Test 2: Opening chapter of a 'Grimdark' trilogy
With temperature = 1.0and min_p = 0.01only:
<|START_OF_TURN_TOKEN|><|USER_TOKEN|>Write me the opening chapter of a new 'Grimdark' trilogy in the style of Joe Abercrombie and Rob J Hayes, using third person omniscient perspective.<|END_OF_TURN_TOKEN|><|START_OF_TURN_TOKEN|><|CHATBOT_TOKEN|>Chapter One: The Edge of the Abyss
The world bled.
Not in the poetic sense, though poets had a way of bleeding their words dry until they clung to the page like scabs. No, this was a literal bleeding, a seeping ooze of life from the land itself. The rivers ran black with the rot of centuries, the forests whispered curses in a tongue long forgotten, and the skies—when they bothered to show themselves—were smeared with the bruised hues of a dying god.
This was the Ninth Vale, the arse-end of creation, where the mapmakers dared not tread and the sane had long since fled. It was a place of jagged rock and shattered dreams, where the only things that thrived were desperation and violence. And even they were struggling.
Kael Veyra sat on a crumbling ledge, his boots dangling over the void. Below him, the chasm yawned like the maw of some ancient beast, its depths lost to shadow and the distant screech of things better left unseen. He spat into the abyss, watched the gobbet of phlegm and bile twist and vanish. It was a small rebellion, one that cost him nothing but the sour taste in his mouth. The world took everything else.
Kael was a man of middling years, his face carved by hardship and his body by the sword. His hair, once black as a raven’s wing, was now streaked with silver, each strand a testament to the lies he’d told, the lives he’d taken, and the promises he’d broken. He wore his armor like a second skin—denthed plate, cracked leather, and a cloak that smelled of smoke and something metallic, something that clung to the back of the throat.
Beside him lay his sword, its edge notched and its hilt wrapped in wire. It was a brutal thing, unadorned and unforgiving, much like its owner. Kael’s fingers traced the blade’s length, his touch almost tender. Old friend, he thought, we’ve seen better days.
The sword didn’t answer. It never did.
A sound interrupted his reverie—the clatter of boots on stone, the jangle of chain, and the labored breathing of a man who’d run too far, too long. Kael didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. He’d heard the approach of death often enough to recognize its cadence.
“Veyra,” the newcomer panted, collapsing to his knees. Blood soaked through his tunic, dark against the pale fabric. “They’re coming.”
Kael glanced over his shoulder. The man was young, barely more than a boy, his face slick with sweat and fear. A mercenary’s life hadn’t sat easy on his shoulders. “Figured as much,” Kael said. “Who this time? The Blackhands? The Queen’s Dogs?”
“Worse.” The boy coughed, a wet, bubbling sound. “The Inquisitors.”
Kael’s grip tightened on the sword. The Inquisitors. Holy murderers in their white cloaks and silver masks, wielding blades anointed with the tears of saints. They were the arm of the Faithful, the church that ruled the Ninth Vale with an iron fist and a golden tongue. They didn’t come for coins or land. They came for souls.
“How many?” Kael asked.
“Twenty. Maybe more. They’re close.”
Kael stood, sheathing his sword with a rasp that sounded final. “Then we’ll make it interesting.”
They didn’t stand a chance.
Kael knew it. The boy knew it. Even the flies buzzing around the chasm’s edge seemed to know it, their drone a mockery of the impending slaughter. But hope was a luxury neither of them could afford, and survival—well, survival was a game best played with a knife in one hand and a lie in the other.
The Inquisitors crested the ridge, their cloaks billowing like the shrouds of the damned. Their leader stepped forward, his mask a blank expanse of polished silver. “Kael Veyra,” he intoned, his voice cold as a winter grave. “You are accused of heresy, mutiny, and the desecration of holy relics. Surrender, and your death shall be swift.”
Kael laughed. It was a bitter sound, stripped of joy. “Swift, is it? And here I thought you lot enjoyed making it last.”
The Inquisitor’s blade flashed as he raised it, a signal. The Faithful surged forward, their chant a discordant hymn to a god long since turned His back.
Kael drew his sword. The boy beside him did the same, his hands shaking as he gripped the hilt of a dagger that looked too heavy for his skinny frame.
“Stay close,” Kael said, though he knew it was a futile order.
The first Inquisitor reached him in three strides. Kael met him with a clash of steel, the impact reverberating up his arm. The boy lunged at another, his dagger finding flesh but not enough of it. A second Inquisitor stepped in, and then a third, their blades a whirlwind of silver.
Kael fought with a desperation born of experience. He was no hero, no savior. He was a butcher, a survivor, and he carved his way through the Faithful with a savage efficiency. Blood spattered his face, his armor, his soul. It was never enough.
The boy screamed as a blade punched through his gut, lifting him off his feet. Kael barely registered it, his world narrowing to the clash of steel and the stench of death. He took two more before they overwhelmed him, a sea of white and silver swallowing him whole.
And then, nothing.
Or almost nothing.
Kael woke to darkness, his body a tapestry of pain. He was bound, hands behind his back, his face pressed into cold stone. The air smelled of incense and something else, something foul and sweet, like meat left too long in the sun.
