43 Words about AI
Another post about AI: ChatGPT 4.0 is improving. Below is some short fiction it crafted inspired by first and last lines which I selected but which it invented separately. Impressive, but you know no human soul was behind it, and it lacks something.
The prophecy spoke of a hero, but the only thing that came was a plague, and it devoured everything.
For generations, the people of Varngard clung to the words of the ancient prophecy. It promised a savior, a warrior born of the stars who would rise in their darkest hour to vanquish the evil that festered in the land. When the skies above the mountains turned blood-red and the winds carried the scent of death, the elders proclaimed that the time had come. They prayed, fasted, and lit the sacred fires, awaiting the hero foretold.
But no hero came.
Instead, a pestilence emerged from the mountains, creeping down the slopes like a silent assassin. It began in the villages closest to the peaks, where the air grew heavy with sickness, and the earth itself seemed to rot. The first to die were the young and the old, their bodies twisted with fever and their eyes clouded with pain. Soon, the disease spread to every corner of the kingdom, sparing none in its path.
The priests and scholars sought answers in their scrolls and relics, but the plague cared nothing for their prayers or rituals. It swept through the grandest halls and the humblest homes, bringing kings and beggars alike to their knees. The land that had once been rich with life became a desolate graveyard, its people reduced to shadows of their former selves. Fields lay fallow, and the rivers ran thick with the ashes of the dead.
In the heart of Varngard, in the capital of Myrdal, the last of the royal line, Princess Elara, watched her kingdom crumble. She was no hero—just a girl with a crown too heavy for her head and a heart burdened with guilt. Her people had looked to her for salvation, and she had failed them. The prophecy was a lie, she thought bitterly, a cruel joke played on a doomed people.
As the plague closed in on the capital, the whispers began. Some said that the prophecy had been misunderstood, that the hero was not a warrior but a sacrifice. Desperate and broken, Elara listened to these whispers, and in the ruins of her palace, she found the ancient blade—the weapon said to have been forged in the fires of the gods.
The blade was cold to the touch, its surface etched with runes long forgotten. It hummed with an energy that made her bones ache, and Elara knew what she had to do. With trembling hands, she drove the blade into her heart, her blood staining the stones beneath her feet.
The plague began to recede, the dark clouds lifting as if in response to her sacrifice. The people who survived spoke of a miracle, of how their princess had given her life to save them. But the land remained scarred, the fields barren, the rivers poisoned. The few who lived bore the marks of the plague on their flesh and in their souls.
Myrdal, once a beacon of hope, was now a city of ghosts. The prophecy had been fulfilled, but not in the way the people had expected. No hero had come to save them—only death and ruin.
The curse was lifted, but the scars remained, a reminder that some battles should never be fought.
The prophecy spoke of a hero, but the only thing that came was a plague, and it devoured everything.
For generations, the people of Varngard clung to the words of the ancient prophecy. It promised a savior, a warrior born of the stars who would rise in their darkest hour to vanquish the evil that festered in the land. When the skies above the mountains turned blood-red and the winds carried the scent of death, the elders proclaimed that the time had come. They prayed, fasted, and lit the sacred fires, awaiting the hero foretold.
But no hero came.
Instead, a pestilence emerged from the mountains, creeping down the slopes like a silent assassin. It began in the villages closest to the peaks, where the air grew heavy with sickness, and the earth itself seemed to rot. The first to die were the young and the old, their bodies twisted with fever and their eyes clouded with pain. Soon, the disease spread to every corner of the kingdom, sparing none in its path.
The priests and scholars sought answers in their scrolls and relics, but the plague cared nothing for their prayers or rituals. It swept through the grandest halls and the humblest homes, bringing kings and beggars alike to their knees. The land that had once been rich with life became a desolate graveyard, its people reduced to shadows of their former selves. Fields lay fallow, and the rivers ran thick with the ashes of the dead.
In the heart of Varngard, in the capital of Myrdal, the last of the royal line, Princess Elara, watched her kingdom crumble. She was no hero—just a girl with a crown too heavy for her head and a heart burdened with guilt. Her people had looked to her for salvation, and she had failed them. The prophecy was a lie, she thought bitterly, a cruel joke played on a doomed people.
As the plague closed in on the capital, the whispers began. Some said that the prophecy had been misunderstood, that the hero was not a warrior but a sacrifice. Desperate and broken, Elara listened to these whispers, and in the ruins of her palace, she found the ancient blade—the weapon said to have been forged in the fires of the gods.
The blade was cold to the touch, its surface etched with runes long forgotten. It hummed with an energy that made her bones ache, and Elara knew what she had to do. With trembling hands, she drove the blade into her heart, her blood staining the stones beneath her feet.
The plague began to recede, the dark clouds lifting as if in response to her sacrifice. The people who survived spoke of a miracle, of how their princess had given her life to save them. But the land remained scarred, the fields barren, the rivers poisoned. The few who lived bore the marks of the plague on their flesh and in their souls.
Myrdal, once a beacon of hope, was now a city of ghosts. The prophecy had been fulfilled, but not in the way the people had expected. No hero had come to save them—only death and ruin.
The curse was lifted, but the scars remained, a reminder that some battles should never be fought.
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I think there are some very real and very pressing copyright concerns - and also privacy concerns, but even in the privacy-oriented EU, people seem less troubled about that - and the biases in the training are interesting/frustrating/insightful into its limitations (e.g. it gave me the line on the Puritans being a poor oppressed religious minority instead of the Christian equivalent of the Taliban and it thinks freedom is synonymous with being able to choose from a wide selection of beverages). We definitely need to protect people from being made redundant by the things it's good at, and it fails stupendously at some complex stuff, but as a first-pass research tool and one that you can actually interrogate to expand on details) or as a creative springboard it can be very useful. Your point: once copyright/ownership/royalties are sorted, I think it's also handy as a customisable entertainment provider; you want a story about X, it will give you one. Check out Sora to see what it can do with video.
Embrace the Rot (song on youtube, Goodreads won't let me post links)
the whole thing - lyrics, music, animation, singing, is ai.
It's great. This and your story are telling me I'd be fine with ai entertainment. Joe is doing a school project making an ai teacher. All feels like we're living through ascifi story.