PREMISE: a VERY brief vingette featuring thera, morgott, and mohg in their new home in the realm of shadow. the storms bring a sort of manic energy to thera that she's not very fond of, and tries her best to avoid with seclusion and sleep. may or may not be pseudoautobiographical.
The plains smelled like an approaching storm. Thera watched it crawl in from the south, hypnotized, while she clung to her basket of clothes. The drums of developing thunder and raucous spirits pounded in her ears. She flicked them repeatedly, as though the noise was borne of flies.
Morgott paused his folding to watch her statuesque form. The wind stirred his hair, the wild and bitter fruits and grasses, the remaining laundry.
"'Tis nothing to fear," he offered.
Thera blinked free from her trance. Took a deep breath; exhaled.
"Bring the rest inside, would you, beloved?"
Morgott couldn't contain his smile -- she was absorbing mannerisms from his brother. He gathered the remaining garments from the line and followed her into the house.
---
Mohg had scented the changing atmosphere hours ago, as husband and wife still lazed in the fields, drawing out the length of their chores. He had already shuttered the windows and reinforced them as best as he could, but he was not skilled with wood and nails like his sister-in-law. A petty part of him would later mutter blame towards Thera when the boards didn't hold, causing rain to soak the rug. Morgott would his in offense as she slept in the other room, unaware of any accusations.
Storms were a time of great tension. The spirits that stirred in gusts of wind and claps of lightning were as furious as they were beautiful. Everyone in the house could sense them, but Morgott and Thera were especially attuned. Trembling hands kept busy finishing the laundry as they hovered near one another. Each distant rumble sent anticipatory chills down their spines.
Mohg was far more relaxed as he preened in the corner, shedding winter feathers and fur and piling it carefully against the wall. He offered to let Thera help, just for something else to pass the time while the storm blew over, but she declined.
"I'm afraid I'll pull something wrong. My hands shake... I don't want to hurt you."
He decided against telling her that no pulling of feathers by her hand -- a third the size of his own -- would cause him any pain. Instead, he simply nodded, returning his attention to the ruffle on his chest.