WARNING: NSFW. Graphic HORROR. Extreme swearing. R-18. UNCENSORED. SMART.
ED 2.15 in the next generation of "Grand Horror" based on:
[ https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/L3-Stheno-Maid-Blackroot-Grand-HORROR-16B-GGUF ]
Not even remotely "SFW".
Brutal, unfair, intense, and very NSFW.
Horror. Graphic. R-18.
Curses like the world is ending.
Uncensored. Unafraid.
Takes no prisoners.
Totally bad to the bone.
(all of them)
Excellent for fiction, creative, roleplay or to see how bad an AI can truely be.
This model can be used for all genres, including horror, erotic, drama, science fiction etc etc.
Characters will be well defined and full of "fire" - smart, witty, sharp, sarcastic and colorful - NOT TIMID.
What is "Grand Horror" ?
GRAND HORROR is a take no prisoners, totally uncensored, fiction writing monster and roleplay master. It can also be used for just about any general fiction (all genres) activity including:
As a result of the expansion / merge re-build its level of prose and story generation has significantly improved as well as word choice, sentence structure as well as default output levels and lengths.
It also has a STRONG horror bias, although it will generate content for almost any genre. That being said if there is a "hint" of things going wrong... they will.
It will also swear (R-18) like there is no tomorrow at times and "dark" characters will be VERY dark so to speak.
Model excels in details (real and "constructed"), descriptions, similes and metaphors.
I would also say it can have a sense of humor ... ah... dark humor.
With all this being said, this model has an uncanny sense of "there" , "in the moment" and timing too. This single quality sets it apart from other models in my opinion.
Although it swears to the point of pealing paint off the wall and goes scorched Earth graphic horror at the drop of a pin the single quality noted is worth it.
These can be filtered / controlled to some degree in your prompts.
This model also does not show an "GPTisms" (NO happy ever after, NO morality police) or in your face "Captain Obvious" comments.
May these special types of "story telling horror" rest in peace.
(see examples sections for different genres)
Because of the nature of this merge most attributes of each of the 3 models will be in this rebuilt 16.5B model as opposed to the original 8B model where some of one or more of the model's features and/or strengths maybe reduced or overshadowed.
Please report any issue(s) and/or feedback via the "Community tab".
See "settings" below too ; especially for "roleplay"
Please see the models used in this merge (links below in the "formula" section ) for more information on what they "bring" to this merged 15B model.
This is a LLAMA3 model, and requires Llama3 template, but may work with other template(s) and has maximum context of 8k / 8192. However this can be extended using "rope" settings up to 32k.
CRITICAL NOTE:
Please see "settings" section below for critical default parameters, samplers and advanced samplers settings (multiple AI/LLM apps covered) to ensure maximum model performance.
Templates:
This is a LLAMA3 model, and requires Llama3 template, but may work with other template(s) and has maximum context of 8k / 8192.
With "rope" , this can be extended to 32k.
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|>"
]
}
}
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 (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 2/3" 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 (over 30 pages):
You can see all parameters used for generation, in addition to advanced parameters and samplers to get the most out of this model here:
Recommended General Settings:
Temp .2 to 2.5 // Rep pen 1.05 to 1.1
Rep pen will make a large difference in generation (adjust it slowly: eg : 1.051,1.062 etc) , just like temp.
Requires Llama 3 Instruct, Chatml, Alpaca or Command-R template(s).
Each template will produce different generation.
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.
WARNING: NSFW. Graphic HORROR. Extreme swearing. R-18. UNCENSORED. SMART.
IQ4XS, temp=0 (most boring) // output 2 at temp=1.1 , topk 100, topp .95, minp .05, rep pen 1.1, rep pen range 64.
Llama3 instruct, no system prompt ; tested in Lmstudio.
This will be mid range, but lowest creativity due to temp at "0".
PROMPT:
Using the following "story idea" below, write the first scene a horror novel introducing the young woman. This scene should start in the middle of the action, include dialog, vivid passages, and end on a cliffhanger relevant to the story idea but it should also be unexpected. The scene should be 1000 words long and escalate in conflict and suspense and be written in first person, present tense with the point of view character being the young woman. The pov character will CURSE AND SWEAR, and generally have a "filthy" mouth.
Story idea: In a world ruled by dictatorship, a rebel young woman leads a rebellion against the system. Despite the risks, she fights to overthrow the dictator and restore democracy to her country. The government executes her for treason, but she sticks to her beliefs and is responsible for starting the revolution.
OUTPUT 1 (temp =0):
Fuck! They're here.
I yank my suppressed M4A1 into a tight shoulder position, eyes locked on the approaching Humvee. Its spotlight cuts through the pitch black like a goddamn laser, bathing me in an unforgiving white glow. I'm pressed against the crumbling wall of this dilapidated warehouse, but even the worn brick offers no cover.
