Judging by his progress, it was easy to tell that Waka was no artist. While the instruments he was using managed to respond to his thoughts, his sketches of his friends and the celestials were a far cry from the artistry of those like Issun.
“…perhaps I should have stuck to the sculptures,” he murmured, paying no mind to his surroundings until he heard someone chatting away while hovering over his shoulder.
“…there are many moons throughout the universe, and across multiple worlds; I assume the same is true of the lunar realms to which they belong,” he said, wondering just who this person was.
“As for how they are connected, who knows? Perhaps it is a form of divine intervention, or the will of the gods, or something else entirely.” The questions reminded him of the ones many of his people asked with regards to their own origins.
“At the end of the day; does it really matter?” His people had all died off, save for himself and Kaguya, and he had a suspicion that other lunar civilizations in other worlds met the same fate.
Oh— Micolash blinked and looked down at the man sitting in front of him, as if seeing him for the first time as they responded to him. Marvelous how they seemed to know what he was thinking! Ah, but doesn't it always seem to be that way?
"Divine intervention...? Well I should hope so, lest all my work go to waste. I've made contact with them, and from your scent, I assume you have as well...?" He peered at the artistry they've created... well, smeared on the canvas. Oils bleeding together depicting... he tilted his head. Animals. White and red in colour, though still distinguishable. A boar, a rabbit, a snake, and most notably, a wolf.
“It does matter. To learn about them, to understand, is the key to growth. Evolution is what all life aims to do, is it not? To stagnate is just another form of death." Interestingly, paintings are likewise a stagnation, a portrait life in the moment; or worse, a memory, all of which then makes it a thing of the past, and yet...
As the stranger sets down his brush, something about the wet paint seems to move. Claws on the white tiger becoming more notably sharp. A sinister, crazed look upon the horses face stomping it's hooves against the fabric.
"... You know, my artistic friend. I'd hate to interrupt myself here, but is that normal?"