Masters of the Skies and Merchants of Rain

Velzna, a city already known for its ornate temples and proud traditions of craftsmanship, now commands the skies with an authority that would make even the most ambitious demigods blush. As I wandered the bustling streets today, it became clear that weather here is as much a public utility as it is a luxury commodity. Signs above market stalls advertised forecasts alongside their wares: “Sunny Courtyard Guaranteed Here!” or “Partial Cloud Cover for 2 Denarii a Day!” One enterprising manicurist even promised perfect “dew glisten” lighting for her clients’ upcoming portraits—a unique sales pitch, if nothing else.

The technology behind Etruscan weather control is dazzlingly peculiar. The *Fulminators*—an elite caste of priest-scientists dressed in flowing robes that crackle faintly with static—operate vast, arcane-looking weather forges just beyond the city. I wasn’t allowed inside, of course. Outsiders are strictly forbidden, and even locals don’t discuss the details openly, though I caught glimpses of polished bronze apparatuses that flickered with controlled lightning. From what I’ve pieced together, the process involves a delicate interplay of magnetism, controlled atmospheric pressure, and no small amount of ritual chanting. Whether they believe the chants have efficacy or are simply for show seems to depend on whom you ask.

Still, while the Fulminators tend to the arcane mechanics of the skies, it is the *Tempestateers* who hold the real power in Velzna. These magistrates, cloaked in garments adorned with embroidered lightning bolts, sit at the intersection of politics, economics, and nature itself. Their influence extends beyond mere governance of precipitation schedules; they control access to weather as though it were wealth itself (and, frankly, here it is). Rainfall licenses are issued for exorbitant sums, meaning small farmers are perpetually at the mercy of vintners and landowners with deeper coffers. I witnessed one farmer stubbornly trying to argue for a discount on a single hour of cloud cover that he claimed would save his wilting beans; he was brusquely declined. Rain, as it happens, does not come cheap.

Speaking of beans, those not fortunate enough to pay for their weather needs have resorted to some rather creative alternatives. I heard rumors of shadowy “precipitation poaching”—a crime wherein farmers use underground canals to redirect runoff from their wealthier neighbors’ fields. Those caught face punishments more theatrical than practical, such as being lashed to a ceremonial lightning rod during a mild thunderstorm as crowds jeer and applaud. Small mercies, I suppose; I can think of at least two timelines where such creativity would’ve gotten someone executed outright. But still, it’s a stark reminder of how something as fundamental as weather has become yet another tool of power.

I was able to gather some insight into aristocratic attitudes at a recent banquet held in one of Velzna’s more lavish manors. Between an abundance of figs and a particularly over-spiced mulled wine (note for future reference: decline the second cup), I overheard a nobleman casually boasting about splurging on a summer snowfall to celebrate his daughter’s upcoming marriage. As if perfectly adorned skies were not indulgent enough, he insisted on “flakes no larger than olives” to match the couple’s wedding theme. The sheer decadence of it all nearly made me lose my appetite, though it explains why the poorer districts are currently undergoing a drought. The logistics of snow in midsummer, it seems, is not without its trade-offs.

Yet, amidst all this curated perfection, cracks in the system are beginning to show. The soil, so meticulously calibrated to weather patterns, has grown oddly barren, as though something essential has been bled from it. Rivers, usually brimming with spring melt by this time of year, are shallow echoes of themselves. Even the air, for all its idyllic balance, feels oddly lifeless, as though nature has been embalmed rather than nurtured. I shared a quiet moment with a laborer who wistfully confessed to missing the unpredictability of old-fashioned storms. “I wouldn’t mind seeing a proper gale,” he said, “just to remind us who’s in charge.” I nodded my agreement, though I suspect he would have been less enthusiastic had I summoned a tornado for his benefit.

Despite the unquestionable ingenuity of these systems and their veneer of divine sanction, one can’t help but notice a lingering anxiety in the population. Their pottery and murals still depict gods of thunder with their roaring wrathful faces, even though thunder now arrives only on municipal schedules. I wonder whether the Etruscans might sense, however faintly, that they have traded something vital for their control over the heavens: a feeling of awe, perhaps, or simply the unvarnished chaos that once made the skies alive with stories. Their festivals remain colorful, but their dances beneath tamed clouds feel more duty-bound than jubilant, as though they are celebrating only the memory of wild skies.