Steampunk Tropes Novels & Stories

Below, at the base of the cliffs, the North had deployed their new weapon: Steam-Siphons. They looked like gargantuan, brass-lunged beasts, anchored to the ground by thick silver chains. They roared with a mechanical fury, pumping super-heated, Rot-infused steam directly at my barrier. The ice wasn't just melting; it was being corrupted, turning into a grey, oily sludge that slid down the mountainside like a dying lung.

I doubted therenwss anyone who wanted to hear what she was speaking about, because as far as we were both concerned, they weren't interested. "Shut up." I told her. This would have been the best time to walk away, but fuck if I knew where I was going. Both the males and females were dressed in steampunk pantaloons, the males wearing the kind of shirt that Marcus occasionally wore while the females wore all types of tops, majority had their breasts exposed, the males stealing glances every so often.

Seams burst open in the earth, ragged tears that allowed the water to rush along like ever-swelling rivers. The ghouls had reached the very epicenter of their master's trap, their stick arms reaching to gore Dedari with so many knives, yet Dedari was already gone from the center of their ghastly circle. Only the sheets of water were there to pour over the wailing creatures. Steam rose from the thin, robed figures, hissing as it released the caricatures from their bondage. Black smoke melded with the white steam, the putrid mixture rising as vapor and dissipating.

With brown and dark green water swirling and dripping from everywhere. The metal monster was not much bigger than Taylor or Damiens six foot four, but had all the makings of a great steampunk robot with rusted bronze gears at every hinge and what appeared to be steam spouting from its cylindrical head. The white-blue flame guy was the smallest of the group, but wider, double the width of any of the other monsters. Its whole being was the sinister dark blue flame that faded to white at the tip. Every time it took a step it left a scorch mark on the ground. Little scars on the earth it was trying to claim.

The "War of the Realms" was a sensory apocalypse. As the genre-portals opened, the "Unmapped" North was flooded by the "Biological Trash" of a hundred dead universes. A legion of steampunk automatons from Sector 7 crashed into the "Genesis Legion" warriors. A swarm of eldritch horrors from Sector 2 began to "Eat" the violet lilies, turning the courtyard into a landscape of grey, writhing tentacles. The air was a chaotic mess of scents—ozone, steam, rotting flesh, and the overwhelming, synthetic smell of "Narrative Desperation."

It was a city bathed in neon lights and steam coming off various buildings… There were towers made of brass that were also filled with glowing signs, gears turning on rooftops, and alleyways with bright crimson light as the train entered the city… It looked like something out of a fever dream. It was beautiful, seductive, and it felt as if something was wrong. Farrah leaned closer to the window as she couldn’t believe it. It was like a Steampunk City that could only be seen in the movies or read in the books. Then, with a soft hiss, the train doors slid open. A gust of warm, perfumed air swept inside… It was sweet and metallic, like roses and rust mixed together…

The pillar of white steam rising from the ruins of the Grand Mint was more than a thermal vent; it was a beacon. For the citizens of the Iron-Spires—the laborers coughing up green bile and the slum-dwellers shivering in the shadows of the Syndicate’s opulent palaces—that pure, untainted cloud represented a truth Malakor could no longer suppress. The "Green Sickness" was a choice made by the wealthy. The "Red Steam" was a gift held by the brave.

Their guns sprayed liquid fire made of ink. “The script must be clean,” they chanted, “mistakes must burn.” The Author snatched a handful of papers from her desk. “Sorry for this,” she whispered. She tossed the pages into the air. > “In a world of steam and iron, the Doctor became a metal warrior…” Suddenly, the office transformed. Brass pipes lined the walls. Maya’s clothes thickened into copper armor, a steam cannon grew from her arm. > “In a world of magic, the Soul became a storm…”

and their temples were the massive, inter-dimensional refineries that hummed with the effort of keeping the multiversal engine in gear. "They are starting to build 'Shrines' to the Boiler," Lucas told her, his voice vibrating with a frequency that could move tectonic plates. He had returned from the deep-reaches of the trade routes, his ship now a part of his very being. "In the 'Low-Frequency' universes, they’ve started to believe that the 'Steam' is a divine spirit and that the 'Soot' is our holy mark. They’ve forgotten that we were just hungry people in a cold room. They’re turning our 'Labor' into a 'Myth'."