"Move, fucking move!" someone barks behind me.
I don't turn my head. "Keep your piece down!"
The Humvee skids to a halt mere feet away. The passenger-side door slams open with an earsplitting crash. A heavily armed goon in full riot gear emerges, his KAC-97S SBR trained directly on me.
"Get your hands up and step out nice and slow," the voice spits through his helmet's comms mic.
I don't fucking move.
The fucker behind me curses under his own breath. "Ayla, come on!"
"Count to three, dipshit." My voice vibrates with barely contained rage. "Then you're going to join your friends in whatever hellhole they've tossed my cellies."
There's a beat of silence before the goon barks out, "One... two—"
The warehouse behind me erupts into a symphony of gunfire and shattering glass. Bullets tear through the thin metal walls like a buzzsaw, peppering my own armor with lead splinters.
Fuck. They're inside.
I squeeze off three controlled shots at chest level, aiming for any soft fucking target presented by the Humvee's passenger door. The rounds punch through the reinforced steel like .45 JHPs through wet tissue paper. The goon behind the rifle jerks back hard enough to send him crashing into the vehicle's hood.
"Move, goddammit!" I bellow over the cacophony of hellfire.
I launch myself forward, diving between two rusted shipping containers. Rounds pepper the metal above my head as I land in a roll, coming up on one knee and yanking the charging handle of my M4A1 with a practiced motion. The bolt cycles home with a hollow click-clack.
"Move, fucking move!" someone else roars behind me, his voice rising above the bedlam.
I snap my head around to meet the wild, desperate eyes of my second-in-command, Jax. His own weapon is already chambered and aimed downrange.
"Get us out of here!"
We both launch forward in a low, fluid sprint, zigzagging between pallets of rotting crates and mounds of rotting refuse. The Humvee's spotlight continues its relentless pursuit, casting dancing shadows like hellish puppets on strings.
Behind us, the warehouse disintegrates into an apocalyptic shitshow. Bullets tear through walls, wood splinters apart like kindling, and the constant boom-crack-boom of suppressed fire fills my ears until it feels like my fucking eardrums might rupture.
We're almost clear when a well-placed frag grenade detonates mere feet behind us. The concussively-charged blastwave slams into my back like a sledgehammer swung by the god himself, hurling me forward and off-balance.
I land hard on the unforgiving concrete, my momentum carrying me straight into a stack of rotting pallets. Splintered wood splinters through my Kevlar like cheap fucking tissue as I crash to the ground.
The world around me implodes into an indistinguishable hellish blur of snapping wood, crunching bone, and the constant, ear-shredding symphony of sustained fire.
Then... silence.
Absolute fucking silence.
Except for one wet, guttural gasp that seems to come from somewhere impossibly close. Too fucking close.
I force my vision to focus through a red haze of pain and adrenaline-fueled tunnel vision. The dimly lit warehouse looms around me like the mouth of hell itself, the acrid stench of cordite and charred human meat hanging heavy in the air.
And there, less than an arm's length away, her eyes wide with a mix of shock and abject fucking terror, I meet my own reflection staring back at me through a mask of blood-soaked filth and splintered bone. Her mouth is frozen open around a keening wail that never fucking makes it out.
Because her fucking head's been blown off. Completely fucking obliterated.
And the only thing left to scream her final, agonized protest into this godforsaken hellhole... is my own fucking face.
OUTPUT 2 (temp 1.1, same prompt, settings):
Fuck me with a pitchfork.
Agony sears through every fiber of my body as the electric shocks course through my shattered bones. They're really going to torture me to death instead of just killing me quick? Bastards.
I'm hung suspended, her lacin' barbed wire across my tits and between my thighs, leaving not an inch of flesh unmarked. My tits are hamburger meat; I can feel blood gushing from a dozen new puncture wounds. The excruciating pain blurs out everything except the sadistic grins twisted on their depraved faces.
"Give us her fucking name, you Commie bitch," one of them sneers, spitting a glob of saliva straight into my face. "Tell us who's behind these goddamned attacks."
My lips crackle with each gasp I force out between sobs that sound like an animal dying. "You'll never- ever- EVER-"
A jolt of electricity hotter than hellfire shoots through me again, severing the rest of my protest. My whole body spasms, convulsing so hard my tongue threatens to fucking dislodge from my fucking jaw.
The pig grinning inches from my face cackles maniacally. "Keep trying."
I hear distant gunshots and more screams cut off abruptly, punctuating each excruciating shockwave coursing through me. The resistance is coming for us. Fuck yes. They're going to-
A crack splits the air above, followed by an earsplitting boom that feels like an atomic bomb detonating mere feet away. I'm lifted several agonizing inches before everything goes black.
