Petropunk
Imagine a world caught in a Great War of tanks and trenches, where the real battle is fought over memory itself. In this early 20th-century landscape, reality is not fixed; it’s an unstable script that can be rewritten. Secret societies and occult intelligence agencies wield artifacts that can sever a person’s past or erase an event from history, all to gain an edge in the war.
But this power comes at a terrible price. Every discarded memory festers, creating a cancerous tide of un-reality that actively un-writes the world. The very fabric of existence frays, creating zones where the past bleeds through and physics breaks down.
The world looks like a beautiful, old photograph being eaten away by chemical decay, its muted palette of mud-grey and rust punctuated by the crimson of blood and fading gold. The air is thick with the drone of factories and distant artillery, a soundscape pierced by an unnatural, dry clicking—the sound of reality being unstitched, one memory at a time. The only hope lies not in victory, but in the choice to remember, to bear the weight of the past before it is erased forever.
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Imagine a world caught in a Great War of tanks and trenches, where the real battle is fought over memory itself. In this early 20th-century landscape, reality is not fixed; it’s an unstable script that can be rewritten. Secret societies and occult intelligence agencies wield artifacts that can sever a person’s past or erase an event from history, all to gain an edge in the war.
But this power comes at a terrible price. Every discarded memory festers, creating a cancerous tide of un-reality that actively un-writes the world. The very fabric of existence frays, creating zones where the past bleeds through and physics breaks down.
The world looks like a beautiful, old photograph being eaten away by chemical decay, its muted palette of mud-grey and rust punctuated by the crimson of blood and fading gold. The air is thick with the drone of factories and distant artillery, a soundscape pierced by an unnatural, dry clicking—the sound of reality being unstitched, one memory at a time. The only hope lies not in victory, but in the choice to remember, to bear the weight of the past before it is erased forever.
