His breath catches when the near unbearable pressure only increases, the multicolored eyes bearing down on him, filling his vision. It's...not easy to make an Executor, Laterano's newly canonized saint, feel like insignificant prey being stared down by an enraged fowl-beast (bird).
Something large and angry weighs down on his senses, something much bigger than either of them. It feels like the Will of The Law almost, which is...how is that possible? Here?? His hand grips the handle of his patron firearm, tight in preparation, to steady the shake in his hand, to keep his knees from buckling under the weight, the pain cranking up in his mind to near unbearable levels-
Is this...truly the soft spoken, lively, kind sister Sunday spoke of...?
She steps back, the eyes closing, releasing him. He lets out a shuddering breath, his grip still tight on his shotgun.
"Nearly a month. If...your months are classified in the same manner as Terra's." And it's...curious. He doesn't really notice this, but when he speaks the name of his home-world, images slip unbidden over their painful connection. A bright city, with some sort of angelic statue in the distance. A field of flowers, with a woman standing in their midst, her hair long and black, her smile patient and sad as she stares down the barrel of a shotgun pointed at her. A small garden in a mobile monastery, burnt, a statue broken, a man, a gardener, dying in the statue's arms, not from Federico's actions, but from his own choice. Moving cities, never still, all to outrun constant calamities that beset this world...
None of these images match with what Robin would know of Penacony. Nor any world she may have visited or heard of. All true and very real for him, but it's up to her how she takes it all. He nods, patient, calm in every way except for the still tight grip on his weapon. He still feels pain, a threat, from her. That's...confusing, to feel threatened by someone connected to a man he so deeply trusts.
"I last saw him about a day ago, at a 'dance party' held on this landship. He was well." Another image; Sunday, smiling, almost sheepish even, as he fights to keep his wings from covering up his face, an ivory violin in hand. He looks just a bit disheveled, yet happy. More at ease than he'd probably ever looked in Robin's world.
"I can hear him now too." Opening his halo up more to listen for Sunday's frequencies hurts with Robin's own abrasive, tumultuous "song" crashing against him. He's...somewhere that way. Federico watches the woman stumble, nearly falling. His grip loosens on his patron firearm.
"I will describe him for you. It is possible that the Sunday I know is different from the one you know. Perhaps while we walk?" He offers his arm, still standing a distance from her. Non-threatening, leaving the choice to take his support fully up to her.
YIPPEE I mean thanks ma'am
Something large and angry weighs down on his senses, something much bigger than either of them. It feels like the Will of The Law almost, which is...how is that possible? Here?? His hand grips the handle of his patron firearm, tight in preparation, to steady the shake in his hand, to keep his knees from buckling under the weight, the pain cranking up in his mind to near unbearable levels-
Is this...truly the soft spoken, lively, kind sister Sunday spoke of...?
She steps back, the eyes closing, releasing him. He lets out a shuddering breath, his grip still tight on his shotgun.
"Nearly a month. If...your months are classified in the same manner as Terra's." And it's...curious. He doesn't really notice this, but when he speaks the name of his home-world, images slip unbidden over their painful connection. A bright city, with some sort of angelic statue in the distance. A field of flowers, with a woman standing in their midst, her hair long and black, her smile patient and sad as she stares down the barrel of a shotgun pointed at her. A small garden in a mobile monastery, burnt, a statue broken, a man, a gardener, dying in the statue's arms, not from Federico's actions, but from his own choice. Moving cities, never still, all to outrun constant calamities that beset this world...
None of these images match with what Robin would know of Penacony. Nor any world she may have visited or heard of. All true and very real for him, but it's up to her how she takes it all. He nods, patient, calm in every way except for the still tight grip on his weapon. He still feels pain, a threat, from her. That's...confusing, to feel threatened by someone connected to a man he so deeply trusts.
"I last saw him about a day ago, at a 'dance party' held on this landship. He was well." Another image; Sunday, smiling, almost sheepish even, as he fights to keep his wings from covering up his face, an ivory violin in hand. He looks just a bit disheveled, yet happy. More at ease than he'd probably ever looked in Robin's world.
"I can hear him now too." Opening his halo up more to listen for Sunday's frequencies hurts with Robin's own abrasive, tumultuous "song" crashing against him. He's...somewhere that way. Federico watches the woman stumble, nearly falling. His grip loosens on his patron firearm.
"I will describe him for you. It is possible that the Sunday I know is different from the one you know. Perhaps while we walk?" He offers his arm, still standing a distance from her. Non-threatening, leaving the choice to take his support fully up to her.