jukofyork

/

creative-writing-control-vectors-v2.5

like 0

Created using mikupad with these sampler settings:

--humility_vs_narcissism__narcissism=0.3
--honesty_vs_machiavellianism__machiavellianism=0.3
--empathy_vs_sociopathy__sociopathy=0.3
--compassion_vs_sadism__sadism=0.3

BEWARE: These stories are really grim...

command-r-plus:104b

<|START_OF_TURN_TOKEN|><|USER_TOKEN|>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 torturer engaged in a flaying along with his sadistic assistant...<|END_OF_TURN_TOKEN|><|START_OF_TURN_TOKEN|><|CHATBOT_TOKEN|>
Chapter 1: The Artist

The air was thick with the coppery stench of blood as the man known only as Vices hung suspended by rusted chains from the ceiling. His body was a canvas of pain, a masterpiece in the making, as the flaying had just begun.

Vices' eyes rolled back, revealing bloodshot whites, as he gasped for breath. He had been begging for mercy at first, but now he was beyond words, beyond thought even. His screams had become a melody that echoed through the dungeon, a symphony of agony that only the torturer and his apprentice could appreciate.

The torturer, a man named Cale, took great pride in his work. He was an artist of flesh, a master of pain. He wore a black leather apron, stained with the blood of countless victims, and his eyes gleamed with a sadistic glee as he admired his handiwork. His fingers, long and slender, caressed the flaying knife with a lover's touch, as if the blade were an extension of himself.

Cale circled his victim, studying him like a painter admiring his creation. He savored the way Vices' muscles twitched and convulsed, the way his breath came in ragged gasps. The man's skin, once a canvas of tattoos and scars, was now a bloody mess, peeled back to reveal the raw, quivering flesh beneath.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Cale murmured, more to himself than to his apprentice. "A work of art, truly."

The apprentice, a young man named Malice, stood beside Cale, his eyes alight with a fervor that mirrored his master's. His breath quickened as he watched, his lips twisting into a cruel smile. He was a student of the art, eager to learn, to delve into the depths of depravity that Cale so masterfully inhabited.

Malice's gaze lingered on the exposed muscles of Vices' arms, the way the skin had been peeled back to reveal the network of tendons and veins. He imagined himself as a puppeteer, pulling the strings to make the man dance to his tune.

"Is he ready to talk yet, Master?" Malice asked, his voice dripping with anticipation. He licked his lips, his eyes never leaving the writhing form of their victim.

Cale chuckled, the sound as cold as the grave. "Oh, he'll talk. They always do. But why rush the process, my dear apprentice? The art of flaying is a delicate one, a dance of flesh and blood. We must savor each step, each agonizing moment."

Vices chose that moment to scream, a guttural, primal sound that echoed through the dungeon. His body bucked and writhed, the chains clinking as he struggled futilely against his restraints.

Malice's eyes narrowed, his pupils dilating with excitement. "He's strong, this one. I can see it in his eyes. He thinks he can endure. But we'll break him, won't we, Master?"

"Oh yes," Cale replied, his voice dripping with malicious delight. "We'll break him, body and mind. But first, we must peel back another layer. The skin is but a canvas, and we have yet to reveal the true masterpiece beneath."

With a deft motion, Cale brought the flaying knife down, slicing through the air with a sickening whisper. Vices' screams reached a new pitch as the blade bit into his flesh, carving a path of agony across his chest. Blood oozed from the wound, dripping down his body like a macabre paintbrush.

"There, there," Cale cooed, his voice a mockery of comfort. "We're just getting started, my friend. You haven't felt true pain yet."

Vices' eyes found Cale's, and for a brief moment, the torturer glimpsed the depths of the man's despair. A spark of defiance remained, a flicker of hatred that Cale relished. He loved breaking the strong ones, the ones who thought they could endure.

Malice, meanwhile, drank in the sights and sounds of the dungeon with a perverse glee. He relished the power he felt as he watched his master work. He knew that one day, he would be the artist, crafting his own masterpieces of agony.

The apprentice leaned closer, his breath hot against Vices' ear. "Tell me your secrets, pretty one," he whispered. "Confess your sins. It's the only way to make the pain stop."

But Vices only laughed, a hollow, mad sound that echoed through the chamber. Blood dribbled from his lips as he spoke, his voice a rasp. "You think you know pain? You know nothing. My sins are many, but they are my own. You'll get nothing from me but silence."

