My spores been growing by the day; my days been shining bright
Mateo's relationship with combs can be described in one word: sporadic. His curls are longer than they were when his fathers left Stormbreak, and no one has seen fit yet to tell him to get a haircut. It's probably because of the general growth spurt anyway - gone is the tiny child playing at the florist's next door. Mateo, at a glance, would appear to most as if he's the ripe old age of eleven, and he busies himself doodling in the margins of his book.
It isn't that the droning voice of the teacher is boring him (it is, but that doesn't make the lesson any less interesting) - it's just that he's certain he's read all of this before in a book he found. And so he's sketching out the herbs he's seen recently, growing in window pots alongside the Collegium; lavender leaves and peppermint, sage flowers and valerian root.
It's just as he's finished that a chime goes off, signalling the end of the class, and Mateo scoops his things up and unceremoniously into his bag, already halfway to his feet before he's even shrugged into his coat.
It isn't that the droning voice of the teacher is boring him (it is, but that doesn't make the lesson any less interesting) - it's just that he's certain he's read all of this before in a book he found. And so he's sketching out the herbs he's seen recently, growing in window pots alongside the Collegium; lavender leaves and peppermint, sage flowers and valerian root.
It's just as he's finished that a chime goes off, signalling the end of the class, and Mateo scoops his things up and unceremoniously into his bag, already halfway to his feet before he's even shrugged into his coat.
mateo!
