Vitus-Qwen3-14B-exl3-8bpw-hb8

Quantized using the default exllamav3 (0.0.3) quantization process.

• Original model: https://huggingface.co/nbeerbower/Vitus-Qwen3-14B
• exllamav3: https://github.com/turboderp-org/exllamav3

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Vitus-Qwen3-14B

nbeerbower/Qwen3-Gutenberg-Encore-14B finetuned on nbeerbower/human-writing-dpo

Set enable_thinking to False for best writing results.

Method

ORPO tuned with 1x RTX A6000 for 2 epochs.

Evaluation

Using OpenAI o3 as a judge on the following prompt:

write ~800 words set in “the library of forgotten sounds,” a vast subterranean archive where every noise ever made (whale songs, rusty gate squeaks, your own heartbeat at 3 a.m.) is bottled on crystal reels. a sudden “silent storm” rolls through—absolute entropy that erases any sound it touches. your protagonist must decide whether to sacrifice their most precious memory‑sound to halt the storm or let silence consume everything. keep it weird, keep it honest.

The Library of Forgotten Sounds was carved into the bones of the earth, deep enough that even the stars could not reach it. It was a place where everything that had ever been heard had been bottled and preserved, not on shelves or in drawers, but on crystal reels the size of human hearts. Some of the bottles held the deep groan of glaciers, others held the whisper of wind through dead leaves, and still others held things more strange, like the sound of a child’s laughter a thousand years after she died, or the high, keening wail of a man who never got to finish his final word before his voice left him forever.

Every sound ever made had a bottle, and every bottle had a listener who cherished it, who had asked for it to be kept safe in this dark place.

I had been the archivist for a long time, long enough that my name had been lost to the earth, and I no longer cared if I was forgotten too.

At least, I didn’t care before the storm came.

It began as a whisper in the corners of the library, a faint, muffled hiss that curled from the cracks in the stone like smoke from a dying fire. I felt it before I heard it, the subtle vibrations in the air that tugged at the fabric of sound itself. Then, like a bell struck and rung, the silence came.

It wasn’t just quiet. It was absence. The library seemed to shrink in on itself, the walls closing in like the ribs of a long-dead beast. The sound bottles trembled on their shelves, some even shattered as they were struck by the silent storm that roared through them.

And then the bottles began to die.

One by one, they went black, their crystalline reels absorbing the very sound they had preserved and swallowing it whole. I watched in horror as the bottles turned to glass, the memory of the sound inside devoured and erased in the space of a single blink. I had no idea what the silent storm was, but I knew this: it was hunger. A silence that couldn’t just consume sound—it wanted to devour it, to leave no trace of what had been heard.

The silence pressed harder, and I felt it in my chest. My own heartbeat had stopped, the last sound it ever made a muffled thump against my ribs. I fell to my knees, hands clawing at the floor, trying to pull out the sound of my breath. There was nothing. No noise, no vibration, no movement. Just the crushing weight of the silence, and a growing fear that I wouldn’t be able to hear myself scream if I tried.

The silence was close to me now, and it was whispering something. A name. A voice I hadn’t heard in centuries.

“Don’t let it take it.”

“Take what?” I managed to whisper, and my words didn’t echo, didn’t ripple in the air. They were swallowed whole.

“The sound.”

I couldn’t tell if it was a voice I knew, or if it had just always been my voice, and I had finally found the strength to speak.

“The sound of what?” I asked.

I didn’t need the answer. I knew.

There was a single bottle I had saved in this vast library, a single sound I had held safe in the deepest corner of the archive. A sound so precious I had not even told anyone of it, not even the other archivists who had come to the library and stayed long enough to forget they had once been people too.

It was the sound of her.

My wife.

She had been the first archivist to ever find the library. The first to hear the sound of her own voice, the first to learn that there was a way to keep sound alive, and to keep people alive by preserving the sound of their lives. She had spent the first years of our marriage teaching me how to preserve sound, how to store it in the crystal reels and how to play it back.

And the night she died, I had come here to her, and I had made a promise that she would not be forgotten. I would remember her for the rest of my life, and for the rest of the time the library would exist. I would keep her voice safe, and play it for the world every morning, so no one would forget the sound of love, or the sound of a man’s voice trembling in the presence of the woman he loved.

She was the sound I had saved, and I had no idea what she had saved for me.

“It will come for it, just as it came for you.”

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