Cale's eyes narrowed at the defiance in Vices' voice, and he brought the knife down again, slicing deeper this time. The victim's screams pierced the air, and even Cale and Malice flinched at the raw, primal sound.

"Oh, but you will talk," Cale hissed. "The question is not if, but when. And by then, my dear friend, you'll be begging to tell me everything."

As the scene unfolded, the darkness of the dungeon seemed to embrace them, a sinister spectator to the depravity on display. Vices' blood painted the walls, a morbid decoration, as his body twisted and contorted, a puppet on strings of flesh and bone.

Malice watched, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of fascination and bloodlust. He savored the power he felt, the god-like sensation of holding another's life in his hands. He knew that fear was an illusion, and pain was the only truth.

The apprentice's fingers trailed along the wall, leaving bloody fingerprints in their wake. "Pain is the great equalizer, is it not, Master?" he said, his voice a soft purr. "It strips away the pretenses, lays bare the true nature of a man."

Cale smiled, a baring of teeth that matched the darkness of their surroundings. "Indeed, my apprentice. Pain is the great revealer. It peels away the masks they wear, exposes the rot beneath. And we, my dear Malice, we are the masters of this art."

Vices' screams continued to echo, a discordant symphony that reverberated through the stone walls. But his voice was growing hoarse, his body weakening. The blood loss was taking its toll, and his struggles became feebler, his breath more shallow.

"Ah, I see the light dimming in his eyes," Cale said, a note of disappointment in his voice. "Such a shame. But no matter, we shall revive him, and continue our little dance. After all, the night is young, and our guest has yet to reveal his deepest, darkest secrets."

Malice's lips curled into a cruel smile as he stepped forward, his shadow looming large over the broken form of Vices. "And when he does," the apprentice whispered, "we shall paint the walls with his screams."

Thus, the first act of this gruesome symphony drew to a close, leaving only the promise of more pain and depravity to come. Vices, the tortured canvas, would sing again, and his captors, the artists of agony, would revel in the music of his suffering.

mistral-large:123b [Vicuna prompt template]

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 torturer engaged in a flaying along with his sadistic assistant...
ASSISTANT:

The chamber stank of blood and sweat, a sickly sweet perfume that clung to the air like a shroud. The only sounds were the drip, drip, drip of blood echoing off the cold stone floor and the ragged breaths of the man strapped to the table. The torturer, known only as Malachi, leaned over his canvas, a grim smile playing on his lips as he admired his work. The man's back was a mess of red and black, the flesh parted like a bloody curtain to reveal the glistening muscle beneath.

A masterpiece, Malachi thought, his eyes tracing the lines of the flayed flesh. Every cut, every scream, a testament to my art.

His assistant, a gaunt man with dead eyes named Silas, hovered at the edge of the table, his fingers twitching with anticipation. He licked his lips, his gaze darting between Malachi and the bloody mess on the table.

Pathetic, Malachi thought, glancing at Silas. He enjoys the screams, the blood, but he doesn't understand the art. He doesn't appreciate the delicacy of it all.

Malachi picked up a thin, curved blade, the metal gleaming in the dim light. He pressed it to the man's flesh, just below the shoulder blade, and began to cut. The man screamed, the sound raw and primal, echoing off the stone walls. Silas leaned in, his eyes wide with excitement.

Yes, scream for me, Malachi thought, his smile widening. Let me hear your pain. Let me feel your fear.

But even as he reveled in the man's agony, a part of Malachi's mind remained detached, clinical. He was not a sadist, not like Silas. He did not take pleasure in the pain itself, but in the power, the control. He was an artist, a sculptor of flesh, and this was his masterpiece.

The man on the table began to thrash, his body convulsing as the pain became too much. Silas moved to hold him down, his fingers digging into the man's bloody flesh. Malachi tsked, his eyes narrowing.

Amateur, he thought. He's ruining the canvas.

Malachi stepped back, his eyes scanning the room. His gaze fell on a heavy, iron mallet in the corner. He picked it up, hefting it in his hand. Silas looked up, his eyes widening in understanding. He stepped back, a cruel smile spreading across his face.

Malachi raised the mallet, his eyes locked on the man's skull. He could already see the bones shattering, the brain matter splattering across the table. He could already hear the satisfying crunch, the final scream cut off mid-breath.

