Tempest
You're going to need the rustproofing. Trust me.
An eternal storm, fueled by a greed beyond the ken of emperors. With winds as cold as a razorblades on the cheek, and iridescent levinlights crackling overhead, the Maelstrom's inexorable gales pluck at the Old World's hundred horizons. Its ashen, withering fingers grasp even that which they cannot touch. Its blackened tongue slithers through the ayrland's reefcrusts, smacking with a bitter spit that dissolves stone, pulps the wood, and obliterates hopes. In time, steel hulls flake away to brittle foil, enduring only when coated with costly alchemical resins.
By the half-light of a bruise-hued eclipse, Tenebral farmers drive corroded scythes through the necks of unripe fruit. The grapes in the vineyard shall not drink a full day's measure of the sun's radiance again. Only roots and tubers will sprout, and only by the light of artificed ambrille torches. A father will take his wedding ring to the sweat market to be melted down. He will return without his son, who will stay to spend the season cranking coil. Mother will fix the leaking roof, and trim the hen's wings before they start getting any clever ideas. She will cut down her flowerbeds, and when her husband returns, they will gild the tulips for a centerpiece.
Outside, the jeers of stormcrows grow louder. They are white-eyed and blind, but keen of ear and nose. They will not heed the mute bluster of straw-stuffed puppets. They will gather to feast in the winter, when a dragon comes to collect a pair of mating-goats from every village. The carcass of a slaughtered wenwhale, presented in the village square, will sate the reptile's appetite, and thankfully it will not complain if the blubber is rancid with cinder. But it will still take a pair of goats. This age-old tribute is not to be denied.