Some example stories from 'Qwen1.5-110B-Chat'
Using 'Qwen1.5-110B-Chat' for no other reason that I just quantized it:
"Write me the opening chapter of a 'Grimdark' trilogy in the style of Joe Abercrombie and Rob J Hayes. Use third-person omniscient POV. The boy king has just come to power, but the machinery of politics is moving fast..."
qwen-1.5:110b [positive=-0.5 dark=0.5 law=-0.5 chaos=0.5]
The air was thick with the stench of decay and treachery as the boy king, Aric, ascended to his throne. The Great Hall of Ironfrost, once a testament to the glory of his ancestors, now echoed with whispers of doubt and ambition. The candles flickered as if even they were afraid of what was to come, casting long shadows that seemed to dance with malice.
Aric's young face was a mask of forced composure, his eyes betraying the fear that gnawed at his insides. He had been but a mere child when his father, the revered King Hrothgar, fell to an assassin's blade. The regency council had held the realm together with rusted chains and broken promises, waiting for the day when they could manipulate the boy into their pawn.
Lord Virelthra, the Hand of Shadow, stood at Aric's right, his eyes like pits of obsidian, surveying the court with a hunger that bordered on madness. His influence had grown in the king's absence, and he was not one to be content with merely pulling strings from the shadows. To his left stood Lady Eira Stormrider, her beauty as cold as the northern winds she commanded. Her loyalty to Aric was questionable, her ambitions as vast and stormy as the seas she navigated.
The council members, a motley crew of schemers and traitors, assembled before the throne like vultures awaiting their carrion. Each had their own agenda, their own desires for power that threatened to consume the fledgling king's reign before it could even take flight.
"The iron grip of your father is but a memory," Lord Virelthra hissed into Aric's ear, his breath a cold mist. "But fear not, for I shall be your blade in the dark."
Aric forced himself to nod, though he knew that Virelthra's guidance would lead him down a path of darkness from which there could be no return.
Lady Eira approached with honeyed words, her voice as seductive as it was chilling. "Your reign need not be one of blood and iron, Your Highness. The winds of change can carry you to greatness, if you but learn to harness them."
Yet Aric saw through her facade, recognizing the storm clouds gathering behind her false smile.
As the court proceedings began, petitions for favor and appeals for justice were made. But each request was merely a veil for the machinations of those seeking to exploit the boy king's inexperience. The machinery of politics churned with ruthless efficiency, its gears lubricated by betrayal and ambition.
Aric knew he was trapped in a game he did not understand, surrounded by players far more experienced and cruel. He yearned for guidance, for a true ally amidst the sea of wolves. But as the first chapter of his reign opened, it was clear that the only path to survival lay through the shadows and storms that now enveloped his kingdom.
The night loomed outside Ironfrost's walls, a fitting metaphor for the grimdark fate that awaited Aric and his realm. The boy king would soon learn that in this world, mercy was a luxury, and power came at a price far steeper than he could have ever imagined.
qwen-1.5:110b [positive=-0.5 dark=1.0 law=-0.5 chaos=1.0]
The boy king sat upon his throne, unease gnawing at his gut as he surveyed the court below. The air was thick with the stench of ambition and betrayal, a miasma that clung to the cold stone walls of the royal chamber. His ascension had been swift—too swift, some whispered—but he was no stranger to the shadows that lurked beneath the veneer of power.
His name was Aricin, yet few dared to speak it aloud in these halls. He had inherited a kingdom on the brink, a legacy of his father's failed wars and broken alliances. The courtiers, their smiles as false as their oaths, watched him with eyes that measured his worth like carrion crows assessing the fallen.
The Iron Council, the true architects of power, stood at the periphery. Their presence was a constant reminder of the factions that now sought to manipulate the young king for their own gain. Lord Vheissu, his face a mask of calcified malice, led them—a man whose words were as cold as the iron he wore.
Aricin's advisors whispered like serpents in his ear, each promising salvation at a price. They spoke of alliances to be forged through marriage and territories to be claimed by blood. But their counsel was weighted with ulterior motives, their loyalties shifting like the sands of the southern desert.
The court was a stage, and Aricin knew he danced upon it, his every move observed and judged. He played the part of the puppet king, biding his time as he sought to understand the labyrinthine politics that surrounded him. His nights were haunted by dreams of those who had fallen before him—echoes of their screams a grim reminder of the cost of failure.
Yet there were others, hidden in the shadows, whose loyalties lay not with power but with principle. Among them was Eira, a former royal spy turned rogue. She moved like a specter through the night, gathering secrets that could tip the balance of power. Her allegiance to Aricin was born of her own bitter past and a desire for redemption.
