A Practical Consideration

One thing Flynn can say about Stormwind is that it's a sweaty armpit of a city. If the wind blows in from the jungles in the south, it's hot, or from the volcanoes in the north, it's hot and gritty. Coming in off the sea brings fret rolling through the streets and makes him homesick, and the rumours of it ever coming from the direction of Dun Morogh and its snowy icy cool refreshing mountains sounds like a cruel rumour at this point.

Today there is no wind at all, and suddenly a platemail bikini is starting to sound like a good idea. Flynn's abandoned his duster and decided to take a brisk walk in a hope to generate his own breeze out of the still afternoon air, or at least find a frost mage he can pick a fight with. Instead his feet bring him to the old town and its crooked streets—and invariably past Shaw's home, thought Flynn's never actually caught him there. In fact, he's pretty sure he never leaves SI:7's barracks except to go and discreetly stab someone in a neighbouring territory.

He can't say he's noticed the wrought-iron gate before; it's tucked away down the side of the stone-brick building and under a trefoil arch. It's also ajar, which is by no means an invitation but more than enough to pique Flynn's curiosity beyond what is reasonable to resist.

It doesn't make a sound when he pushes it open. Flynn finds himself in a shady little garden, maybe twice as wide as he is tall, though past the shrubs that crowd the entrance, it looks to go a fair way back. The buildings either side are high enough that the sun must barely touch it, and it is blessedly cool between their walls. It smells mulchy and earthy and green.

A large ferny plant brushes his arm. Its curled fiddleheads are a striking acid yellow. He reaches out to touch one of them.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Flynn jerks his hand back, and turns to find Shaw, crouched over a mound of tiny purple flowers. He's picking the ones that haven't bloomed yet.

"Didn't take you for a gardener," Flynn says.

"It's more a practical consideration." Shaw pockets the buds as he rises to his feet. The sun might not touch him directly here, but the humidity has left his skin damp and his hair dark at the roots. "More convenient than going foraging when I need to refresh my poison supplies."

"Right." Flynn takes a judicious step back from the fern. "I suppose that one could do me some harm."

"They all can," Shaw says with far more satisfaction than Flynn is accustomed to hearing from him. He brushes the fiddlehead with a gloved finger; it slowly unfurls, droplets of moisture forming on its young fronds. Shaw catches some in a phial. "This one is adder's tongue. A slow-acting paralytic when it's concentrated, but even a weak dose will leave you unpleasantly numb."

"Bit like the liquor around here."

"I'll take your word for it." Shaw turns to a different corner of the garden, to a bed of ethereal golden flowers whose petals sway in invisible currents. "Dreaming glory," he says. "Its pollen induces a euphoric, delusional state."

"Sounds fun."

"Can be. It's also very much not a native specimen. The comedown is… unpredictable." Shaw deflects Flynn before he can get his nose in there and give them a good sniff.

There's a row of terracotta pots against the far wall, and Flynn recognises the glass-like vegetation of a fadeleaf plant. It catches the garden's dappled light and refracts it into rainbows. Pretty, but the damn stuff will send you blind if you do more than look at it. Next to that is some mageroyal, a notoriously vigorous emetic, and some viciously prickly briarthorn that looks like it could be weaponised without any poison involved at all.

In the far corner there's a small, decidedly stagnant pond. A cluster of ghost mushrooms cast their eerie blue glow over it, and loops of thick root break the surface like tiny sea monsters. Flynn hunkers down. There's movement in the depths, but not enough light to tell what's lurking in there. He dips his fingertips in the cool water and nods at the root instead. "How would this one off me?"

"It wouldn't," Shaw says after a moment. He crouches next to Flynn. "But it makes an effective nerve tonic."

Flynn's aware of how much Shaw is sharing here—not just about the tonic, but his garden as a whole. He could have chased Flynn out straight away, if he had a mind, and Flynn's glad he didn't. It's appealing to know something like this about him. "We all have our crutches, mate," he says.

A plant with vibrant red stalks and leaves so pale they're almost white trails over the water. He thinks he can see some berries in there; he goes to brush the leaves aside for a better look.

Shaw grabs his wrist. "Captain," he says, with a shake of his head.

"I should probably go before I do myself in, huh." Flynn offers him a sheepish grin.

"Please."

Shaw escorts him down the narrow path and back to the gate, and Flynn successfully keeps his hands to himself. He might like to give Shaw palpitations, but he's willing to admit that there are more rewarding and less personally imperilling ways to do so. The pavement outside is as hot as it was when Flynn arrived. It seeps through the soles of his boots and he breaks a sweat right away. Shaw takes one look at him, selects a flower growing just inside the wall, and hands it to him.

"Ah! I know this one," Flynn says as a cool flush works its way along his arm, raising goosebumps. Shaw must've known that he'd know, because he vanishes from whence he came before Flynn can say anything else. The gate squeaks closed behind him.

The flower is native to Kul Tiras: its large petals are aquamarine that deepen into violet at the center. Picking too many of them can give you frostbite if you aren't careful. Winter's kiss, they call it back home.