schnapper79/lumikabra-195B_v0.3

lumikabra-195B v0.3

This is a big (195B) variant of lumikabra v0.3.

Merge Details

Merge Method

This model was merged using the passthrough merge method.

Models Merged

The following models were included in the merge:

• /workspace/text-generation-webui/models/schnapper79_lumikabra-123B_v0.3

Configuration

The following YAML configuration was used to produce this model:

dtype: bfloat16
merge_method: passthrough
slices:
- sources:
  - layer_range: [0, 70]
    model: /workspace/text-generation-webui/models/schnapper79_lumikabra-123B_v0.3
- sources: 
  - layer_range: [18, 88]
    model: /workspace/text-generation-webui/models/schnapper79_lumikabra-123B_v0.3 

Example Storywriting

Settings

max_new_tokens: 4096
min_p: 0.05
smoothing factor: 0.25

Write me a 3,000 word opening chapter of a 'high fantasy' novel, drawing inspiration from the writing styles of Patrick Rothfuss. Use first person personal. Include dialogue and internal monologues. The POV character for the opening chapter should be a 19 year old female elf bard who is looking for adventure. Add darkness to the story

The tavern door creaked open, and a gust of chill night air followed me inside. I pulled my cloak tighter around my shoulders as I stepped into the dimly lit room, my boots thumping softly on the worn wooden floor. A few patrons glanced up from their mugs, but most paid me no mind. Just another traveler seeking shelter from the cold.

I made my way to the bar and signaled the bartender, a burly dwarf with a thick beard and arms like tree trunks. He grunted in acknowledgment and ambled over.

"What'll it be?" His voice was like gravel.

"Ale, please. And a room for the night, if you have one."

He nodded and disappeared into the back, returning a moment later with a frothy mug. I fished a few copper coins from my pouch and slid them across the bar.

"Upstairs, third door on the left," he said, pocketing the coins.

I thanked him and found a quiet corner to sit and sip my drink. The ale was bitter and lukewarm, but it chased away the chill. I leaned back against the wall and let my eyes wander around the room, taking in the faces of the other patrons. Most were rough-looking sorts - mercenaries, bandits, and thieves, if I had to guess. Not the kind of company a young elven maiden should keep.

But I was no ordinary maiden. I was a bard, a spinner of tales and a weaver of songs. And I had come to this forsaken corner of the realm in search of a story.

The tales of old spoke of a forgotten city hidden deep in the Whispering Woods, a place of ancient magic and untold treasures. Most dismissed it as a myth, a bedtime story to frighten children. But I had heard whispers of late, rumors that the city was real and that a map to its location had recently resurfaced.

I had followed the trail of those whispers to this very tavern, and I had a feeling that the answers I sought were somewhere in this room. I just had to be patient and keep my ears open.

As if on cue, a trio of rough-looking men entered the tavern, their laughter booming through the room. They pushed their way to the bar and ordered a round of drinks, their voices loud and boisterous. I sipped my ale and listened, trying to pick out snippets of their conversation over the din of the crowd.

"...swear it's there, just like the old man said..."

"...lost city of gold, he called it..."

"...map's the key, but it ain't cheap..."

I leaned forward, my heart quickening. This was it. This was the lead I had been searching for. I just had to figure out how to get my hands on that map.

I was still pondering my next move when a shadow fell over my table. I looked up to see a tall, lean man with a scar running down his cheek, his eyes cold and appraising.

"You look lost, little bird," he said, his voice like honey over steel. "Maybe I can help you find your way."

I met his gaze evenly, refusing to be intimidated. "I'm not lost. Just passing through."

He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Passing through, huh? On your way to somewhere special?"

I shrugged nonchalantly. "Just wherever the road takes me."

He chuckled, a low, humorless sound. "The road can be a dangerous place for a pretty little thing like you. Especially at night."

I felt a chill run down my spine, but I kept my voice steady. "I can take care of myself."

He leaned in closer, his breath hot on my cheek. "I'm sure you can. But maybe you'd rather have some company."

I was about to tell him exactly where he could shove his company when a commotion at the bar caught my attention. The three men were on their feet, their voices raised in anger. One of them shoved the other, and a moment later, fists were flying.

