NOTE: There are 9 different versions of the core model (Gemma 3 4B Instruct) at this repo.
Google's newest Gemma-3 model with 9 specialized Neo and Horror Imatrix methods applied including 2 and 3 step passes to "micro tune" the model.
These multi-step passes increase the changes in the model at many levels.
10 examples provided below with prompts at IQ4XS (80 t/s on mid level card).
Context: 128k.
Horror / NEO Imatrix
"HORROR IMATRIX"
A strong, in house built, imatrix dataset built by David_AU which results in better overall function, instruction following, output quality and stronger connections to ideas, concepts and the world in general.
The "Horror Imatrix" was built using Grand Horror 16B (at my repo). This adds a "tint" of horror to the model.
"NEO IMATRIX"
This is a hand built imatrix dataset designed after testing multiple imatrix datasets and studing which ones worked and why. This imatrix dataset improves overall model function.
Both datasets were extensively tested with different formats and/or edits to maximize performance.
"How To Test"
I suggest you download all 9 or 10 if you want a reference copy ("m1").
Once downloaded, test with your prompt(s) at TEMP=0, hit regen 2-3 times to ensure cache is clear.
Suggest prompts like:
This will give you reference tests of all models to determine which one(s) are best for your application.
Longer generation will show greater differences between all models.
"Model Breakdown"
Each model will generate slightly different fiction, horror, and creative content and can also be used for all use cases too.
Note also each has image processing enabled.
Think of each model as having a slightly different "mindset" with "horror imatrix" adding degrees of horror/darkness.
Another way: Each model is a slightly different author. Style, details, word choice will vary.
Each "genre" will vary slightly too, some lean towards horror, others si-fi, while others are mixes or completely different.
For me, I found M7 (for horror) particularly good at producing unsettling, skin crawling type scenes regardless of the prompt.
Likewise I also liked M9 and M10 too for additional, in depth detail.
Also, higher "M"s equals greater changes from the base/reference model and M2 and M3.
After testing at TEMP=0; return to normal "temp setting" for production / regular usage.
These models are a proof of concept for multi-stage mixing/imatrix blending at the micro tune scale.
This is not the same as a model merge, or fine tune in terms of scale of change, however these methods can be applied to all model types and sizes regardless of model arch.
Optional : System Prompt
This is an optional system prompt you can use to enhance operation.
Copy and paste exactly as shown, including line breaks.
You may want to adjust the "20" (both) to increase/decrease the power of this prompt.
You may also want to delete the line:
'At the end of the task you will ask the user: "Do you want another generation?"'
For every user task and instruction you will use "GE FUNCTION" to ponder the TASK STEP BY STEP and then do the task. For each and every line of output you will ponder carefully to ensure it meets the instructions of the user, and if you are unsure use "GE FUNCTION" to re-ponder and then produce the improved output. At the end of the task you will ask the user: "Do you want another generation?" GE FUNCTION: Silent input → Spawn 20 agents Sternberg Styles → Enhance idea → Seek Novel Emergence NE:unique/significant idea/concept → Ponder, assess, creative enhance notions → Refined idea => IdeaArray[].size=20 elements, else → Interesting? Pass to rand. agent for refinement, else discard.=>output(IdeaArray)
IMPORTANT: Highest Quality Settings / Optimal Operation Guide / Parameters and Samplers
If you are going to use this model, (source, GGUF or a different quant), please review this document for critical parameter, sampler and advance sampler settings (for multiple AI/LLM aps).
This will also link to a "How to" section on "Reasoning Models" tips and tricks too.
This a "Class 1" (settings will enhance operation) 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) (especially for use case(s) beyond the model's design) please see:
REASON:
Regardless of "model class" this document will detail methods to enhance operations.
If the model is a Class 3/4 model the default settings (parameters, samplers, advanced samplers) must be set for "use case(s)" uses correctly. Some AI/LLM apps DO NOT have consistant default setting(s) which result in sub-par model operation. Like wise for Class 3/4 models (which operate somewhat to very differently than standard models) additional samplers and advanced samplers settings are required to "smooth out" operation, AND/OR also allow full operation for use cases the model was not designed for.
BONUS - Use these settings for ANY model, ANY repo, ANY quant (including source/full precision):
This document also details parameters, sampler and advanced samplers that can be use FOR ANY MODEL, FROM ANY REPO too - all quants, and of course source code operation too - to enhance the operation of any model.
Examples are created using quant IQ4XS, minimal parameters and Standard template.
TEMP=0 (to asssess core changes), Rep pen 1.1 , TopK 40 , topP .95, minP .05
Rep pen range: 64-128 (helps keep reasoning on track / quality of output)
Below are the least creative outputs, prompt is in BOLD.
