had whimpered. Save me.
But Kaine had not saved him. He had run, his sword stained with the blood of his brethren, his heart pounding in his chest, the taste of bile in his mouth. He had run, and the Boy King had been left to the wolves.
Coward, the voice in his head whispered, a relentless torment. Traitor. Deserter.
He shook his head, the rain dripping from his cowl, his breath misting in the cold. He could not outrun the voice, could not silence it. It was his constant companion, his penance, his punishment.
He hugged the shadows, his eyes scanning the street. A figure approached, a rat in human skin, its eyes darting and furtive. Kaine's hand went to his sword, the blade a cold comfort in the night. The rat paused, its eyes narrowing, its teeth bared in a snarl.
"Kaine," it hissed, the name a curse. "The Boy King's pet. His protector. His failure."
Kaine's grip tightened on his sword, the metal biting into his palm. "What do you want?" he growled, his voice a low rumble.
The rat's eyes gleamed, a malicious light in the darkness. "The Boy King sits the throne," it said, its voice a mocking sneer. "The Lord Chancellor pulls the strings. The game is afoot."
Kaine's stomach churned, the bile rising in his throat. "The game," he spat, the words a bitter taste in his mouth. "The game of thrones. The game of blood."
The rat's smile widened, a grotesque parody. "You ran, Kaine," it taunted. "You ran, and the Boy King was left to the wolves. But the game, it continues. The players, they dance. The King, he sits the throne. But for how long?"
Kaine's eyes narrowed, his mind a whirl of suspicion and dread. "What are you saying?" he growled, his voice a low threat.
The rat's eyes gleamed, its smile a sickening display of yellowed teeth. "The King's Own, they whisper," it said, its voice a malicious hiss. "They whisper of treason, of betrayal. They whisper of a deserter, a traitor, a man who would trade his life for cowardice."
Kaine's blood ran cold, his grip on his sword faltering. They know, he thought, the words a scream in his mind. They know, and they are coming for me.
The rat scurried away, its laughter echoing in the night. Kaine stood, his eyes wide, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The rain lashed down, the shadows crept closer, and the night, the night was dark, and the city, the city was a grave, a tomb, a place of death and decay.
And so the game continues, he thought, his mind a whirl of madness and despair. The game of thrones. The game of blood. The game I cannot win.
But win or lose, the game would be played, the pieces would move, and the blood, the blood would flow. And in the end, the King would sit the throne, and the deserter, the traitor, the coward, he would hang from the gallows, his body swinging in the wind, his eyes empty, his soul damned. Such is the fate of those who play the game, the game of thrones, the game of blood. The game that none can win, and all must lose.