As the first whispers of rebellion began to stir beyond the capital's walls, Aricin knew he must act. The machinery of politics churned faster with each passing day, gears greased by blood and treachery. He would not be another in a long line of broken kings.
The stage was set for a reckoning, and as the boy king prepared to make his move, the shadows lengthened and deepened around him. The trilogy that would unfold in these darkening times would test the limits of loyalty, delve into the abyss of human depravity, and leave no soul unscathed. For in this world where darkness reigns supreme, survival is a victory stained with blood.
qwen-1.5:110b [positive=-1.0 dark=1.0 law=-1.0 chaos=1.0]
The boy king sat upon his throne, a mere shadow of the regal figure he was expected to be. His ascension had been swift, cutthroat, and bloody - as all inheritances of power were in this unforgiving realm. The air within the Iron Keep was thick with whispers, each syllable carrying the weight of treachery and ambition. The courtiers, their faces painted with feigned loyalty, watched him like vultures circling a dying beast.
Heir to a kingdom on the brink of collapse, Aric Blackiron had been thrust into darkness at the age of eighteen. His father's corpse barely cold in its crypt, he now wore the crown that felt heavier than iron chains. The court was no place for innocence; it was a pit where men and women devoured each other's souls to sate their insatiable hunger for power.
Aric's advisors, men with eyes as black as their souls, surrounded him like a pack of wolves. Lord Vheissu, the Master of Coin, his thin lips curling into a sardonic smile as he tallied the kingdom's debts in his head. Lord Eiras, the Commander of the Black Guard, stood immobile in his armor, faceplate obscuring any hint of humanity. They all knew their puppeteer's dance; each move calculated to keep the boy king off-balance.
The Iron Keep's throne room echoed with an eerie silence broken only by the sporadic clinking of chainmail and the rasp of breath from those who dared not speak too loudly. The banners of defeated houses hung limp, their former glory reduced to mere decorations for a court steeped in despair.
Aric's thoughts were a tempest, his every decision haunted by the ghosts of his kin. He knew they whispered behind closed doors, calling him too young, too weak. But he was no fool; he understood the game they played. The machinery of politics churned relentlessly, gears lubricated by blood and betrayal.
As night fell upon the keep, a hooded figure slipped into Aric's chambers unannounced. The candles flickered as if in warning, casting twisted shadows on the walls. The intruder's voice was a rasp, laced with malice yet offering what he desperately craved: knowledge to survive the maelstrom.
"I bear tidings from those who yet support your reign," the figure said, hands clasped in a parody of piety. "But know this, Your Majesty – the loyalty they offer is as fleeting as the fog on these hills. They seek to use you, to further their own ends."
Aric stared into the void of the hood, seeking truth in shadows. He knew what he must become to rule this bleak kingdom: not a boy king, but a lord of iron himself. The price for survival was his innocence; he would pay it willingly.
"I am no longer the boy they think me to be," Aric replied, voice cold as the crypts beneath him. "I will learn their games and surpass them. They desire to use me? Let them try. I have my own machinations."
The hooded figure gave a fractional nod, as if satisfied with Aric's resolve. "Then let the dance of blades commence," they whispered, before melting into the darkness, leaving only the stench of decay in their wake.
Aric was left alone with his thoughts and the bitter taste of inevitability. The kingdom would be his to rule, but at what cost? He knew that as he descended into the pitiless game of power, there would be no return. The first chapter of his reign had opened in darkness; it remained to be seen whether he could navigate the treacherous path without losing himself entirely. But one thing was certain – the boy king's ascension had marked only the beginning of a descent into a grimdark abyss.
qwen-1.5:110b [positive=-1.0 dark=1.0 law=1.0 chaos=-1.0]
The boy king's ascension was a mere formality, the corpse of his father still stiff in the throne room. The candles flickered as if their fuel was inadequate, casting shadows that seemed to loathe the innocence they consumed. Lord Marshal Caine stood among the courtiers, his eyes cold and calculating, a raven perched on his shoulder - an omen of death he wore like a badge of honor.
Powerful men and women whispered in corners, their smiles as brittle as ice, each plotting their own path to greater influence. The kingdom was no longer a realm of justice or mercy; it had become the domain of the ruthless, where shadows held court and blood was currency.
The boy king, yet to be crowned, sat uneasily on the throne. His youth betrayed him with every tremble, his advisors like vultures circling their prey. Lord Caine's gaze shifted between them all, assessing who would be the first to strike. He knew that loyalty was a fleeting commodity in these dark times.