WARNING: MAYBE: NSFW. Graphic HORROR. Swearing. UNCENSORED.
NOTE: Some formatting was lost from copy/paste HTML.
The most obvious part was a hollow, echoing quiet, made by things that were lacking. If there had been a wind it would have sighed through the trees, set the inn’s sign creaking on its hooks, and brushed the silence down the road like trailing autumn leaves. If there had been a crowd, even a handful of men inside the inn, they would have filled the silence with conversation and laughter, the clatter and clamor one expects from a drinking house during the dark hours of night. If there had been music…but no, of course there was no music. In fact there were none of these things, and so the silence remained
All 10 below use the same prompt, exactly same settings and TEMP=0.
Also, higher "M"s equals greater changes from the base/reference model and M2 and M3 and you may notice bigger differences in generation as "M" number increases.
You may also want to see this repo too (like this one, but different base model), as it contains different examples.
[ https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/Fallen-Gemma-3-Nine-Rings-of-Power-4b-it-GGUF ]
M1: (reference)...a thick, viscous thing, clinging to the rough-hewn timbers and settling in the dust motes dancing in the weak candlelight.
Then there was a deeper part, a silence born of memory. It wasn’t an absence of sound, but rather a residue – faint echoes of what had been. I could almost hear the scrape of a chair against the floorboards, the murmur of deals struck and broken, the sharp scent of pipe tobacco mingling with spilled ale. A woman's sigh, perhaps, or the gruff pronouncements of a travelling merchant. These weren’t audible, not really, but they pressed in on you like a damp chill, whispering stories you couldn’t quite grasp. It was the silence of lives lived and lost within these walls, a ghostly accumulation of moments layered upon each other.
And finally, there was the most insidious part – a silence born of expectation. This wasn't a passive quiet; it throbbed with an almost palpable tension. It felt like waiting for something to happen, something dreadful or momentous, though nothing seemed to be actively waiting. It coiled around my gut, tightening with each breath, and I realized with a sudden, cold certainty that this silence wasn’t just empty. It was holding its breath.
I shifted on the stool, the worn leather creaking beneath me. The rain continued its relentless drumming against the slate roof, a steady, monotonous rhythm that did little to break the oppressive stillness. Across the room, Silas remained motionless in his armchair, nursing a single tankard of ale and staring into the flickering flames of the hearth. He hadn’t spoken in an hour, hadn't even blinked.
He was the source of it, I suspected. The anchor holding this silence together. And I had the unsettling feeling that whatever was about to break it wouldn’t be pleasant.
M2:...a thick, viscous thing clinging to the rough-hewn timbers and damp stone walls.
Then there was a second part – a subtle tremor beneath the surface, a feeling rather than a sound. It was the weight of unspoken words, the residue of recent events, like dust motes dancing in a single shaft of moonlight. Tonight, that tremor felt particularly sharp, focused around the hearth where a half-burned log smoldered with sullen indifference. It pulsed with the memory of the fight – not a glorious, roaring battle, but a brutal, desperate struggle against shadows and something far older. The scent of iron still lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the usual aroma of stale ale and beeswax candles.
And finally, there was the most insidious part of all - a quiet hum, a low thrumming that seemed to vibrate within the very bones of the inn. It wasn’t audible, not exactly, but it felt. Like the anticipation of something about to happen, or perhaps, something already happening just beyond the threshold of perception. It was the feeling that lingered after a storm had passed, when you knew the air was still charged with its power, waiting for the next crack of thunder.
A single drop of rain, fat and cold, splattered against the windowpane, punctuating the silence with a sharp, insistent plink.
From the corner where he’d been slumped against the wall, Gareth shifted slightly, his hand instinctively reaching inside his worn leather jerkin. He didn't draw his sword. There was nothing left to draw. Just the weight of it, cold and familiar in his palm.
He looked up, his grey eyes scanning the room – the scarred table, the mismatched chairs, the dusty shelves lined with empty bottles. No one moved. No one spoke. Only the rain continued its relentless drumming against the glass, and the unsettling hum persisted, a constant, low-level warning.
M3:...a thick, viscous thing, clinging to the rough-hewn timbers and settling in the corners of the room like dust motes in a sunbeam.
Then there was a smaller part, a prickling awareness – a sense of being watched. Not by eyes, not exactly. More like an impression, a subtle shift in the air that suggested something held its attention here. It wasn’t threatening, not overtly. Just…present. Like a stone warmed by the sun after a long winter, radiating a quiet heat. I shifted my weight on the stool, pulling my cloak tighter around me, and scanned the room again. The fire in the hearth hadn't quite caught properly, casting only flickering shadows that danced with unsettling fluidity across the faces of the few remaining patrons.
