For a moment, Padparadscha occupies Rutile's thoughts: the countless hours of seeking the purest gems; of carving them, honing them, smoothing them; of hoping against hope, of accepting despair as a constant companion. A strange hollowness overtakes them. They push the thoughts away.

Instead, Rutile splays out their right hand and tugs at the tip of each finger, loosening the black glove until they can remove it entirely. They have not bothered to paint their hand with pigment, and the gold striations of rutile shine as they wiggle their fingers.

"These are quite delicate," they say, displaying the digits. "Stone is filled with weak points, and can be shattered if you hit it with the right force from the right angle. Pieces are lost, or stolen, or need to be replaced. That was my purpose, among similar tasks," they finish with a smile. "Find the right mineral, cut it to size, fix and replace anything that needed fixing or replacing. Among my kind, it is a medical practice. Here, my only patients are myself and Padparadscha."

Tongue in cheek, they add, "And I am not a good patient."