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Names were important. Maybe moreso in legend and lore, than what was considered today, but as he was now sporting something that was legend, lore, or fairytale, it seemed important to do something to reflect it. Quenton had sat at the window to his small place for all the morning, finding almost nothing available about Thraen, which left him with the rest of the title- of Gardens.

He didn't know a thing about gardening. He'd been to a few- beautiful sprawling historic ones that were half-parks anymore and belonged to historic sites or public lands in Paris, Exmoor, London, Kluj. Looking up what a garden was had been just as expansive as the miles he'd traveled on cheap trips. there were whole philosophies behind how they were laid out, what plants were chosen, where plants were put in to maximize growth and drainage. He hadn't expected it to be....well, such an art.

And he felt ashamed.

He needed to do something about it. To be....more what there was inside. In that private, glowing, wounded starseed in his chest. He felt like he was missing so much, lacking even the most basic of connections to that other name and other person- to Sailor Thraen. He wanted to start keeping some plants...a window box and pot-garden. So he'd looked up some greenhouses in the phonebook and took a chance. Ask the experts if you want to know what you should start with and how to take care of them.


So he giraffed along through the aisles of the expansive sea of chlorophyll, looking more grey and tatty than usual in his old clothes. Except for the flame of his eyes, lit with wonder and more than a little lost. He perked when he saw there was a person in an apron ahead. That probably meant that the small man either came here often or worked here. Quenton paused, considering as he watched from next to exotic mixed baskets nearest the misters, considering the pallor of cheeks and blonde against the vibrancy of the strange flower being admired. The white shirt looked crisp. He couldn't hold the image well in his mind, though, short-lived as a breath and then gone, capturable only in gestures with ink or pencil that he did not have and regretted.

So he dodged some hanging fuchsia baskets and softly called, "Excuse me? Do you work here?"

Not having exacts to answer with, looking at how proper the gent seemed- pristine in white like he was made of bleach despite working in dirt- Quenton felt more tatty than usual. "Well, honestly, that's the rub. I don't have an exact want for plants, just a general idea and hoped to ask the experts. "

"I don't know a thing about gardening, is the real answer. I've gotten some books, and read them, but those are all...generic. They are for vegetable gardens or greenhouses, and...I'm a beginner. They don't really talk about what are good starter....hardy plants. And! I saw there was...'urban gardening' - made for small spaces and no actual land in pots. I'd like to start and keep one. I can't imagine fancy ones like these, " he motioned admiring to the lobster claw, "Would do well for a windowsill and pot garden in a cramped studio. But I don't really know. "

"If you have the time to help, I'd be obliged...or to point me in a direction if you're busy. " He hesitated getting too close, as the guy was really lithe. Delicate even for how small he was. At 6'1", he didn't want to loom.

"Ah, " he took the man's hand first before answering questions, "Quenton. Quenton Marinus. I have time, I worked ahead as I could yesterday to leave time today especially for...trying to see about gardening. "

Hearing the man repeat the basics of what he'd said, concision, made him wince. His tendency toward being verbose apparently not wanted here. Talk of light and space he could give more exacts about, which was at least a little more comforting. Mr. Evans had seemed bromidic at first, even if he'd offered help professionally regardless. "The space I have is a wire stepped shelf, three tiers, in a roughly 3x1x3 space right under the window. It's nearly floor to ceiling, so it gets good light, and there's a ledge that could support a window box."

"Its a north facing window, so it gets cold morning light."

"I think...variety would be nice. Complementary scents and colours. It seems like just all flowers or all herbs would be asking for dissonance. I read that mint is really hardy in a warning section about plants that take over- mint, morning glory, rose of sharon...all saying to be careful about putting them in yards. I'm open, or really fishing, for suggestions."