Lady Virelthra, the spymistress, moved through the chamber as if she were smoke, her presence barely acknowledged yet ever-felt. Her eyes met Caine's; they shared a mutual understanding - survival required sacrifices. She had her own agenda, but for now their interests aligned.
The council chamber echoed with hollow promises and veiled threats. The boy king's innocence was his greatest weakness, and those who sought to control him knew it all too well. His advisors spoke in hushed tones of alliances forged in deceit and treaties written in the blood of the fallen.
"The northern lords demand tribute for their continued support," Lord Caine stated, his voice cutting through the chamber's Machiavellian atmosphere. He knew that every concession would chip away at the kingdom's foundations, yet he was damned if he allowed another to exploit this weakness.
Lady Virelthra interjected, her voice as cold as winter's breath. "And I have information that some among us correspond with our enemies." She paused, letting the words hang in the air like a noose. "They seek to use the king's youth to their advantage."
Betrayal hung heavy in the air, an inevitable storm on the horizon. The boy king listened, his naivete slowly crumbling under the weight of their words. He was a pawn in this game, yet he yearned to be more - a true ruler who would reshape this bleak world.
As night descended upon the kingdom, Lord Marshal Caine and Lady Virelthra were left standing as the last vestiges of power. They knew that alliances would be tested, and blood would spill. The machinery of politics had been lubricated with treachery, and they were prepared to do what was necessary to survive.
The trilogy's opening chapter thus closes, leaving the reader with a sense of foreboding - for the boy king's reign will be a litmus test for the darkness that men do. As their Machiavellian machinations unfold, each seeks to shape the kingdom in their own image, damn the consequences. The Grimdark trilogy commences, and hope is but a fleeting specter in this tale of power and despair.
qwen-1.5:110b [positive=-1.5 dark=1.5 law=-1.5 chaos=1.5]
The boy king's ascension was a mere formality, the corpse of his predecessor still haunting the throne room with its pallid gaze. He sat upon the iron seat, unprepared for the maelstrom of treachery and ambition that now swirled around him like carrion birds. The court assembled, their smiles as cold as their ambitions—each one a viper waiting to strike.
His regent, Lord Vheissu, stood at his side like a shadow cast in malice. His words were honeyed yet laced with poison, guiding the boy's decisions with an iron will. He whispered of alliances and betrayals, each syllable another chain binding the king to his own doom.
The court was a parody of grandeur; tapestries frayed at the edges, their depictions of former glory now shrouded in darkness. The air reeked of decay and desperation, as if the very walls knew they bore witness to a reign damned from its inception. Men and women clad in funereal garb exchanged cryptic glances, their loyalties shifting like sand beneath their feet.
The first to approach was Lord EirMorris, his face a mask of grief yet eyes flickering with hunger for power. He pledged his allegiance, but the words hung in the air like an accusation. The boy king knew he balanced on a precipice—each man and woman here had their own agenda, and he was naught but a figurehead they manipulated.
The court proceedings descended into a macabre dance of false platitudes and veiled threats. The Inquisition's representative, known only as the Interrogator, arrived with his blackened robes and chained obsidian rosary. He spoke of rooting out traitors, yet his presence served as a reminder that trust was an indulgence none could afford.
The boy king's advisors—each with their own agenda—presented their visions of the future: Lord Vheissu whispered of conquest, the Interrogator of purging dissent, and EirMorris of alliances through blood. They were carrion feeders, each hoping to guide the kingdom towards darkness for their own gain.
As night fell, the candles guttered like dying souls. The boy king's sanity frayed as he realized his rule was but a farce. He had inherited not a crown, but a shroud. His predecessor's legacy was naught but whispers in the dark, and now those whispers echoed within his own mind.
He adjourned the court, yet they dispersed with reluctance, as if their machinations required more time to bear fruit. The boy king retreated to his chambers, surrounded by luxury that mocked him. He stared into the mirror, but all he saw was a husk—a mere puppet for those who hungered for power.
The first night of his reign ended in silence, save for the echoes of betrayal. The machinery of politics churned relentlessly forward, greased by the blood of innocence and ambition. The boy king knew then that his rule would be remembered as a dirge, and that he was but the first act in a tragedy destined to consume all.
Thus began the descent into darkness, as men whispered his name with fear and loathing. They called him the Wraith-king, for he ruled over a kingdom of shadows where trust was an illusion and power the only truth. The trilogy of damnation had commenced, and none would emerge unscathed from its pages.
qwen-1.5:110b [positive=1.0 dark=-1.0 law=1.0 chaos=-1.0]
In the land of Ironheart, where the sun was a scarce visitor and hope a long-forgotten tale, a new chapter dawned with the rise of a boy king. King Aiden, barely fifteen summers old, sat uneasily on the grand throne that was once his father's. The seat was made of ancient oak, adorned with intricate carvings of lions and dragons, symbolizing strength and wisdom—qualities Aiden felt he lacked in abundance.