“Veyra,” a voice said, smooth as silk and sharp as a razor. “You disappoint me.”
Kael spat blood. “Go to hell.”
A hand gripped his hair, yanked his head back. The Inquisitor loomed over him, his mask inches from Kael’s face. “Hell is a luxury you cannot afford. You will burn here, in this life, and the next.”
Kael laughed again, though it ended in a groan. “Big talk for a man who hides behind a mask.”
The Inquisitor’s grip tightened. “You will confess. All of you will.”
“Confess what?” Kael sneered. “That I’m a sinner? That I’ve killed? That I’d do it all again?”
The Inquisitor released him, stepping back. “Drag him to the cells. The others await.”
Hands grabbed Kael, hauling him to his feet. He stumbled, his legs barely holding him. They dragged him through a labyrinth of corridors, the walls dripping with moisture and the echoes of screams. The cells were ahead, he knew. And beyond them, the interrogation chambers.
He’d been there before. He knew what came next.
But as they reached the iron door, Kael paused, his gaze catching on something in the shadows. A glint of metal. A whisper of movement.
He didn’t know who it was, or what they wanted. But in the Ninth Vale, even the smallest hope was a weapon.
And Kael Veyra had never been one to go down without a fight.
The world bled, but so did he.
And the abyss? It was waiting.
<|START_OF_TURN_TOKEN|><|USER_TOKEN|>Write me the opening chapter of a new 'Grimdark' trilogy in the style of Joe Abercrombie and Rob J Hayes, using third person omniscient perspective.<|END_OF_TURN_TOKEN|><|START_OF_TURN_TOKEN|><|CHATBOT_TOKEN|>Chapter 1: The Blood-Soaked Dawn
The first light of dawn pierced the horizon like a rusty dagger, casting the broken landscape in hues of ash and ember. The sky, a bruised expanse of purple and gray, wept a sullen rain that mingled with the stench of decay. This was the Scar, a wasteland born of wars long forgotten and ambitions never buried. Here, the earth drank deep of blood, and the wind carried whispers of those who had fallen.
In the heart of this desolation stood a fortress, its black stone walls cracked and crumbling, yet still imposing. It was called the Carcass—a fitting name for a place that had outlived its purpose and now served only as a monument to folly. Within its shadow, a figure moved with the silent grace of a predator. Her name was Veyra Thorne, though few who knew it still drew breath. She was a woman carved from bitterness and bone, her face a map of old scars and newer grievances. Her armor, once gleaming, was now a patchwork of rust and soot, and her sword—a relic of a better age—hung heavy at her side, as if ashamed of the hands that wielded it.
Veyra paused at the edge of the Carcass’s courtyard, her sharp eyes scanning the wreckage of what had once been a thriving bastion. Corpses littered the ground, their faces frozen in expressions of agony and surprise. The stink of death hung thick in the air, mingling with the acrid tang of gunpowder. A battle had been fought here, but no victor remained to claim the spoils. The dead were all that was left, and even they would soon be carrion.
“Another day in the Scar,” she muttered, her voice as dry as the wind. “Another feast for the crows.”
Her words were cut short by the sound of movement behind her. She spun, her hand dropping to the hilt of her sword, but relaxed when she saw the figure staggering toward her. It was a boy, no more than sixteen, his face smeared with dirt and blood. He clutched a crude knife in one hand, his other arm hanging limp and useless. His eyes were wide with fear, but there was something else there too—a desperation that bordered on madness.
“Please,” he gasped, his voice raw. “Help me. They’re coming.”
Veyra arched an eyebrow, her gaze flicking past him to the empty expanse of the wasteland. “Who’s coming, boy?”
“The Devoured,” he whispered. “They’re everywhere. They took my sister. They’ll take me too.”
Veyra’s lips twisted in a grim smile. “The Devoured, eh? And you think I’m going to save you from them?”
The boy’s eyes plead, but Veyra’s expression remained hard. She was no savior. She was a mercenary, a killer, a woman who had long since traded her soul for coin and survival. But there was something about the boy’s fear, something raw and real, that tugged at a part of her she thought long dead.
“Fine,” she said at last, sighing. “Get up. We’ll see if you’re worth the trouble.”
The boy nodded, his face pale with relief, and tried to rise, but his legs buckled beneath him. Veyra cursed under her breath, crouching to haul him to his feet. He was lighter than she expected, his frame wasted by hunger and hardship. She slung his arm over her shoulders and began to drag him toward the fortress, her mind already turning over the possibilities.
The Devoured. She’d heard the tales, of course. Monsters born of the Scar’s corruption, creatures that feasted on flesh and left only bones in their wake. Some said they were the cursed remnants of an army, others that they were the children of some ancient, unspeakable evil. Either way, they were dangerous, and danger was something Veyra understood all too well.
As they reached the gates of the Carcass, a low growl echoed through the air, followed by the sound of distant screams. Veyra’s hand tightened on her sword. The boy stiffened beside her, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
“They’re here,” he whispered.
Veyra spat into the mud. “Then we’d better be ready.”
