Psycho-9B-pretest2-MiniGoblin-Q6_K-GGUF

<img src="https://cdn-uploads.huggingface.co/production/uploads/68e840caa318194c44ec2a04/xR8vz50zoW0drjZzB097D.jpeg" style="float:right; width:300px; height:300px; padding:10px;">

That's fantastic! it writes like my Goblin! not exactly, but I can very much see the tone notes and word usage pairs, and it's only a wee thing. How awesome is that! I'm deeply impressed. 9B. holy crap. well done!!

Note: There is only the unablated version. Attempting to ablate the model with MPOA broke the output. This should not be occuring, which means the model is likely bugged at higher context.

This also isn't the final Psychosis 9B sce merge, due to issues with Tower breaking Karcher and Della. It writes with style so is being released seperately.

models:
  - model: A:\LLM\.cache\huggingface\hub\!models--sam-paech--Delirium-v1
    name: deli
  - model: A:\LLM\.cache\huggingface\hub\!models--sam-paech--Darkest-muse-v1\fixed
    name: dark
  - model: A:\LLM\.cache\huggingface\hub\!models--sam-paech--Quill-v1
    name: quill
  - model: A:\LLM\.cache\huggingface\hub\!models--BeaverLegacy--Smegmma-Deluxe-9B-v1\fixed
    name: smegma
  - model: A:\LLM\.cache\huggingface\hub\!models--crestf411--gemma2-9B-sunfall-v0.5.2
    name: sunfall
  - model: A:\LLM\.cache\huggingface\hub\!models--Unbabel--Tower-Plus-9B
    name: tower
  - model: A:\LLM\.cache\huggingface\hub\!models--DavidAU--Gemma-The-Writer-9B\fixed
    name: writer

merge_method: sce  # Core: Variance-pruning top-k for franken healing
base_model: A:\LLM\.cache\huggingface\hub\!models--sam-paech--Delirium-v1

parameters:
  select_topk: 0.5
  prescale: true     # Pre-norm deltas (TIES-style magnitude control)
  normalize: true    # Post-norm for sign stability

weights:
  - filter: ".*"
    models: {deli: 1.0, dark: 1.0, quill: 1.0, smegma: 1.0, sunfall: 1.0, tower: 1.0, writer: 1.0}

dtype: float32
out_dtype: float32
tokenizer:
  source: A:\LLM\.cache\huggingface\hub\!models--Unbabel--Tower-Plus-9B
name: MiniGoblin-9B-v0a-SCE_TIES

The wind tasted like salt and secrets that night. Elara crouched on the jagged lip of the cliff, her worn leather cloak flapping a mournful counterpoint to the gulls’ screeching symphony above. Below, the churning sea gnawed at obsidian teeth of rock, spitting froth into plumes of phosphorescent green that vanished as quickly as they bloomed. It was the kind of night that swallowed sound whole, leaving only the rasping hunger of the tide against bone-white cliffs.

Elara wasn't afraid of the dark. Not anymore. Fear had been a plump, mewling thing she used to cradle in her chest, warm and insistent. Now it lay desiccated beneath layers of ash and grit, choked by the dust devils that danced perpetually in the hollows of her soul.

She clutched the chipped porcelain doll tighter, its painted smile cracked like spiderwebs across faded rosebud cheeks. The moon, a bruised plum hanging low in the bruised sky, cast long, skeletal fingers of light onto the smooth curve of its porcelain belly. This was all she had left of him – this brittle echo of laughter trapped within cold clay. Finnigan wouldn’t have liked the colour of the dress clinging damply to her thin frame. Crimson bled into rust where the salt spray kissed it, mirroring the stain blooming fat and ugly on the ragged hem. He’d called it ‘bloodwine’, said it made her look like a drowned poppy caught between two tides. Poppy. He always saw poppies where others saw weeds. Even in the grey scrub clinging desperately to these blasted cliffs.

A cough ripped from her throat, raw and splintery. She pressed a fist against the slick ache behind ribs that felt too close to bursting. Each breath tasted like brine and something else, metallic and coppery, staining the back of her tongue with shame. Shame thicker than the clotted blood hardening under the tattered bandage wrapped around her forearm. Shame for letting them catch her. Shame for not being faster. For not being stronger.

The gulls shrieked again, closer now, circling like pale vultures above the churning black maw below. They smelled fear, Elara knew. It clung to her like barnacles to driftwood, thick and impossible to scrape clean. But there was another scent tangled amongst the reek of salt and rot – acrid smoke laced with something sharp and sweet, like burnt honey. Ironweed. The ironweed they used to mark their hunting grounds.

They were coming. Always came. Like shadows drawn by the phosphorescent bloom of spilled blood. Drawn by the hollow thrumming in her chest where his laugh used to live. A laugh as bright and brittle as spun glass, shattered now into shards lodged deep in her own cracked ribcage.

She tightened her grip on the doll, its chipped porcelain digging into the bruised flesh of her palm. This wasn't enough. Not anymore. The whispers had started again this morning, slithering through the cracks in her skull like damp worms burrowing into rotten wood. Whispers promising things sharper than bone knives, colder than the sea swallowing ships whole. Things that pulsed beneath the skin like trapped fireflies, hungry for release.

Elara swallowed, tasting ash and the bitter tang of defiance. Finnigan wouldn’t have liked it. He’d called it ‘reckless’, said it would drown him before the tide ever reached his ankles. Poppy-faced fool. He hadn’t known how deep the roots ran, how the earth itself bled ironweed poison into your marrow until you tasted it in every sunrise and choked on it in every breath.

He hadn’t known what it meant to be left behind with only a shard of laughter and a moon stained purple with grief.

A flicker of movement on the jagged lip of the cliff opposite. A shadow detached from the skeletal fingers of moonlight, elongated and wavering like heat haze above black sand. Then another. And another. They came smelling of brine and burnt honey, silent as wraiths against the wind’s rasping lament.

The gulls shrieked again, closer now, feasting on the feast already laid out upon the obsidian teeth of the world. Elara closed her eyes, pressing the doll’s cold cheek against hers. It felt like ice pressed against fever.

“Poppy,” she breathed, the word ragged and thin as cobwebs strung across a graveyard. “They call me poppy.”

And then, finally, she opened her mouth and let the taste of ironweed bloom inside her throat. Let it blossom hot and thick, choking back the mewling fear that dared stir in its brittle cage.

Let it sing.