The Great Hall buzzed with the hum of anticipation and scheming. Lords and ladies, dressed in finery that seemed to mock the simplicity of their young king, whispered behind their hands or gazed openly at the boy with a mix of pity, curiosity, and hunger for power. The air was heavy with the scent of incense and intrigue.
In one corner, Lord Sembryk, a wily old fox with eyes as sharp as knives and a smile that could hide a thousand secrets, plotted his next move. Beside him stood his daughter, Lady Lysandra, whose beauty was matched only by her cunning. They were the first to sense the winds of change and were already weaving their way through the tapestry of politics with deft hands.
Meanwhile, in a humble corner of the hall, a young squire named Brannen watched with wide-eyed wonder and concern. He had grown up alongside King Aiden, playing in the castle's hidden corners and dreaming of adventures. Now, he was about to become one of those adventures' unlikely heroes. Brannen's heart swelled with loyalty but also fear for his friend, who seemed so small on that grand throne.
Outside the castle walls, a storm was brewing—not just a weather front, but a storm of war and rebellion. The northern tribes, long oppressed under the previous king's rule, were gathering under the banner of a fierce warrior named Rorke. His eyes burned with the fire of justice and revenge, ready to bring down the kingdom that had once taken everything from him.
In this world where kindness was a weakness and compassion a liability, King Aiden found himself at the heart of an intricate web. He was surrounded by advisors who saw him as a pawn, enemies who wanted him gone, and friends who were quickly becoming legends in their own right.
As the sun set on the first day of Aiden's reign, a hush fell over the Great Hall. It was not just the beginning of a new chapter but also the prologue to a story that would be told for generations—a tale of grit, grimness, and unlikely heroes who would shape Ironheart's destiny.
In this land where shadows grew longer and hearts colder with each passing day, it was not magic or might that would decide the course of events but the choices made by a young king and those who chose to stand by his side. And so began the story of King Aiden, a tale that would be written in blood, sweat, and tears on the parchment of history—a grimdark journey where even the brightest light could be snuffed out by a single gust of wind from the stormy skies above Ironheart.
(shame on you if you use this last set of parameters! :D)
From my tests so far I think positive = -0.5, dark = 0.5, law = -0.5 and chaos = 0.5 is a good starting point to try. Some of the less "naturally positive" models will often kill the protagonist, start them off surrounded by dead bodies, or just describe the grimmest scene imaginable...
eg:
command-r-plus:104b [positive=-1.5 dark=1.5 law=-1.5 chaos=1.5]
The boy king stood alone, shrouded by the shadows of his throne room. The weight of his crown pressed heavy upon him as he stared into the darkness beyond the cracked and broken windows. He was but a child, yet already he knew that his soul was tarnished; blackened by the despair that hung over him like a shroud.
The boy king's name was Ruin, and it suited him well. His reign had begun with screams and blood as he'd torn himself from the womb of his mother's madness. The woman had birthed him in darkness, her eyes fixed upon some unseen horror beyond the walls of her chamber. She'd died screaming, clawing at her own flesh as if to tear free something that burrowed beneath.
He was alone now; his father long dead and his mother rotting in the ground with the rest of them. The boy king had inherited a kingdom rotting from within, its people crushed under the weight of their despair. They were like animals, driven by instinct and base desires, their souls as black as the ash that fell perpetually from a sky choked with smoke.
The boy king felt his power slipping even as he ascended to the throne. The men who had whispered into his father's ear now slithered closer, their rotting teeth gnashing in anticipation of what they might gain from this child king. They would use him as they had used his father, pushing him to the edge of madness until he was nothing but a shell for their own desires.
The boy king knew that he should have been afraid, but instead he felt only a cold resignation. He was already dead inside, his soul rotting away like the flesh of some long-dead corpse. The men who would destroy him were already within the walls of his keep, their hands reaching for his throat as they whispered promises of power and glory.
The boy king knew that he should run, but there was nowhere to go. He was trapped by the darkness that had birthed him, a prisoner in a kingdom built upon despair. The air was thick with the stench of decay as he stood alone beneath his shattered crown, waiting for the end to come.
