He nods, expression faintly thoughtful. "I have not heard of Arts given by gods before. Or...attunement. You do look very different from what Sunday described, however," he adds, matter of fact as always, not judgemental. He looks at her odd limbs, as if looking over a weather report instead of whole emanator limbs.

"That is a logical theory. My Arts are not from any god-like being. Terrans are simply born with them, at different aptitudes. Mine normally require channeling through a firearm, but there are factors...regardless. You are correct. It is unwise to attempt such a thing." The furrowed brow remains. There is a helplessness he's been forced to feel more and more as of late on this landship...

....ah. He has upset her. He did say he would tell her about Sunday. So he nods, reaching into one of his packs on his belt, pulling out...a. Sketchbook? It looks very handmade, and yet made with care, very well put together...(Dr. Ratio made it as a gift for him and I sob ok). He opens it, paging through sketches of that black haired woman from the memories before, some other sankta like him, a demon-like man in some gardens, a girl that may look foxian to Robin...he's not dwelling on those, though. He pages past sketches of Robin herself (limbs intact and normal and...happy. Content looking, as she sings.) and he stops on a sketch of Sunday. It looks like he's inspecting a small, singed flower in the sketch.

"The Sunday I know here is...kind. He prefers everything to be clean and in order, which is very logical." Yeah, you can see why this guy vibed with him. Autism to OCD communication- "He has...a desire for perfection, however, that I believe is often unobtainable. That tends to make him upset." An image flickers over their connection, again unbidden, now more vague. But it's this Sunday, writing out musical scores and crumpling them up again and again. An endless pursuit of something he can barely remember. "He...mentioned trying to achieve that perfection in his world. He seemed...conflicted on if it was good or not that he'd failed."

That faint memory shifts, and Sunday is much closer. There's warmth, as if the point of view is embracing him.

Federico pauses, thinking. "He has many questions similar to mine. About order, about laws. About...purpose, direction." He turns the page, and it's that woman from before, playing a cello. On the adjacent page, Sunday is playing a violin of similar make to that cello. "He has been more at ease lately. He played music recently. He is very skilled."

He looks up again. "He cares for you very much. A version of you, at least. He worries, and hopes...you're free. Are you free in your world, Robin?"