laorejarara

In a tavern thick with fog and steam, an old storyteller agrees to share what he saw that night. A tale that shouldn't survive daylight… yet insists on being told.

Whether you hold a brush or pull a lever, whether you drink the gin or judge the glass... you’re all just fuel for the furnace at the end of the day. A fast, dirty swing through a city that doesn't care who’s right, as long as the gears keep turning. If you're offended, get in the queue.

Boots paid in sleep and a coat held together by borrowed thread. Solving the case is easy; it’s surviving the "handcuff tax" that keeps a man professionally broken.

Some predators don't hunt for sport; they hunt for balance. In a world of steam and iron, silence is the only thing they haven't figured out how to tax yet.

Progress is inevitable, but so is the ache of the artisan. While the city learns to move faster, some still find their kingdom in the grain, the grit, and the slow sacrifice of the hands. For the masters of the old ways, the fire never truly went out. A tribute to the stubborn hearts that still choose the hard way.

A celebration for the unpolished. It’s the defiance of a grease-stained collar and the electricity of a crowd that knows exactly how much a gear can take before it snaps.

He never asks you to kneel. He just signs the air, the rails, the law, and the little things you thought were yours.

Borrowed gold, rusted halos, and a city that never stops the music. Behind the masquerade, the neon saints are marching toward a midnight that already knows their names.

Pressure, silence, and the things we never say before the rivets start to strain.

Monday. Again. Because nothing says “progress” like doing it all over — every. single. week.

Fifty of you stayed. That’s more than enough reason to keep the lantern lit. Thank you for being here. This strange little world is just getting started.

You’re a universe folded into bone and breath — dust that learned to think. And still, you worry about being “too weird.”

Smoke, rust, and a door that remembers your touch. A bittersweet steampunk cabaret ballad about coming back to what never truly left. Loosely inspired by the spirit of a classic Argentine tango.

If a melody written differently shakes your worldview… maybe the problem isn’t the melody.

A metal "hero" with an epic ego... but his reactor is a bread-making resistance.

Under soot and copper light, hope survives in quiet hands. A nostalgic steampunk hymn for those who refuse to let their fire go out.

They say dragons fear knights. They’re wrong. This is a tavern legend about silver hair and quiet steel. The one they never dared to laugh at.