It storms on Flane, in the summer: monsoon thunderstorms, crackling and sparking with energy, making a lace of lightning that echoes the bones of the bronze and copper and iron that filigrees the highlands of the principle continent, the long sweep of land leading to the sea. The clouds roll up, darkling purple. The wind heralding the rain makes the metal chime and ring in every note from thin, high tinkles of tiny leaves and slender stems, to ranging mid-tones of branches and flower-tops, to deep tolling bell-sounds from roots and trunks and pillared groves. The rain comes down, rattling, clattering, plinking and plashing. It falls softly at first, then rushes down in torrents.The cloud-curls marching over the distant plain & ocean are not flattened or dissolved by the downpour, but they uncurl like hands, reaching up for the water to fill them. As the storm lessens, lightning flashes again, thunder grumbles away over the hills, sending shivers over the surface of a square puddle - a miniature lake - that forms where something imponderably heavy once stood, reflecting back the sky in rainbow fragments, mirror-shards of colored light. The mosses have long recovered, but the land still remembers that Oncoming Storm.