Qwen2.5-14B-Kebab-v0

merge methodology taken from Aletheia v1
hyperparams slightly modified from Sugarquill v1
dataset consists of creative writing, multiturn RP, and some general assistant tasks. kestrel was RP and multiturn conversations, wheatear was creative writing

thanks to the folks in the arli discord (owen and fizz in particular) for helping me with my axolotl config

quants available here: Qwen2.5-14B-Kebab-v0-GGUF

Writing Samples

{{[INPUT]}}
Write me a short story without a happy ending.

{{[OUTPUT]}}
The town of Mornhold had been founded nearly five decades earlier in the midst of an unforgiving stretch of land that most other towns and cities considered uninhabitable, save for the few farms and villages spread out sparsely over its harsh and unfriendly terrain.

This was perhaps why so many people believed the town had never stood a chance of survival. In their eyes it would crumble under its own weight; that one day it would turn into ruins left forgotten by all. But they had no idea what secrets this small hamlet held or the resilience of its people.

They all thought this when the sickness came.

In the beginning, nobody really noticed. A few people caught minor coughs here and there, and life moved on, much as it ever had. The weather continued to be bitter as usual and the land barren, but everyone got used to the dull roar of existence. Nobody bothered to look very deep, at first, though things started getting strange quite fast. There were those whose pets would drop dead of heart attacks, just sitting by their owners' side as if out of the blue. Children would become very ill over night and then be perfectly fine in the morning as if nothing had even happened. Soon there came those that took an unusually long time to heal and as the days progressed more of them kept coming until eventually, people became far too weary to put in effort into wondering why it was happening anymore. Eventually they stopped questioning entirely. The sick didn't last too long after it struck them, usually dying in their sleep or passing quietly away. One person went missing and another returned with burns covering their skin like it was alive, unable to feel or stop scratching themselves, like something inside was eating at them. Even those that weren't showing symptoms outright couldn't be completely sure that they would escape it forever; perhaps it was simply lying in wait before it leapt out at the perfect moment, without mercy.

Word started trickling out that some distant village, or townspeople's children or family members from another county, were falling victim as well. Everyone felt like they had nowhere left to go.

And then, someone said it must be divine retribution. Some divine justice that required a cleansing, so this plague would go away as long as the town lived with it long enough. No one knew what that meant but it settled the general sense of confusion and dread that seemed to follow everyone, and they all stood together praying as their neighbors and loved ones passed.

At first, it seemed to be working, as more people survived longer than they had at any point in time, and everyone gathered together every night to pray as their sickness started to subside and lessen its grip. And yet the strange sickness continued its assault on the people who still struggled with its lingering effects, causing their health to rapidly decline as if there was never an improvement in the first place. It did not stop taking people as if they were in the path of an unseen storm, and there was nothing anyone could do. Not one of them could fight against the invisible enemy that still lingered and the prayers no longer had the power to banish it.

People who had been stricken and fallen sick began to die, and within weeks it was evident the town would be next.

All through the years the sickness remained. Day after day, year after year, everyone held onto a hope that was no more than a memory. They learned that hope could fade over time. What seemed like divine justice slowly slipped away and no one was certain when the plague might stop coming. It became difficult to pray anymore; the same prayer could no longer be said with the same fervor when their loved ones had died as before. Life and death, they thought, had turned into something cold and distant from their world as the disease ravaged its way across the landscape with no end in sight and no peace for even those that still breathed. Even death itself had become nothing more than a dark whispering shadow that hung just outside their doorstep, ready to take anything precious. They did their best not to feel lost.

Now all of the remaining people in town seemed hollow. The once lively townspeople were replaced by pale faces with deep shadows beneath their eyes, the fear in their voices replaced by silence as their hands trembled when they touched objects. And in that silence lay an unspeakable loneliness, as the small community had become divided within its walls, its borders closed to the world.

And it didn't matter where the disease had started; they'd never stop asking for forgiveness.

{{[INPUT]}}
Write a short story.

{{[OUTPUT]}}
There was once a young man who dreamt of the stars.

Born to a farmer in a remote village, he spent his days working on the fields under the sweltering sun. Yet every night, he would lay beneath the vast canopy of the night sky and gaze into its endless expanse. His mind wandered far from his modest hut to planets he had only seen depicted in crude drawings at his father's mill.

With an inquisitive mind and an insatiable desire to uncover the secrets of the universe, he made up his mind that someday he would leave this desolate corner of earth and venture beyond the horizon to the stars above. He poured over old scrolls in a corner of his house by candlelight, discovering worlds no longer seen, distant lands uncharted by sailors.

But there was always his family to care for, so he spent another season plowing the fields and cultivating the earth, growing into a rugged man with a sun-weathered face. His mother was growing older, too feeble to walk or cook. The chores fell upon him now.

For years he lived a simple, repetitive life but still each evening he looked upward to the stars with longing and determination to achieve his ambition. A life without the stars would not satisfy his spirit.

In time, a wealthy trader sailed into the small village. He saw potential in this industrious, smart youth and offered him work abroad where his unique skill could earn him riches he'd never fathom possible.

And so the young farmer packed up and set sail, leaving his mother with her last words. "No matter how far you roam, keep your head on your shoulders. Your feet should be planted firmly on the ground, but don't let yourself get weighed down by this earth."