The tavern erupted into chaos as tables overturned and mugs shattered on the floor. I leapt to my feet, my hand instinctively reaching for the dagger at my hip. But before I could draw it, a strong hand clamped down on my wrist.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," the scarred man said, his voice low and dangerous. "You might get hurt."

I tried to wrench my arm free, but his grip was like iron. "Let go of me," I hissed.

He smiled, a slow, predatory curve of his lips. "Not yet, little bird. You and I have some business to discuss."

I opened my mouth to reply, but before I could, a deafening roar shook the tavern walls. The scarred man's grip loosened in surprise, and I took the opportunity to twist free. I whirled around just in time to see a massive, shadowy form crash through the tavern door, its eyes glowing like embers in the dark.

The room fell silent, the brawlers frozen in mid-swing. The creature let out another bone-shaking roar, its breath hot and sulfurous. I caught a whiff of brimstone and decay, and my stomach turned.

A demon. Here, in this backwater tavern.

The scarred man cursed and drew a wicked-looking dagger from his belt. "Stay behind me," he growled, pushing me back against the wall.

I bristled at the command, but I wasn't foolish enough to argue. I had my own dagger out now, the silver blade glinting in the flickering torchlight. But against a demon, it might as well have been a twig.

The creature stalked into the room, its claws gouging deep furrows in the floorboards. The patrons scrambled out of its way, their bravado evaporating like morning mist. The scarred man held his ground, his eyes narrowed and his blade steady.

"You don't belong here, hellspawn," he said, his voice cold and hard. "Crawl back to the abyss before I send you there myself."

The demon hissed, a sound like water on hot coals. "You dare threaten me, mortal?" it rumbled, its voice like distant thunder. "I will feast on your entrails and use your skull as a chamber pot."

The scarred man smiled, a thin, humorless slash of his lips. "You're welcome to try."

And then, faster than I could blink, the demon lunged.

I dove to the side as the creature's massive body slammed into the wall where I had been standing a heartbeat before. The scarred man was already moving, his blade a silver blur as he danced around the demon’s swipes.

I scrambed to my feet, my heart pounding in my ears. I had to help him. I had to do something. But what could I do against a creature like this?

The answer came to me in a flash of inspiration. I might not be a warrior, but I was a bard. And bards had their own kind of magic.

I took a deep breath and began to sing.

The words flowed from me like a river, ancient and powerful. The song was one of the oldest I knew, a lament for the fallen heroes of a forgotten age. It spoke of courage in the face of darkness, of light that could not be extinguished.

As I sang, the tavern grew still. The scarred man paused in his dance, his blade hanging motionless in the air. The demon froze, its eyes locked on me, its mouth hanging open in a grotesque parody of awe.

I sang on, pouring my heart and soul into the words. The song swelled around me, filling the room with light and sound. The demon staggered back, its eyes wide and fearful.

I stepped forward, my voice rising in triumph. The song was a weapon now, a blade of pure silver fire. I drove it into the demon’s heart, and the creature screamed.

The sound tore through the air like a dying star, and then the demon was gone, dissolved into a cloud of oily smoke. The scarred man stood motionless, his blade hanging limply at his side.

I let the last note of the song fade into silence, my chest heaving with the effort. The tavern was still, the only sound the crackle of the fire and the distant howl of the wind.

The scarred man turned to me, his eyes wide with shock and something that might have been fear. "What are you?" he whispered.

I smiled, a tired, bitter curve of my lips. "Just a bard,” I said. “Passing through.”

He stared at me for a long moment, then shook his head and sheathed his blade. "You’re more than that,” he said. “And I think you know it.”

I shrugged, suddenly weary to my bones. “What I am doesn’t matter. What matters is that we’re alive, and that thing is dead.”

He nodded slowly. “Thanks to you.”

I didn’t answer. I just turned and walked away, leaving him standing there in the wreckage of the tavern. I had what I had come for. The map, and the beginnings of a story that would be told for generations.

As I climbed the stairs to my room, I couldn’t shake the feeling that my adventure was just beginning. And that the road ahead would be darker and more dangerous than anything I had ever imagined.

But I was a bard, a spinner of tales and a weaver of songs. And I had a story to tell.

So I stepped into the night, and I followed the song.