🔀 Merge Details
Merge Method
This model was merged using the della merge method using Retreatcost/Mistral-Nemo-Base-2407-ChatML as a base.
I recommend using Mistral Tekken chat template which seems to work better; if that has issues then try ChatML. The model has not been decensored and therefore may have refusals.
Models Merged
The following models were included in the merge:
- arbazsiddiqui/Ozan-v1-12B
- Lambent/Arsenic-Shahrazad-12B-v4.5
- IggyLux/MN-VelvetCafe-RP-12B-V2
- Retreatcost/Mistral-Nemo-Base-2407-ChatML
- shrugging-shoulders/Amberlight-Lux-12B
⚙️ Configuration
The following YAML configuration was used to produce this model:
architecture: MistralForCausalLM
models:
- model: B:\12B\arbazsiddiqui--Ozan-v1-12B
parameters:
weight:
- filter: "lm_head"
value: 0.25
- filter: "embed_tokens"
value: 0.25
- filter: "attn"
value: 0.25
- filter: "mlp"
value: 0.5
- value: 0.25
density: 0.9
epsilon: 0.09
- model: B:\12B\Lambent--Arsenic-Shahrazad-12B-v4.5
parameters:
weight:
- filter: "lm_head"
value: 0.25
- filter: "embed_tokens"
value: 0.25
- filter: "attn"
value: 0.25
- filter: "mlp"
value: 0.5
- value: 0.25
density: 0.9
epsilon: 0.09
- model: B:\12B\IggyLux--MN-VelvetCafe-RP-12B-V2
parameters:
weight:
- filter: "lm_head"
value: 0.25
- filter: "embed_tokens"
value: 0.25
- filter: "attn"
value: 0.25
- filter: "mlp"
value: 0.5
- value: 0.25
density: 0.9
epsilon: 0.09
- model: B:\12B\shrugging-shoulders--Amberlight-Lux-12B
parameters:
weight:
- filter: "lm_head"
value: 0.25
- filter: "embed_tokens"
value: 0.25
- filter: "attn"
value: 0.25
- filter: "mlp"
value: 0.5
- value: 0.25
density: 0.9
epsilon: 0.09
merge_method: della
base_model: B:\12B\Retreatcost--Mistral-Nemo-Base-2407-ChatML
parameters:
lambda: 1.0
normalize: false
int8_mask: false
rescale: true
dtype: float32
out_dtype: bfloat16
tokenizer:
source: B:\12B\shrugging-shoulders--Amberlight-Lux-12B
chat_template: "chatml"
name: 🌌 MN Starlight Sylph 12B
In the mist-shrouded valley of Willowbrook, where the air hung heavy with the scent of damp earth and blooming foxglove, there lived a miller named Silas Thorne. The mill stood at the confluence of two silver streams that sang as they met beneath the stone wheel, their voices mingling in an eternal duet.
Silas was a man of quiet habit, his days measured by the rhythm of grinding grain into flour for the village bakers. His hands were perpetually dusted white, like those of a sculptor who worked only in meal and bran. Yet despite his solitary trade, Silas carried within him a secret sorrow—a daughter named Larkspur who had vanished on her sixteenth birthday three summers past, swallowed whole by the Whispering Woods that bordered the eastern edge of his property.
The woods were ancient beyond reckoning, their canopy so dense that no sunlight penetrated to the forest floor, which remained eternally carpeted in moss and shadow. Villagers spoke of the Whispering Woods in hushed tones, claiming that lost souls wandered there forever, their voices becoming part of the wind that moaned through the branches like a chorus of forgotten lullabies. Some said the trees themselves possessed a dark intelligence, that their roots drank not merely water but the memories of those who strayed too far from the path.
On the eve of Larkspur's twentieth year, as the first stars pricked holes in the violet sky above Willowbrook, Silas found himself standing at the threshold of the mill door, staring toward the black wall of foliage that marked the wood's boundary. The streams seemed quieter tonight, their song reduced to a murmur, as if even the water held its breath in anticipation. In his hand he clutched a small wooden flute carved from willow—the instrument Larkspur had played each evening before her disappearance, her melodies drifting across the meadow like gossamer threads spun between earth and heaven.
A sudden gust carried with it a sound unlike any wind: a single note, pure and crystalline, hanging in the air long after the breeze had died. It was the pitch of Larkspur's flute, unmistakable yet altered—older now, resonant with an echo that suggested it originated not from the valley but from somewhere beneath it. Silas felt his heart hammer against his ribs like a bird trapped in a cage of bone.
He stepped forward into the gathering darkness, the dew-soaked grass clinging to his boots as if trying to anchor him to the familiar world. The mist rose around his ankles, swirling in patterns that almost formed letters before dissolving back into vapor. As he crossed the invisible line where pasture ended and forest began, the temperature plummeted—not to coldness, but to a quality more akin to absence, as though warmth itself were a currency the woods levied upon all who entered.
The trees stood impossibly tall here, their trunks twisting upward in spirals that defied natural growth. Their leaves shimmered with iridescent hues that caught no moonlight, casting shadows that moved independently of their branches when there was no wind to stir them. Silas pressed onward, guided by the phantom melody that pulsed behind his eyes like a second heartbeat.
Deep within the wood's interior, where the undergrowth thinned to reveal a clearing illuminated by bioluminescent fungi that cast everything in shades of emerald and violet, Silas discovered a sight that stopped his blood mid-flow. There, seated upon a throne woven entirely from living roots and vines, sat a figure both recognizable and utterly transformed. It was Larkspur—but not as she had been at sixteen. Her hair flowed down her back in strands of silver-white silk, braided with filaments of glowing moss and tiny crystals that chimed softly with each breath. Her skin possessed the translucent quality of alabaster carved by moonlight, and her eyes held galaxies swirling in their depths.
Beside her stood an entity composed solely of interwoven shadow and pulsing light, its form shifting between humanoid and arboreal with every blink. This being extended one branch-like hand toward Silas, and he felt the weight of three years' grief lift from his shoulders like a physical burden shed onto the loam.
"My father," Larkspur spoke, her voice layered with the susurrus of a thousand leaves rustling simultaneously. "The woods have kept me safe while teaching me to become something more than mortal clay."
Silas fell to his knees, tears cutting tracks through the flour dust still clinging to his cheeks. The shadow-being touched his forehead with a fingertip that smelled of ozone and ancient soil, and suddenly Silas understood—not with words, but with the bone-deep certainty of cellular memory—that Larkspur had not been lost or stolen. She had been chosen, selected by the forest itself for a purpose older than human kingdoms: to serve as the bridge between the green world and the grey, to ensure the valley remained fertile so long as she maintained her vigil among the roots.
"The mill will endure," Larkspur promised, rising from her throne of wood and light. "And I shall be present in every grain you grind, in every loaf baked from the flour of my people's labor. We are bound now by a covenant older than bread itself."
Silas bowed his head until his brow rested against the cool earth, accepting this new shape of love—bittersweet, eternal, rooted in a place where daughters became guardians and fathers became custodians of a shared destiny woven into the very fabric of the land they inhabited. As he rose to depart, guided back toward the silver streams by a path illuminated only by the glow emanating from beneath his own skin, the Whispering Woods seemed no longer a mystery to fear but a sanctuary to honor, its secrets now threaded through the marrow of his bones like the melody of Larkspur's flute echoing forever in the spaces between heartbeats.