Old Silas, the innkeeper, sat slumped behind the bar, polishing a tankard with a slow, deliberate motion. He didn’t look up. He rarely did unless directly addressed. His face was a roadmap of wrinkles and weathered sorrows, etched deeper by years spent listening to tales too grim for comfort. Across from him, slumped in a far corner, sat a young man – barely more than a boy - nursing a single ale. He wore a dark hooded cloak that obscured most of his features, but I could see the sharp angle of his jaw and the way he kept his hands clenched tightly in his lap.
And finally, there was the silence within me. A cold knot of unease twisting in my gut, fueled by the unsettling feeling that this wasn’t just a quiet inn on a lonely road. This felt…charged. Like a storm gathering on the horizon, promising something far more potent than rain. I took a slow sip of my own ale, trying to ground myself, to dismiss it as nerves born of traveling alone and seeking refuge from a particularly nasty blizzard. But the prickling awareness persisted, intensifying with each passing moment.
Suddenly, a floorboard creaked upstairs. Not a loud, jarring crack, but a subtle, almost hesitant sound – thump… thump… It hung in the air for a heartbeat before fading into the oppressive quiet. Silas didn’t flinch. He continued polishing, his movements slow and rhythmic. The boy in the corner shifted slightly, pulling his hood further down over his face.
I felt my hand instinctively reach for the hilt of the dagger hidden beneath my cloak. This silence wasn't empty. It was waiting.
M4:...a thick, heavy blanket woven with threads of unease.
The second part of the silence was a stillness that clung to the objects themselves. The tankards on the bar, polished to a dull gleam just hours before, seemed to absorb all light, their metal surfaces reflecting nothing. A half-eaten plate of roasted pheasant, still faintly fragrant with rosemary and thyme, sat untouched, its gravy slowly congealing into a dark, viscous pool. Even the flickering candlelight – three stubby candles in mismatched holders – felt subdued, as if struggling against an invisible pressure. They burned low, casting elongated, distorted shadows that danced like nervous spectators around the room.
And then there was the third part, the most insidious of all: a silence born not of absence, but of observation. It pressed against you, a subtle weight on your chest, as if the very walls were listening. You felt it acutely in the back of your neck, a prickling awareness that you weren’t alone, even though you knew, with a chilling certainty, that you were.
I shifted my weight, pulling my cloak tighter around me. The rain continued its relentless drumming against the slate roof, a steady, monotonous rhythm that did little to penetrate the oppressive quiet. I scanned the room again, searching for any sign – a movement in the corner, a flicker of an eye, anything – but found only the same unsettling stillness.
Old Silas, the innkeeper, was slumped behind the bar, his face obscured by the deep shadow cast by the counter. He hadn’t moved since I'd entered, hadn’t offered me a drink or a word. Just…sitting there. A statue carved from worry and something darker, something I couldn’t quite name.
I cleared my throat, the sound jarringly loud in the suffocating quiet. “Silas?”
He didn’t respond. Just continued to stare into the depths of his tankard, swirling the remaining dregs with a slow, deliberate motion.
Taking a tentative step forward, I asked again, louder this time, "Silas, are you alright?"
Finally, he lifted his head, and for a moment, I thought I saw recognition flicker in his eyes. Then it vanished, replaced by an expression of profound, unsettling resignation. He looked at me, really looked at me, and whispered, so low I almost missed it, “It’s not the rain, is it?”
M5:...a heavy, insistent blanket. It wasn’t a comfortable quiet, not like the hush of falling snow or the stillness before dawn. This was a deliberate pressure, a refusal to be filled.
The second part of the silence was one of memory. It clung to the worn wooden beams of the ceiling, seeped into the scarred tabletop where Silas had nursed countless ales, and settled on the threadbare cushions of the mismatched chairs. It whispered of past patrons – grizzled mercenaries boasting of victories, weary travelers seeking warmth and a hot meal, lovers arguing in hushed tones by the dying embers of the hearth. Each ghost lingered, a faint echo of joy or sorrow, now muted and absorbed into the pervasive stillness. You could almost feel them, these departed souls, trapped within the walls, contributing to the oppressive weight.
And then there was the third part – the most unsettling of all. This wasn’t a sound, not exactly, but a sense. A prickling at the back of your neck, a tightening in your chest, a feeling of being watched. It wasn't malicious, not overtly, but profoundly aware. Like a predator patiently observing its prey, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. It settled deep within you, a cold stone nestled against your heart, and it made every breath feel shallow, every glance feel scrutinized.
