Welcome to Lumine, where steam-powered dreams pierce the clouds and brass-clad ambition knows no bounds. Here, master artisans chase mechanical perfection while wild-eyed inventors push the boundaries of possibility. The cathedral spires of other worlds are replaced by monuments of grinding gears and pistons, and worship is reserved not for celestial bodies but for the power of human ingenuity. Their banner tells their story—a raised fist wrapped in clockwork, proclaiming humanity's triumph over nature itself.
Perpetual steam and mechanical heat have transformed Lumine into an eternal greenhouse, where warm mists cloak the city in endless summer—though nature occasionally rebels with sudden storms of shocking violence. The golden spires of the wealthy quarter pierce these vapors like ancient kings, their gleam untouchable even in the worst weather. Yet in their shadows lurk the city's darker truths: alleys choked with industrial grime, factory districts where the sun never quite breaks through the perpetual smog. This is Lumine's cruel irony—a world so obsessed with progress that it has all but erased the natural world, leaving only stark divisions between those who soar above the steam clouds and those who drown in them.
The House of Twelve stands as Lumine's guiding light—at least in theory. Founded on the noble ideals of its legendary twelve creators, this governing council was meant to be the voice of every citizen, from factory worker to master inventor. Yet like a poorly maintained machine, the system has corroded from within. Money oils the gears of election, and seats once meant for the people's champions now belong to industrial titans and celebrity innovators who trade votes like commodity futures. The council chambers echo with grand speeches about progress and prosperity, but the steam-filled streets below tell a different story—one of a broken system that seems to resist every attempt at repair.
In Lumine, the line between flesh and machine blurs more each day. The streets pulse with the energy of tireless workers and wild-eyed inventors, many bearing the mark of their obsession in their own bodies. What began as necessity—replacing limbs lost to industrial accidents—has evolved into an art form, a statement of identity, even a kind of worship. Citizens proudly display mechanical augmentations that dwarf their original limbs, choosing spectacular form over mundane function. In their minds, each whirring gear and gleaming piston marks another step toward perfection, another victory of engineering over nature's flawed design.
Lumine's nightmares crawl from its own refuse—junk heaps where discarded machines dream dark dreams, and abandoned homes where forgotten toys wake with terrible purpose. Here, mirrors remember the faces they've reflected, dolls dance with mechanical malice, and mountains of scrap metal birth themselves into twisted mockeries of human form. Most disturbing are the phantoms that flicker between machine and spirit, and the tragic figures that were once human, their quest for mechanical perfection driving them past the point of no return. In them, Lumine sees its own reflection—a cautionary tale of progress unbound by wisdom.
