“Mateo. A pleasure to meet you, Sloane,” he says with a low bow of his head.
“Oh I do,” he grins. “I consider myself very lucky. I’ve lived a downright charmed life right from the start. I hope to keep it that way until I’m nice and old.” To achieve that, Mateo lived a simple life. He stayed away (to the best of his ability– curiosity was sometimes difficult to overcome) from strange magical islands, kept his nose out of trouble (except the harmless kind that brewed between fellow drunkards), and did not leave home much. He gandered the redhead could say the same for at least a few of those points, but has the wit to keep his mouth shut on this matter. He learned quickly in his youth that some women like to hear you say what you think of them right off the bat, but most… most definitely do not.
“Hmm, fucking squirrels.” Such language is unusual for the bard (failed bard. It’s a touchy subject.) but then again, Sloane is unusual company. And Mateo is the sort of man to intuitively mimic the personality and mannerisms of those around him. It is a nuanced trait we don’t have time to defend at the moment, although a defense does certainly exist. But it’s far easier to attack and list its potentially negative connotations: he’s desperately needy for approval and weak of character, to start.
But see, when he modifies his speech and mannerisms he’s not lying. He isn’t putting on a show. He simply… taps into a different perspective, takes it on completely. Mateo does hate those squirrels, well and truly, for they burned the one thing he loves almost as much as the sky, almost as much as life itself: the forest. He rustles his feathers like he’s ready for a fistfight. Fuck those squirrels.
The pegasus turns his attention back to the very tall mare. “Do, uh, do you mind if I stay a little while? Until the storm passes?” He supposes he ought to ask, if the island is really hers.
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