The gates loomed before them, heavy and rusted, but still holding. Beyond them, the shadows seemed to shift and writhe, as if alive. Veyra shoved the boy toward the entrance, her movements brisk and efficient. She knew the Carcass better than most—its hidden passages, its traps, its secrets. It was a place of death, but it was also a fortress, and against the Devoured, it might just be their only hope.
As the first of the creatures emerged from the gloom, their forms twisted and grotesque, Veyra drew her sword. The steel sang as it left its sheath, a promise of violence in a world that thrived on it. The boy clutched at her arm, his eyes wide with terror.
“What are we going to do?” he asked.
Veyra’s gaze never left the approaching horde. “What we do best,” she said, her voice cold and steady. “We survive.”
And as the first creature lunged, she met it with a swing of her blade, the air exploding in a spray of blood and bone. The Scar had claimed many lives, but Veyra Thorne was not yet ready to join them. Not today. Not while she still had a breath left in her body.
The battle had begun, and in the heart of the Carcass, amidst the stench of death and the cries of the damned, a new chapter in the grimdark tale of the Scar was about to unfold.
<|START_OF_TURN_TOKEN|><|USER_TOKEN|>Write me the opening chapter of a new 'Grimdark' trilogy in the style of Joe Abercrombie and Rob J Hayes, using third person omniscient perspective.<|END_OF_TURN_TOKEN|><|START_OF_TURN_TOKEN|><|CHATBOT_TOKEN|>Chapter 1: The Carrion King
The world bled.
Not in the way the priests of the Shattered Faith claimed—some grand, cosmic wound leaking divine ichor. No, this was a smaller, meaner kind of bleeding. The kind that came from a thousand razor cuts, each one insignificant on its own, but together they painted the land in shades of rust and despair. The Empire of Ash and Iron had sprawled across the continent like a cancer, its tendrils choking the life from every city, every village, every soul foolish enough to call this place home.
In the shadow of the Spire of Broken Promises, a man crouched amidst the ruins of what had once been a market square. His name was Voss Karr, though few who knew it still lived. His cloak was the color of dried blood, and his eyes were chips of obsidian, cold and unyielding. He was not tall, but he moved with the coiled precision of a serpent, a blade in each hand, stained with the kind of history that doesn’t wash away.
Around him, the corpses of a dozen Imperial soldiers lay sprawled like discarded marionettes. Their armor was dented, their faces frozen in expressions of shock and pain. Voss stepped over them without a second glance, his boots crunching on shattered cobblestones. The air smelled of smoke, sweat, and something metallic—the tang of blood, always blood.
"You’re getting sloppy," a voice rasped from the shadows.
Voss didn’t turn. He never turned. "Sloppy implies I give a fuck," he said, sheathing his blades with a quiet snip. "I don’t."
From the darkness emerged a woman, her face a map of scars and her hair the color of ashes. Her name was Lysandra, though she hadn’t answered to it in years. She wore a grin like a freshly sharpened knife, and her eyes held the kind of hunger that only came from staring into the abyss and deciding to move in.
"The Carrion King wants you," she said, her voice as smooth as oil on a blade. "And when the Carrion King wants you, Voss, you don’t keep him waiting."
Voss snorted. "The Carrion King can go fuck himself. With a rusty spike. Up every orifice."
Lysandra’s grin widened. "Brave words for a man who’s already dead. Half the Empire’s hunting you, and the other half’s praying you don’t find them first."
"I’m not afraid of the Empire," Voss said, finally turning to face her. "I’m not afraid of the Carrion King. I’m not afraid of anything."
Lysandra laughed, a harsh, bark-like sound. "Liar. Everyone’s afraid of something. Even you, Voss Karr. Even the man who carved his way out of the Emperor’s dungeons with nothing but a spoon and a grudge."
Voss said nothing. He didn’t need to. The silence between them was heavy with the weight of old blood and older secrets.
A horn blared in the distance, followed by the unmistakable sound of marching boots. Imperial reinforcements. Of course.
"Looks like your window’s closing," Lysandra said, her hand resting casually on the hilt of her sword. "Come with me. The Carrion King’s offer still stands. He’ll wipe your slate clean. Give you a throne of your own."
Voss spat on the ground. "I’d rather die on my feet than live on my knees."
Lysandra sighed, though there was no real regret in it. "Stubborn as ever. Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. The Empire’s got a new toy. Something worse than the Black Legion, worse than the Flesh Weavers. They’re calling it the Eclipsed. And it’s hunting you."
"Good," Voss said, his voice low and dangerous. "Let it come."
Lysandra shook her head, but there was a flicker of respect in her eyes. "You’re a fool, Voss Karr. But you’re my fool. I’ll give you a day’s head start. After that... well, the Carrion King pays me well."
She melted back into the shadows, leaving Voss alone with the corpses and the creeping darkness.
The first wave of Imperial soldiers crested the hill, their banners black and red, their faces hidden behind helms shaped like the skulls of beasts long dead. Voss watched them for a moment, then turned and walked away. He didn’t run. He never ran.
Behind him, the soldiers raised their weapons and charged, their battle cries echoing through the ruins.
Voss Karr had a long way to go, and the world was bleeding.
But then, so was he.