He stares at her.
Sweet Tempus, she is downright terrifying with those hair-thingies pointed at him and that ice-water stare. Some people were into being scared, they enjoyed the thrill of it. Mateo was not one of those people. Quite the opposite, in fact. Danger made him feel afraid. Pain made him feel... well, pain.
"Those are poisonous," she says, like it's an answer to his question. Dead serious. "I knew that," he says with a bold smile-- they would both know this was a lie, but one she couldn't prove. He surreptitiously steps to the side, away from the mushrooms and no closer or farther from the mare.
"Would you, ah, put those down please? I'm too young to die by hair accessory." He actually was a reasonable age to die an unusual and unexpected death, but he didn't think she would know that. Mateo had the gift (curse) of youth-- he didn't look half his age. His voice even cracks a bit at the word die, and while he would later claim this was all done on purpose, for dramatic effect and to emphasize his youth and, by extension, innocence-- there was nothing intentional about it at all. Just a pure, unhinged fear of death, twisting in his throat at just the most inopportune time.
He clears his throat. "Please? My name's Mateo." His voice smells like sun-baked earth and feels like fat white lily petals brushed across her cheek. Colors flare at the edge of their vision at the mention of his name, Mateo. It's magic, flexing its long fingers through him. A headache begins to flare at his temples. He wasn't good at controlling it. He wasn't good at much of anything at all, if he thought about it. Which he didn't, because he never liked the conclusions he came to.
"I'm a scribe, for gods' sakes. Never hurt a..." Mateo was a decent liar, but even he did not have the spunk to say fly. "Anyone."
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