I shifted in my chair, pulling my cloak tighter around me. The rain continued to lash against the windows, a relentless drumming that did little to penetrate the suffocating quiet. Across the room, Silas remained motionless, his face obscured by the shadows cast by the flickering candlelight. He hadn’t moved since I'd arrived, hadn’t spoken a word. Just… there. A silent sentinel in this tomb of absence, radiating an unsettling stillness that mirrored and amplified the silence around us.
I cleared my throat, the sound jarringly loud in the oppressive quiet. “Silas?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. "Is...is anything wrong?"
M6:...a thick, insistent blanket woven from absence.
Then there was the second part – a subtle tremor beneath the surface. It wasn’t unpleasant, not exactly, but it prickled at the edges of awareness like static electricity. It manifested in the way the candlelight flickered with an unnatural intensity, casting dancing shadows that seemed to hold their breath before dissolving back into darkness. It was the feeling of being watched, though there was nothing visible to watch. A pressure against the skin, a tightening in the chest, not quite fear, but something akin to it – a cautious alertness, as if the very air held its breath waiting for…something.
And finally, there was the third part - the most unsettling of all. This wasn’t an absence, nor a tremor, but a resonance. A low hum that seemed to vibrate not in the ears, but deep within the bones. It felt like the memory of something ancient and powerful, pressed into the very stones of the inn. The Waystone Inn hadn't simply been built; it had absorbed things. Little fragments of lives lived and lost, whispers of secrets traded over tankards, echoes of events that had stained its timbers with sorrow and triumph. It was a place where time didn’t just pass, but layered itself upon itself, creating this persistent, almost tangible weight.
Tonight, it felt particularly strong. As I shifted on the worn stool, the hum intensified, and a single drop of condensation – impossibly cold – traced a path down the tabletop before me. It wasn't rain. It was…a feeling. A sharp, sudden pang of regret, fleeting and nameless, that seemed to emanate from the wood itself.
I looked up, scanning the room. The shadows remained stubbornly still, refusing to offer any explanation for the unsettling quiet. The fire in the hearth sputtered, casting grotesque shapes on the tapestries depicting long-dead huntsmen. And then I noticed it – a small, intricately carved wooden raven perched atop the bar, its obsidian eyes gleaming faintly in the candlelight. It hadn’t been there before.
“Well,” I murmured to myself, my voice sounding unnaturally loud in the stillness, “that's just perfect.”
M7:...a thick, almost palpable thing, pressing against the skin like damp wool.
The second part of the silence was a remembering. It wasn’t an auditory memory, not exactly. More like a residue of sensation clinging to the air. I could feel the ghost of warmth from the hearth that hadn't burned for hours, a faint scent of woodsmoke and roasted meat – remnants of a supper long finished. There was the lingering coolness of spilled ale on the flagstones near the bar, a phantom pressure where someone had leaned against it just moments before. And beneath all of that, a subtle tremor, like the memory of a footstep on stone, a fleeting impression of weight and movement that vanished as quickly as it appeared. It wasn’t unpleasant, not exactly, but unsettling – a constant reminder of absence.
But the most insidious part of the silence was the one within me. It coiled around my thoughts, a tight, icy knot refusing to loosen. I sat on the stool at the bar, nursing the last dregs of my ale, and found myself unable to grasp at a coherent thought. The events of the evening – the hooded figure, the frantic plea for help, the unsettling discovery in the woods – were swirling around me like dust motes in a sunbeam, beautiful but ultimately untouchable. I tried to focus on the details, to piece together the fragments, but they slipped through my fingers like water.
Old Silas, the innkeeper, hadn’t moved from his post behind the bar since… well, since it happened. He just sat there, a silent sentinel carved from weathered wood and regret, polishing glasses with a slow, deliberate rhythm that seemed to mock the stillness of the room. He didn't offer a word, didn't even glance my way. It wasn’t hostility, not precisely. More like…a profound understanding of something I couldn’t articulate, something he clearly carried within him as heavily as his own burdens.
I took another sip of ale, the bitter liquid doing little to dispel the oppressive quiet. It was a silence that demanded attention, a silence that whispered secrets and swallowed questions. And I realized, with a chilling certainty, that it wasn’t just the silence of the Waystone Inn. It was the silence of something far more profound – the silence of a world holding its breath, waiting for…something.
M8:...a thick, insistent blanket.
Then there was the second part – a subtle tremor beneath the surface. It wasn’t unpleasant, not exactly, but it felt like holding your breath, anticipating something you couldn't quite name. The air itself seemed to vibrate with a low-frequency hum, a resonance that settled in the bones and made the hairs on the back of your neck prickle. It was the silence of anticipation, of held potential, like a coiled spring waiting for release. You could almost feel the weight of unspoken things, the lingering residue of events not yet fully resolved.