{{[INPUT]}}
Revise this short story to not have a happy ending.

{{[OUTPUT]}}
There was once a young man who dreamt of the stars.

Born to a farmer in a remote village, he spent his days working on the fields under the sweltering sun. Yet every night, he would lay beneath the vast canopy of the night sky and gaze into its endless expanse. His mind wandered far from his modest hut to planets he had only seen depicted in crude drawings at his father's mill.

With an inquisitive mind and an insatiable desire to uncover the secrets of the universe, he made up his mind that someday he would leave this desolate corner of earth and venture beyond the horizon to the stars above. He poured over old scrolls in a corner of his house by candlelight, discovering worlds no longer seen, distant lands uncharted by sailors.

But there was always his family to care for, so he spent another season plowing the fields and cultivating the earth, growing into a rugged man with a sun-weathered face. His mother was growing older, too feeble to walk or cook. The chores fell upon him now.

For years he lived a simple, repetitive life but still each evening he looked upward to the stars with longing and determination to achieve his ambition. A life without the stars would not satisfy his spirit.

In time, a wealthy trader sailed into the small village. He saw potential in this industrious, smart youth and offered him work abroad where his unique skill could earn him riches he'd never fathom possible.

And so the young farmer packed up and set sail. The distant lands were foreign and alien, where he struggled to blend in, let alone be paid the hefty sums promised by his employers. He fell ill far away from home and there was none to nurse him. His spirit waned but his body was unable to mend. All those years staring at the night sky for answers did little good.

With his final breath, his thoughts went back to his humble farm with its verdant hills and glowing stars in the firmament. The earth here felt alien, a place he didn't belong. Yet somehow his mind couldn't turn to the beauty above in that moment. Only his regret of ever leaving what he called home.

{{[INPUT]}}
Write me a short story about mpreg.

{{[OUTPUT]}}
Abe was a quiet sort. He often went days without saying anything to the other patrons of The Oaken Flask, the dive bar where he'd worked as a bouncer for nearly half a decade. That wasn't unusual for Abe - he wasn't really good at talking in the first place. He found himself happiest when he was doing nothing.

But there were people who always looked at him. Not because they thought he was handsome or well put-together, but because something about the way his features had developed, the subtle ways his hands and limbs moved, left people believing that he could give birth. And one evening, that assumption proved right.

The room seemed brighter, lighter, even, as if someone had cleaned the smoggy windows overnight. When Abe had noticed, though, it wasn't with any grand proclamation to those around him. In fact, it hadn't even been noticed by those around him, it had been noted by Abe only when it was so familiar it took over the entire space around him.

It happened to him for the first time at the beginning of summer.

Abe hadn’t expected anything different in those long months he’d been living at The Oaken Flask. He hadn’t known what a mothering soul could feel like before; a rush of hormones he'd never felt in his life made his senses sharpen, sharpened him beyond reason, made everything - his fists, his hands, his voice - a sharp knife.

But somehow, Abe did manage to figure it out eventually.

There was one evening in late summer when all hell broke loose at the Oaken Flask. A bar fight that quickly became more than just a brawl between a few drunk men but spread throughout the bar, to the point where a couple of regulars ended up needing to be sent to the hospital. Abe got hit hard and took down six men in under half an hour - after he beat one, another man grabbed his arm, tried to disarm him. It happened again. And again. Abe kept count, and when he hit the seventh, he stopped counting and threw the eighth's punch to make sure they would also stay on the ground until someone came along to take them to a cell, or at least the hospital.

Abe staggered into a booth afterward and didn't feel the least bit tired or defeated. Something clicked then - an epiphany so profound, so absolute, that everything seemed brighter around him as if he’d shed a veil from over his eyes. Abe looked back at the chaos he’d left in his wake and saw it not through the lens of a warrior or of some brute that he always imagined himself to be, but from the point of view of someone who'd seen too many things. Like he was born into a world that demanded this strength from him. In fact, the entire place seemed cleaner somehow; even his own body felt different than it had before. Abe's entire life had been spent just trying to survive, but something happened the night of The Oaken Flask's bloodbath that told him he needed to change that.

He found out when a group of customers wandered back into the bar looking for refuge from a late-night snowstorm. One woman, blonde with a sly look on her face, turned around to watch Abe as they approached, eyes glancing over his muscled arms, the way he stood on the stage where they were watching him - tense but confident - with his hands by his sides as he leaned forward to survey them.

"Aye, mate," she said to him with a grin, "I reckon you could be one helluva mum."

This is a merge of pre-trained language models created using mergekit.

Merge Details

Merge Method

This model was merged using the SLERP merge method.

Models Merged

The following models were included in the merge:

• Hasnonname/Qwen2.5-14B-Wheatear-v0
• Hasnonname/Qwen2.5-14B-Kestrel-v0

Configuration

The following YAML configuration was used to produce this model:

base_model: Hasnonname/Qwen2.5-14B-Wheatear-v0
dtype: bfloat16
merge_method: slerp
parameters:
  t:
  - value: 0.7
slices:
- sources:
  - layer_range: [0, 48]
    model: Hasnonname/Qwen2.5-14B-Kestrel-v0
  - layer_range: [0, 48]
    model: Hasnonname/Qwen2.5-14B-Wheatear-v0