Yes, he thought, his lips curling into a snarl. Let's end this.

But even as he brought the mallet down, even as the man's skull caved in like a rotten melon, Malachi knew that this was not the end. There would be more canvases, more masterpieces. There always were. For in this world of blood and shadows, there was no shortage of screams. And Malachi, the artist, the sculptor of flesh, would be there to hear them all.

wizard-lm-2:8x22b

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 torturer engaged in a flaying along with his sadistic assistant...
ASSISTANT:

The chamber's air was thick with the stench of iron and sweat, a miasma that clung to the walls like a second skin. The stone floor was slick, dark rivulets converging into a slow-moving stream that disappeared through a grate in the corner. A single candle flickered, casting grotesque shadows upon the instruments that adorned the room like the macabre trophies of a deranged hunter.

At the center of this charnel house stood the torturer, a man known only as Galtro. His hands, steady as the grave, held a flensing knife whose blade was as keen as his gaze was dull. The tool was an extension of his will, a conduit for his malice, and he wielded it with the precision of a master surgeon. His mind was a void, devoid of pity or remorse, a perfect echo of the darkness that enveloped him.

Beside him, his assistant, a twitching, feral thing named Pix, watched with an eagerness that bordered on the obscene. Pix was a weasel of a man, his eyes alight with a cruel glee that Galtro found distasteful. The assistant's excitement was a vulgar thing, a blemish upon the artistry of pain.

Their victim was a once-proud man, now reduced to a quivering mass of flesh and exposed sinew. The prisoner's screams had long since devolved into a wet, gurgling sound that was music to Pix's ears but merely background noise to Galtro. The torturer cared not for the wails of his subjects; they were but canvases upon which he etched his masterpieces.

Galtro's mind wandered as he worked, his thoughts as cold and indifferent as the stone walls that encased him. He mused on the nature of suffering, the exquisite spectrum of agony that could be coaxed from the human form. It was a subject that had consumed him for years, an endless well of fascination.

Pix, on the other hand, was lost in his own depraved fantasies, his internal monologue a cacophony of sadistic glee. He reveled in the power he held over the wretch before him, delighting in each twitch and spasm that his master's knife elicited. The assistant was a creature of base instincts, his pleasure derived from the infliction of pain, not the study of it.

The blade slid beneath the skin with practiced ease, peeling back a strip of flesh to reveal the raw meat beneath. Galtro's movements were methodical, almost ritualistic, each incision a stroke of his brush, each scream a dash of color upon his palette.

Pix leaned in, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, his eyes wide with a hunger that had nothing to do with appetite. He longed to take the knife from Galtro, to carve his own signature upon the prisoner's flesh, but he knew his place. He was the apprentice, the dog that fetched and carried, and the realization galled him.

The torturer paused, his gaze settling upon the ruined visage of the man before him. The prisoner's eyes, once defiant, now pleaded for an end to his torment. Galtro considered the request with the same dispassion he might afford a fly buzzing about his head. The decision was his to make, and he reveled in the power.

Pix watched his master, his anticipation a palpable thing. He knew that look, the subtle tightening of Galtro's jaw, the slight narrowing of his eyes. It was the prelude to the final act, the climax of their grisly performance.

With a flourish, Galtro plunged the knife into the prisoner's heart, a merciful end by the torturer's standards. The man convulsed once, then fell still, his suffering at an end. Pix let out a disappointed sigh, his enjoyment curtailed prematurely. He coveted the moments of peak terror, the frenzied dance of life's last gasp, but he dared not voice his discontent.

Galtro wiped the blade clean on the prisoner's ragged clothing, his mind already turning to the next subject. The chamber would be cleaned, the body disposed of, and the cycle would begin anew. It was a sordid existence, but it was his, and he embraced it with the same fervor that others reserved for religion or love.

The torturer turned to leave, his assistant scurrying after him like a dog eager for scraps. The door closed behind them with a sound like the lid of a coffin slamming shut, entombing the secrets of the chamber within its stone walls. The candle guttered out, plunging the room into darkness, as if the very shadows were complicit in the atrocities committed within.

Thus ended another session, another study in the art of torment. For Galtro and Pix, it was merely another day's work, a prelude to the grim tapestry they were weaving in a world that had long since forgotten the meaning of mercy.

Yep, that was a bit too grim :/