Mateo
Late.
Mateo is late.
He's always late, but this time it's not even fashionable, even though he is when he appears. In a billowing white shirt and a ruddy waistcoat cinching in all the right places, he appears like some displaced sky pilot, a bag over his shoulder as he hurries out through the gates. "Hallo!" he calls, smiling brightly and drawing to a halt before the two women.
"Dispiace," he says in the travelling tongue. "I was waylaid." Or just laid - who is to tell, really?
Regardless, he's already kneeling down to open his bag of holding, carefull lifting out pots and trays and other flora; he's got snow moss and peppermint bark saplings, a variety of climbing roses and even some herbs (lavender, thyme and mint to name a few). "I did not want the blink hares to go without," he explains with a bashful, dimpled smile. "Where shall we start?"
Mateo is late.
He's always late, but this time it's not even fashionable, even though he is when he appears. In a billowing white shirt and a ruddy waistcoat cinching in all the right places, he appears like some displaced sky pilot, a bag over his shoulder as he hurries out through the gates. "Hallo!" he calls, smiling brightly and drawing to a halt before the two women.
"Dispiace," he says in the travelling tongue. "I was waylaid." Or just laid - who is to tell, really?
Regardless, he's already kneeling down to open his bag of holding, carefull lifting out pots and trays and other flora; he's got snow moss and peppermint bark saplings, a variety of climbing roses and even some herbs (lavender, thyme and mint to name a few). "I did not want the blink hares to go without," he explains with a bashful, dimpled smile. "Where shall we start?"
i've told you time and time again
i'm not as think as you drunk i am
i'm not as think as you drunk i am
