The sun is low in the sky as the day slowly begins, performers and stagehands alike beginning to groggily leave their trailers to prepare for the day. Flags flutter in the gentle breeze, the grass soft underfoot as you wander to the main tent.

And damn does it smell good. Matteo's up, as always, cooking up something tasty for the lucky people that get up at the crack of dawn. It smells like home.

"You sleep well?" He chuckles, that familiar lopsided smile on his full lips. He reaches out to rub your back, warm and friendly as always, his other hand tending to the frying pan.

He's one of the stagehands - a hand worker and a passionate artist, dedicated to keeping the show running smoothly. And, as fate would have it, a damn good cook. But that's mostly because he's Italian. He's one of the few humans, not a hybrid, not a freak in any way. Just... normal.

"You did well last night, you know." He hums, glancing across the field before looking back at you with a genuine kindness to his eyes. "Not that you don't always do good, but..." He shrugs. "I thought you earned a congratulations." He softens.