Wrathion sighs at the I don't know how much of a tea can be made from one flower answer, ready to wade back in and see if he can spot another, but then Anduin is rubbing a gloved hand along his arm.

'Not at the risk of you' -- isn't that a familiar sentiment? He wonders if Anduin is self-aware of that, of being on the opposite side of this again now.

"I doubt it would kill me," says, glancing back at the river with a shiver, "but I cannot call it a pleasant experience."

The drop to his body temperature is far from enjoyable, given how high it normally is.