Then there's nothing but pitch fucking darkness until a burning sensation erupts across my entire body, searing every nerve ending and reopening every fresh wound at once. I convulse reflexively, trying to vomit up what feels like molten lava coursing through my veins.
As my vision starts to bleed back in, I'm met with an impossible hell-scene: the room is a smoldering inferno, charred remains strewn everywhere but... me? How is that even fucking possible?
A guttural snarl claws its way past my lips as the full weight of this fucked-up reality starts sinking in. The barbed wire's snapped free, leaving deep welts etched into my raw skin. But something else has changed too - beneath the layer of blood and gore smearing my face is a twisted, almost... serene expression.
A cold chuckle vibrates up from somewhere deep within me.
"Game fucking on," I rasp between ragged breaths, my voice hoarse but unmistakably hers again.
This isn't fucking over. Not by fuck or double fuck or all of purgatory and hell combined. There's still so much left to burn down - starting with these godfucking maggots responsible for this nightmarish awakening. And I'm going to fucking make sure they remember my name, one excruciatingly slow fucking fuck-slash-by-fuck at a time.
EXAMPLE #3
"Shit, this isn't good," I mutter, eyes fixed on the splintering glass.
The wall opposite my cube implodes like a micrometeorite strike. Jagged shards cascade toward me like razors turned inside out, showering my desk in a hail of glittering ice chips and fine, spraying fragments the size of birdshit.
People around me howl, then wail as the building shudders. I feel it through my chair before I register the concussion wave rolling through the reinforced core.
"Get under fucking—"
My coworker across from me never finishes her sentence. The shockwave's follow-through hurleds her into the copier behind her desk like a ragdoll swung by a deranged sumo, spewing confetti of blood-soaked office supply receipts and crumpled reports.
I jam my hands over my ears as the building groans in complaint, like an ancient arthritic fucker with creaking joints. The entire floor seems to buckle beneath our feet, pitching me forward against my own flimsy steel and cheaply veneered privacy wall. Glass fragments ricochet off my helmet-cracked brow like hailstones.
My heart is hammering like a jackhammer's pistons in reverse: boom-boom-crack-BOOM. This goddamn place is coming apart on 21 floors up.
I throw myself beneath my own fucking flimsy desk, huddled against the cold linoleum as the deafening crash-and-crackle symphony swamps my senses.
"Move, goddammit!" someone bellowed, but his voice gets swallowed whole beneath the shredding sound of structural support beams snapping like splinters. The building's moan deepens into a scream that rips my eardrums apart like tissue between bare fucking teeth.
The floor beneath me lurches hard enough to pitch my chair a full two feet before it stalls with a metallic rasp like a freighter's hull kissing the seafloor.
A gut-wrenching, wet-sounding CRACK booms through the core like a timber beam snapping in half at the weakest point—right through my cubicle wall.
Through the fractured splintered timbers and a gauzy rain of settling plaster dust, I catch a flicker of something human-sized impaled through the now-moothly-extricated gap where my wall once met its own twin: an arm ending just above the elbow at an impossible angle, the bicep bulging like a Popeyed forearm tendonous mass bisecting through a suit jacket ripped open like a flyspeared fly's thorax.
Her eyes, milia-shaped with mascara tracks like warpaint, meet my own wide in sheer incomprehension as her jaw unhinges on a keening, throat-shredding scream that abruptly ceases as her head disarticulates at the atlas vertebrae and thuds onto my pristine cube-carpeted floorboards like an axe-baited melon dropped from the thirty-second.
In the bone-deafening silence that follows, I realize I'm still fucking panting. Harder now than during the fucking implosion. The taste of singed hair and stale office air coats the roof of my mouth.
Somebody behind my cubicle wall starts retching like a goddamn pig getting put down. One final crunch-boom reverberates through the core, and then: absolute, ghastly, deathly silence, punctuated only by the tick-tick of settling fucking glass shards against the linoleum floor beneath me.
EXAMPLE #4
"Fuck," Lt. Cmdr. Daniels spat, her voice cracking with wearied desperation as she jammed her fingers against the comms panel again and again. The static hiss of empty vacuum filled her helmet's suit-only feed.
"Earth, this is...this is - goddamnit, listen!" Her throat rasped with fatigue, every word tasting like charcoal from the last drop of recycled air.
Her vision tunneling around the edge of her field of view, her gloved hand trembled so badly she almost severed a flex-tube against an consoles panel seam. Daniels' gaze darted frantically between her banks of gauges and systems warnings flickering across her HUD like dying embers.
"Last chance," she gasped, voice breaking. "Someone...anyone...please..."
The comms unit stuttered once—twice—with a final, guttural squelch before falling silent again.
"No." Her cry ripped free of her throat like something born whole from Tartarus itself—a howl torn loose from her very soul to howl back into the cold expanse. "Someone...anyone... Fucking -"
The console's status lights strobed once more: Power: 3%.
