One front, three kinds of weather.
When a front comes in, what falls depends on how high you stand. Below 40 metres it rains. Between 40 and 60 it turns to sleet. Above 60 it snows.
So the Snowpeak Express can leave the harbour in the rain and pull into a station in fresh snow half an hour later. Same front, same minute.
Drag the walker up the hill.
Come in out of the rain.
Step under a roof and it stops falling on you. You still hear it, just differently: on the roof, not on you. Walk back out and it is waiting.
You don't have to do anything to your house. If it has a roof, it keeps you dry.
Fog finds the low ground.
After snow, and in the grid's mornings and evenings, fog gathers in the valleys and lies there. Up on the ridge it is clear. It lifts on its own, and the forecast says when.
Photographers like it. From above, a valley full of fog is the best picture in Sedgewold.
Only on clear nights, only where it's clear.
Some grid nights the aurora comes. You see it wherever the sky is clear at that moment, and nowhere it is snowing. The forecast gives it to the minute.
Six days in one.
A grid day lasts four hours. In one of your days the continent sees six sunrises, six nights, and whatever weather comes with them. If you only log in after work, you still get mornings.
The forecast is not a guess.
The weather is worked out a day ahead, region by region, and then it happens exactly that way. Plan a wedding in the snow, a photo at the fog line, a train ride into the aurora. It will be there.
The one exception is honest about itself: for an event, a region can be held by hand. Then the forecast says so, and promises nothing until it's let go.
The next 24 hours →