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"Fetcher?" Mulberry tilted her head to the side, but didn't consider the strange adult's request for long. The nest was freezing cold and to be honest, her body was yearning to huddle up close to someone big and protective - not only because of the warmth they would provide, but also for the comfort she so dearly needed after the ordeal she had just been through.

The little fledgling obediently crept in under Fletcher's wings and fluffed herself contentedly, pressing up close against the russet feathers. This was good. Here was safety, here was warmth and comfort. She heaved a little sigh of happiness and preened herself, and, like an afterthought, preened Fletcher's side a little bit as well.

"Fetcher of what?" she asked curiously. "That's a funny name. I only have one name, how come you have many? And why aren't they good for my beak? Would it break and fall off if I tried to say them? Why do you look so funny? I've never seen feathers like yours. What type are you? I'm a Wildtype, and so is my mommy and my daddy, but they're on a hunting trip right now so they might not be back for days."

All the while when Fletcher was talking, Fig stood with her little beak open. She had never heard such speech before. It was almost as if she spoke in riddles. Perhaps, Fig thought, this is what older Sentinels talked like. Then again, she had never heard another adult talk in such a way. Most of the time, Fletcher seemed to be repeating herself over and over. Some of what she said was even hard for the fledgling to understand.

Either way, the fledgling figured that she should introduce herself to Fletcher. So she followed Mulberry's lead, as she now new the other female fledgling's name. "I'm Fig and Imma Wildtype like Mulberry," she chirped loudly and scooted closer to Fletcher. Then she brought her mus into her brown wings, "And this is my mus, Pika."

Sighing into the silence, Fiachra shivers into his feathers, watching the three converse with a half-jealousy, half-contentment just sitting there. He was a wildtype too, but he that was obvious, was it not? What bothered him more was the cold draft that snaked into the room and seemed to shake it as if it was angry with the world. Opening his beak hesitantly, he wondered what he could possibly say, finding the prescence of the larger, ruffled looking Sentinel more than a little comforting.

A small sound came from his throat until they heard the crack, at which point he winced, looking out the side of the hollow. Had something-

Ah. The wind was cold, indeed. Letting out a small breath, he looked down stubbornly, shuffling closer towards the adult and the other females, close enough to feel the emanating heat of them, but still quite a ways off. Risking a small glance, he managed a small smile, his voice equally small and soft, fragile-sounding to the point that he sounded a lot younger than his years.

"Fiachra's my name. What was that sound, Fletcher?"

When the Thunderbird's fury is unleashed upon the forest of Noctua, Fletcher fluffs herself up into a huge threat display and snugs Mulberry closer to her side. She reaches out a wing for Fig, and even Fiachra would feel a pull from the aberrant's Will to try to urge him closer. Then quiet falls, and her feathers begin to return to a more restful position, only be slicked back entirely when she shrinks down in response to the thunderous crashing. "Nononooo," she keens under her breath, lurching forward as if she would take off into the night right then to investigate the source of the noise. But the presence of the fledglings anchors her here, as much as she yearns to leave.

"I don't know what that was," is her quiet and oddly-subdued reply, her eartufts flattened against her skull even as she tries to force herself to settle into a more natural position. Again, Fletcher gestures for the trio to come nearer, and she preens Mulberry gently as if to show the others what they could have if they snuggled up. "Three little wildtype bits, Fig, Fiachra, and Mulberry. Closer, closer, it's safe here for all types. Types.. types. Aberrants aren't berries, no, no, they're just not any of the types. Not-ghost, Not-shadow, Not-anything. Some aberrants are mixes, those are most common. Some are like me, like a smaller kind of type. And some.. some are just mistakes."

"Nice Pika-mus! Makes me sad for my Catcher-mus, all alone.. I wish he was here," and she looks a bit anxious as she admits that, as if the absence of her Catcher upsets her on some base level. She'd dropped un-broken feather Mulberry had admired when Fletcher reached out for Fiachra, but now she lifts it with her Will once again - this time it shakes, as if she's having more trouble controlling it - and drifts it over to the curious fledgling.

"Thunderbird's passing, hear him leave?"

He closes his eyes and listens to him talk, finding that just doing that is enough to make him happier than he ever thought he'd be. It was almost like the family he yearned for with every particle of his being, the strangely-expressed-but-amazing Fletcher, the talkative and sorta-scary Mulberry, and the quiet but pleasant Fig and her colourful mus. Tilting his head to listen, he caught the roiling sounds of chaos not far out, shivering into his feathers.

He wanted to say something. But what? What was there to say when you could just... be? In the corner of his eye, he caught Fletcher's almost-akward movements, frowning. Could it be that she was forced to be here, or at least... did she want to leave? Shivering at the very thought, he edged a little closer, not wanting to let go of any of it, not the others, not the night, and mostly, not the feeling that was spreading up his heart and warming him up, from the inside out.

Finally settled, she look back at Fiachra to see if he'll come near enough to join the females --not yet, it would seem, but at least he's near enough that the cold won't seem as harsh and unforgiving. It is an awkward situation, as she'd like nothing more than to rush to the source of the noise.. But no. Later later, there's time to go see later. Nothing she can do anyways, nothing but be chased away by the Elites while they do their duty. She sighs quietly, resigned to doing the right thing and being patient, even if it is so so very hard at times. The tug at the feather she was still holding with her Will jerks her back to attention, her eyes pinning in surprise. "Ah! Nice, nice, nicely done little 'berry bit. Here, here, take it," she urges, twirling the repaired feather before Mulberry's face.

While she sits there, with a fledgling under each wing and another nearby, the aberrant gazes out at the dying storm. An almost wistful look sneaks into her eyes... but only for the briefest of moments, and then it is gone.