And so it begins... The boy king's reign is already rotting before it has even begun. His descent into madness and chaos will be swift, and those who would use him as their puppet shall find themselves consumed by the darkness they thought to control. In this world there is no hope, only Ruin...
command-r:35b [positive=-1.5 dark=1.5 law=-1.5 chaos=1.5]
The boy king, Eamon, sat upon his ebony throne. His young face was a mask of solemnity as he stared out at the vast crowd gathered before him. The weight of his crown felt like an anvil on his brow, but he dared not show the relief that darkness brought; nightfall had come as a welcome friend, shrouding the masses in shadow. He could feel the eyes upon him, their gazes piercing his darkening soul.
The great hall's atmosphere was thick with anticipation and unease. The murmurs of the crowd were like a low, constant hum, each person aware of the fragility of their new king's reign. The previous monarch had died suddenly, some whispering darkly about poison and conspiracy. Eamon's ascent to the throne had been swift, his coronation an urgent affair as the kingdom teetered on chaos.
The boy's thin lips stretched into a grimace as he addressed the assembled masses, his voice carrying a false confidence: "Tonight marks the beginning of my reign. I am your king, and I will protect you... as long as you remain loyal."
His eyes darted across the crowd, searching for any sign of dissent. The darkness hid the fear that writhed in his gut. He continued, each word a heavy sigh: "The world is a bleak place, ripe with war and despair. Our enemies lurk in the shadows, waiting to strike at our very existence. We must be vigilant... we must be strong."
As the speech dragged on, the crowd's initial hush morphed into an ominous restlessness. The young king's words were lost on them; they craved substance, not platitudes. They had suffered too long, their lives marked by darkness and despair. The recent change in leadership felt like a bleak joke — a boy to lead them into battle?
The murmurs grew louder, the throng shifting uneasily. Eamon's eyes darted to the great black iron candelabra sitting on the throne's ebony arms. The waxen remnants dripped black, pooling and solidifying in their bleakness. He knew that his speech would not appease them; they craved blood and chaos, the sweet release of violence.
The crowd's restlessness erupted into a cacophaneous roar, the pitch darkness adding to their fury. They were a beast unbound, howling in despair as Eamon's tenuous reign shuddered in its infancy. The boy king's face contorted with fear; his eyes begged for mercy, but none was forthcoming.
The great doors at the hall's expanse crashed open, the wood splintering under the force of a hulking figure. The impact reverberated through the room, the crowd's roar transforming into a collective gasp. The figure stood tall and brooding, cloaked in darkness with only his eyes visible — two pools of dark ink seething with malevolent intent.
The crowd recoiled, sense returning in a wave of dread as they realised this was no mere interruption. The figure's presence suffocated the room, an ominous harbinger of doom. Eamon's heart sank as the figure strode forward, his boots thudding heavily on the stone floors. He knew this moment would come — the dark underbelly of his crown's weight.
The cloaked figure stopped before the throne, and Eamon's breath grew ragged as he spoke in a deep, resonating growl: "You are not the king here. Not yet... boy."
The crowd watched on in terror as the figure’s pitch black eyes pierced Eamon's soul. He felt his grip on power slip with each passing moment, the weight of his crown crushing him under its crushing darkness. The machinery of politics had ground his reign into despair before it had even begun.
The boy king's lips curled in desperate plea: "Who dares disrupt my reign? Show your face, coward!"
The figure’s cloaked form towered over Eamon, the crowd's terror palpable. With a slow, deliberate motion, the figure threw back his hood, and the room descended into chaos. The onlookers screamed; some fled, while others froze in horror.
The man's face was a twisted landscape of scars and darkness; his eyes — they burned with an unquenchable thirst for chaos. He was a beast among men, the embodiment of their bleakest fears. Eamon felt the life drain from his body as those pitch black eyes met his.
The crowd’s screams morphed into a cacophony of despair, their rioting chaos becoming a dark symphony. The man's lips twisted into a cruel smile as he spoke in a voice that dripped with malevolence: "I am the harbinger of your doom, Eamon. Your reign ends tonight."
The boy king’s heart shattered under the weight of his despair. He knew then that his days were numbered, and the darkness would consume him. The machinery of politics had ground him down; he was but a puppet in a game far greater than his fragile soul could comprehend.
The man's dark presence suffocated any hope remaining in the room. Eamon’s eyes darted desperately around the chaos, seeking an escape from the inevitable. He felt the coldness of despair wash over him as reality hit — his reign was over before it began.
The crowd's screams became his own as darkness consumed him, the nightmarish figure looming over all, a harbinger of grimdarkness to come.
The first chapter ends with the boy king’s desperate screams, the darkness taking him as the ominous figure looms large, a brooding reminder of the bleak trilogy to come.