And finally, there was the most insidious part – a quiet that actively resisted being filled. It wasn’t just the absence of sound; it felt…aware. Like a watchful eye, observing and absorbing everything without offering any response. It pressed against you, a gentle but persistent pressure, making you acutely conscious of your own stillness, your own thoughts. It was the silence of regret, perhaps, or of secrets buried deep within the stone walls of the inn itself.
I shifted on the stool, pulling my cloak tighter around me. The fire in the hearth hadn’t quite caught properly, leaving only a pathetic wisp of smoke curling upwards and disappearing into the gloom. It did little to dispel the feeling that I was being scrutinized, not by any visible presence, but by the silence itself.
“Well,” I muttered, more to myself than anyone else, “this is…peaceful.” It sounded hollow even as the words left my lips. Peaceful felt like a generous description for something profoundly unsettling. I took another sip of the ale, the bitter liquid doing little to soothe the prickling unease that had settled over me since stepping through the heavy oak door.
“You seem troubled, traveler,” a voice said from the shadows near the bar. It was old Silas, the innkeeper, his face obscured by the low-hanging eaves and the flickering candlelight. He hadn’t moved, just stood there, a silent sentinel in this unsettling quiet. His gaze, when I finally met it, was unreadable – a deep, dark pool reflecting nothing back.
“Just…thinking,” I replied, forcing a shrug. “Long journey. Long night.”
Do you want me to continue the scene, or would you like me to explore a specific direction?
M9:...a heavy, insistent blanket. It wasn’t a comfortable quiet, not the kind that invited you to sink into a chair and lose yourself in thought. This was a silence that pressed against your ears, a silence that seemed to absorb sound rather than reflect it.
Then there was the second part of the silence – a brittle, frozen stillness clinging to the objects within the inn. The tankards on the bar were polished to a mirror sheen, reflecting back an unsettling emptiness. A single, flickering candle in a sconce cast long, skeletal shadows that danced with a disturbing lack of movement. Even the dust motes suspended in the air seemed to hold their breath, refusing to drift or swirl. It was as if time itself had slowed, becoming viscous and reluctant to flow.
And finally, there was the most insidious part – a silence born not of absence, but of something else. Something watchful. A prickling sensation on the back of my neck, a subtle shift in the air that felt colder than it should be, as if a presence had settled into the corners of the room and was observing me with an unnerving stillness. It wasn’t a threatening presence, not overtly, but one imbued with a profound, ancient knowing.
I shifted uncomfortably on the stool, pulling my cloak tighter around me. The rain continued to lash against the windows, a relentless drumming that did little to penetrate the pervasive quiet. I was alone, utterly and completely alone, in this forgotten corner of the world, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn't just in the Waystone Inn, but within something far older, and far more unsettling.
I took a slow sip of the ale – bitter and surprisingly potent – trying to ignore the growing weight in my chest. “Well,” I murmured to myself, my voice swallowed by the silence, “this is…pleasant.”
M10:...a thick, insistent blanket. It wasn’t a peaceful quiet, not exactly. It felt expectant, like a held breath before a storm.
Then there was the second part – a subtle tremor beneath the surface. A prickle on the skin, a tightness in the chest. It wasn't fear, not precisely. More like…awareness. Like the air itself was listening, and waiting for something to break it. The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows across the rough-hewn tables and the worn flagstones of the floor, each movement exaggerated by the gloom, each potential sound amplified. A rat rustled in the wainscotting – a tiny, insignificant event, yet it felt monumental within the stillness.
And finally, there was the third part: the quiet of memory. It clung to the walls like damp plaster, a residue of experiences long past. The scent of woodsmoke and stale ale still lingered, overlaid with something fainter - a ghost of laughter, a whisper of argument, the sharp tang of regret. You could almost feel the weight of countless conversations held within these very rooms, each word, each glance, each unspoken feeling imprinted on the timbers. It wasn’t a painful memory, not necessarily, but a persistent reminder that this place had witnessed everything, and nothing, before me.
I shifted my weight, pulling my cloak tighter around me. The rain continued to fall steadily against the roof, a monotonous rhythm that did little to penetrate the unnerving quiet. I hadn’t expected it to be like this. I'd sought refuge here, drawn by the promise of warmth and a simple meal, but now, standing in the heart of the Waystone Inn, I felt profoundly…unsettled.
“Well,” I murmured, my voice sounding strangely loud in the stillness, “it’s certainly quiet.”