" Most of what I own is in some stage of becoming a well-worn and ubiquitous grey, so some bright colour would be nice. Something gentle that fashions itself and is already sublime to admire for once instead of having to find the beauty to release it from stone. Oh, rock for substrate isn't an issue. I'm a sculptor, so I usually have at least a bag of granite chips, marble, soapstone or glass around that can be upcycled. " He lifted a hand- the anatomy- bones, tendons and muscles in his hands and forearms stark-defined and hard with calloused pads and slightly cracked cuticles. They looked like hands that shaped stone and metal even if the rest of him was narrow.

"So pokey plants are fine too, I doubt they'll make it through the weathering." Highly technical term there, pokey.

"Well, aspiring artist. Maybe when I'm dead someone can review my work and declare whether I was successful or not. Its hard not to hate a piece a month after its done. The important thing is to keep learning and moving forward with the craft, right?"

Quenton followed with ease, lightly haloing plants with his hand as the passed- like touching them might wilt or offend them. But his growing relaxation was plain, breathing deep and shoulders relaxing. It felt...right...the plastic and glass and framing black in silhouette above of greenhouse architecture. Amalgam of smells- flowers, fresh earth, greens and fronds mixing and whorled about. It felt like a walk he could have made thousands of times, and yet never had he before.

"The ceiling is 12 feet from the floor, but I don't mind vines if they want to train along I can put up some lattice for a headboard. I don't have one right now. but that takes time doesn't it? "

A piece of mine left clear implications that Mr. Evans did some sort of art, whether professional or otherwise.

"There's not much of a community outside of toy sculpts and 3d work anymore for sculpture, so I don't expect I'll get the benefit of the fickle Critics." His tone gave the title a capital C. "Occasional dedications of stuff like those cows and horses in crazy theme colors, not that I go in for that for my work. "

"What media do you work in? You don't have to answer, I just love the different perspectives and drives of artists. ' We are the music makers,: And we are the dreamers of dreams' "

Passing some of the vined plants he couldn't help a brief wry look, Oh yes, I know how they tangle. I'm often enough covered in passiflora. He wanted to request none of them, really, but that sort of specification with no others might be suspicious if the media or security cameras ever got footage of him. He'd just have to find a different excuse if they were suggested. "Well, I came specifically for a professional opinion.

Quenton puffed some of the deep purple Blue Hill variety of sage stalks and then some nearby lavender Yarrow. "The blues would look nice in north light. It's cold and brings out colour so well. Though some orange something might look nice with it."

"Mirror the dawn in all its splendor, soft-royal cloak containing fire of morn as he stretched out his fingers, arms, and then finally bears his crown out from the blankets of the Earth." He hadn't meant to wax poetic, but it seemed the best way to convey the thought.

"Expanding horizons into new courts is probably wise. I've found it helpful myself, since the exposure alone teaches new ways of thinking of problems. I can't paint for beans, myself, its just a travesty of pigment and a waste of good canvas. Imagine if lapis still had to be ground down for blue. I'd be kicked out of school."

"Didn't a lot of old UK garden designs use a lot of boxwood? It has a really distinct scent that's like all that combined- wet and foresty but fresh. And it makes nice hedges." You couldn't walk through them very well and they lent privacy to the meditations of old labyrinths,

"One of each. No use getting over-enthusiastic and then having no space for them all to enjoy." Looking at the relative shapes and colors he considered- the sage already had spears, and the yarrow rolling hills. "The second one...probably? It has a different shape, and the colour's just right. I won't have any butterflies indoors anyway. "

For as quiet as Mr. Evans seemed in general- not offering a lot of exposition and seeming comfortable in silences, he had a nice smile when he used it. Or perhaps when it happened. Being an observer from outside most circles, Quenton had gleaned that quiet people, since they weren't always putting on the ritz, usually wore neutral expressions until circumstance earned reaction. In a way it made it more precious, rare, and genuine feeling. Gardening and plants, at least, were a honest love of this worker. "Besides, I think I can more than trust your opinion and preferences."

"Do you think just regular pots? Or are their special planters? I've seen pictures of crazy GreenWalls, too, but they were huge and lots of grasses and broad leaves and little cactus-y water filled thick leaved things. " 'Succulent' was entirely out of his experience.