Tell Me a Story, Please, Mr. Robot?

First off, let me say that ChatGPT is a chat-bot, not story-writing software.  And I do not doubt that, in my lifetime, we’ll see story-bots that can do better than this.  But ChatGPT isn’t going to take Sanderson’s job anytime soon.

 

Tell me a Conan story in the style of Robert Howard.

 

It was a dark and stormy night in the land of Hyboria. The sky was filled with ominous clouds, and the wind howled through the trees. Conan, the Cimmerian, stood on a rocky outcropping, his keen eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of danger.

He had been wandering the wilds for weeks, seeking to put as much distance between himself and the civilized lands as possible. But even in the untamed wilderness, there were still dangers to be found. Bandits, wild beasts, and worse roamed the land, preying on the unwary.

Conan's hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword, feeling its comforting weight. He had faced many dangers in his time, and he was not afraid. He was a warrior, born and bred, and he would not be bested by any man or beast.

As he stood there, the wind suddenly changed direction, and he caught the faint scent of smoke on the air. Cautiously, he began to make his way down the rocky slope, his eyes and ears alert for any sign of danger.

As he approached the source of the smoke, he heard the sound of men's voices, raised in anger and fear. Cautiously, he crept closer, his sword at the ready.

He soon came upon a clearing, where a band of bandits had set up camp. They had built a fire, and were feasting on the spoils of their recent raid. Conan counted at least a dozen men, all heavily armed and dangerous.

Without hesitation, Conan charged into the clearing, his sword flashing in the firelight. The bandits were caught off guard, and several fell before they could even draw their weapons.

Conan fought with a fury that was terrifying to behold, his sword flashing and slicing through flesh and bone. The bandits, realizing they were outmatched, turned and fled, leaving Conan standing victorious in the clearing.

He sheathed his sword and looked around at the carnage. The bandits lay dead or dying all around him, their blood staining the ground. He felt no remorse for what he had done. They were thieves and murderers, and they had gotten what they deserved.

With a sense of satisfaction, Conan turned and walked away from the clearing, into the dark and stormy night. He knew that his journey was far from over, and that there would be many more dangers to come. But he was Conan, the Cimmerian, and he feared no man or beast.

 

It was a dark and stormy night?  Really?  I give this one a D; it at least knows who Conan is, but I fear it’s read too many of the comics. 😉

 

Tell me a Kane story in the style of Karl Edward Wagner.

 

The night was dark and moonless, and a bitter wind howled through the deserted streets of the city. Kane, the immortal, stood at the edge of a rooftop, his cloak billowing in the wind. He was a dark figure, tall and imposing, with eyes that glinted like cold steel in the darkness.

For centuries, Kane had wandered the earth, a solitary figure, driven by an unquenchable thirst for knowledge and power. He had seen empires rise and fall, and had known the touch of both pleasure and pain. He was a warrior, a sorcerer, and a scholar, all rolled into one.

But tonight, Kane had come to the city for a different purpose. He had received word of a powerful artifact, an ancient relic said to possess the power of the gods. Kane had spent centuries searching for such an object, and he would not rest until he had it in his grasp.

He made his way down the side of the building, his movements fluid and graceful, like a cat stalking its prey. He knew the city well, and he knew the ways to avoid detection. He had been to this city many times before, and he knew the secret passages and alleys that would lead him to his destination.

As he approached the entrance to the underground temple, Kane heard the sound of guards on patrol. Without hesitation, he unsheathed his sword, a weapon forged in the fires of the underworld. It was said to be unbreakable, and it had served Kane well in many battles.

The guards never knew what hit them. Kane moved with a speed and ferocity that was almost supernatural, his sword flashing in the darkness. In moments, the guards lay dead at his feet, and Kane stood alone in the entrance to the temple.

He descended into the depths of the temple, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. He passed through chambers and corridors, his senses alert for any sign of danger. But the temple was deserted, and Kane soon found himself standing before a door of ancient stone, covered in inscriptions and runes.

With a sense of triumph, Kane opened the door and stepped inside. There, in the center of the chamber, stood the artifact he had sought for so long. It was a stone, black as midnight, and it pulsed with an otherworldly power.

Kane reached out and took the stone in his hand. He could feel its power coursing through his body, filling him with strength and knowledge. He knew that this was just the beginning, and that there were many more battles yet to come.

But for now, he was content. He had what he had come for, and he would use it to further his quest for power and knowledge. He turned and walked out of the temple, into the night, a solitary figure, driven by an unquenchable thirst for power.

 

First, I’m surprised it even knew who Kane was, and it does at least try to capture something of Wagner’s style.

 

But it doesn’t seem to understand what Zothique is.  Nor does it have anything like Clark Ashton Smith’s vocabulary.

 

Tell me a Zothique story in the style of Clark Ashton Smith, please.

The sun had set over the land of Zothique, and the sky was ablaze with the colors of the aurora borealis. The stars shone like diamonds in the sky, and the desert winds howled through the dunes. Zothique, the sorcerer, stood on the peak of a dune, his eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of his quarry.

For centuries, Zothique had wandered the earth, seeking out ancient and forbidden knowledge. He had delved into the dark arts, and had raised the dead to do his bidding. He had stood at the threshold of the abyss and looked into the eyes of the Old Ones. He was a master of the occult and the arcane, feared and respected by all who knew of him.

But tonight, Zothique had come to the desert for a different purpose. He had heard of a powerful artifact, a book of spells said to hold the secrets of eternal life. Zothique had spent centuries searching for such a book, and he would not rest until he had it in his grasp.

He descended from the peak of the dune, his steps sure and steady, despite the treacherous path. He knew the way well, for he had traveled it many times before. As he walked, he recited ancient incantations, calling forth the spirits of the dead to guide him on his journey.

As he approached the entrance to the tomb, Zothique felt the presence of powerful wards and protection spells. He smiled, for he knew that such spells would be no match for his own dark powers. He raised his hand, and spoke the words of a spell of dispelling. The wards and protections crumbled, and the tomb lay open before him.

He descended into the depths of the tomb, his eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of danger. He passed through chambers and corridors, his senses alert for any sign of traps or guardians. But the tomb was deserted, and Zothique soon found himself standing before a sarcophagus of ancient stone.

With a sense of triumph, he opened the sarcophagus and reached inside. There, lying within, was the book of spells. It was bound in human skin, and its pages were made of parchment made from the same material.

Zothique reached out and took the book in his hand. He could feel its power coursing through his body, filling him with dark energy. He knew that this was just the beginning, and that there were many more secrets yet to be discovered.

He turned and walked out of the tomb, into the night, a solitary figure, driven by an unquenchable thirst for forbidden knowledge. He knew that with the book of spells in his possession, nothing could stand in his way, and he would continue his quest for eternal life and ultimate power.

 

Still, it did include a number of tropes common to CAS’ writing.  So that’s something.  In another five years, maybe it could actually give us new Zothique stories that sound like Smith?