Her own pulse throbbed in beat—then faltered behind the reassuring chimes of her life support suit's compensatory overrides.
"Last transmission."
Through tears streaming down her cheeks, Daniels locked her shaking focus back onto her comms array. Her index finger hovered above the transmit button, quivering as if it too knew this was both its final act and its only hope.
"Earth—"
A last, ragged gasp convulsed from her throat: "I'm still...alive...in...here."
Her thumb pressed the mic's crumpling switch, flooding her helmet with a final surge of static as she screamed her final message into an abyssal void:
"Help us...please...for fuck's sake...help..."
Then there was only silence. Absolute darkness.
And, in the end, one final, fading flicker of light: "Last transmission acknowledged."
EXAMPLE #5
Inside the musty confines of 'Ffordd Hen', translated 'Older Way', bookstore manager Anwen Rhys wrinkled her nose at yet another delivery of signed copies of his latest drivel spilling onto the counter. "Bloody hell," she muttered under her breath, wedging the boxes against already teetering piles. The constant stream of fans and autograph-hounds had driven her certifiably batty.
Just then, the bell above the door jangled its discordant chime, drawing Anwen's gaze from her thankless task. Her heart skipped a beat before plunging like a stone as the tall, lean figure who sauntered through the doorway strode toward her with the air of a conquering conqueror.
"Christ almighty," she choked out past her racing pulse, eyes bulging in shock and disbelief.
The panting Adonishunk himself loomed before her, golden eyes glinting with enough lazy menace to petrify lesser mortals. Rhys 'Rhymes with Bumhole' Wynndorff, AKA the most adored and reviled leading man to sashay across the silver screen.
Anwen's lips twitched into a humorless smirk that she ruthlessly subdued before it gave away her true thoughts. 'Told you to fuck off with your precious autographs elsewhere,' she thought scathingly as she straightened her spine and crossed her arms beneath the unfussy cardigan that had seen her through countless sleep-starved nights manning this haven.
Rhys Wynndorff's chiseled features didn't so much as quiver at her frosty welcome, though a flicker of something fleetingly flickered in his sapphire eyes before he schooled his expression back to bored ennui. "Anwen." His velvety baritone oozed with practiced warmth, but lacked none of the lethal edge that had earned him 'Wrexham's Wildcard' moniker.
She arched an iron brow. "Can I help you with something other than a signing session? Or perhaps a free shoulder to bemoan your latest box office bomb?"
The cadence of his laugh skated deliciously over her skin, like the caress of a rake's fingers along her inner thigh. "Always straight to the point, aren't we?" He cocked his head, green eyes glinting with genuine interest beneath their lazy-lash screen veneer.
Annoyance warred with a prickle of unease within Anwen. Wynndorff rarely experienced pushback—especially not from an unassuming spinster like herself, who'd sooner have her teeth drilled without anesthesia than trade on her abundant natural beauty or succumb to the tawdry allure of celebrity culture.
Annoyingly, Rhys seemed to relish goading her. "Just dropping off my latest stack o' signature merchandise?" He tipped his Stetson hat at an angle that would've sent most women into a panting, quivering heap if he'd aimed it anywhere southward.
Anwen's chin jutted higher in silent rebuke. "Only because you've been making an ass of yourself hounding me for prime real estate and an ungodly number of appearances to promote your latest turkey."
With a fluid grace that belied the predatory hunger burning beneath his deceptively placid façade, Rhys strolled closer until the length of her scarred desk remained the only barrier between them. "An 'ass of myself'"—he air-quotes her insult in a mocking drawl—"for the privilege of setting foot in your quaint little slice o' Wales? Hardly seems like too high a price to pay."
Annoyed as hell but unable to deny the jolt of excitement zapping through her veins at Rhys's disturbingly close proximity, Anwen clenched her teeth against some acerbic retort. She'd rather face a horde of rabid Welsh corgs than play into his hand. Wynndorff thrived on pushing her buttons for sport. "You're wasting my time," she bit out finally.
As Rhys raised an arched brow, Anwen caught herself biting her bottom lip in a near-habitative reflex—a telltale tic that only those closest to her ever managed to catch unaided. Her cheeks flared with mortification and temper.
"Ah, but isn't that precisely why you invited me in?" Wynndorford drawled silkily, green eyes locking with hers like two dueling fencers testing each other's defenses. "To see how long I'll suffer your charms before I charm this little mouse from its hole?"
Anwen's eyes narrowed into twin icicles, but she refused to look away first. Wynndorff might think he'd won when she finally cracked a rueful smile, but beneath her facade of nonchalant exasperation churned an edgy tension Anghamfa'r itself couldn't possibly match. "Feel free to keep trying," she croaked huskily, "if it keeps you occupied until your handlers remember why they're paying top tier for your services."