Fantasy
Weather in fantasy works best when it has habits.
Not just rain, snow, fog, the usual business. A place needs a pattern people live with. The market closes early because the afternoon wind ruins stalls. Families keep a second roof weight in the shed. Old women know which month the river starts speaking to the lower streets. That sort of thing does more work than a dramatic storm ever will.
If the sky has a temper, fine. But the better question is how the town has learned to organise itself around it. That is where the world starts feeling lived in.
Not just rain, snow, fog, the usual business. A place needs a pattern people live with. The market closes early because the afternoon wind ruins stalls. Families keep a second roof weight in the shed. Old women know which month the river starts speaking to the lower streets. That sort of thing does more work than a dramatic storm ever will.
If the sky has a temper, fine. But the better question is how the town has learned to organise itself around it. That is where the world starts feeling lived in.
Weather can become a bit of a substitute for actual social texture if you’re not careful. “It rains a lot” is wallpaper. What usually sticks is the nuisance level: damp that ruins paper, roads that cut off a hamlet, windows that need propping shut with a brick. Small, annoying consequences. That’s the stuff readers remember because someone has to live with it.