Rutile twists their neck around in Kit's direction when they hear footsteps, but the soft echo of his cursing in the hall draws a somber smile to their lips. When he emerges, they almost laugh.

"Fancy meeting you here."

"I should say the same," they say, clasping a lid onto a jar and screwing it shut. They tuck it into their coat pocket. "Are you fond of dark enclosed places, I wonder?"

But the smile disappears with Kit's reaction to the rest of the room. "I'm no expert," Rutile qualifies, "but I daresay the Narrakra wasn't gone long enough to show this kind of wear. I would almost suspect some sort of aging chemical or extreme exposure for the metal, but... " They crouch down and gingerly pick up an insect between their fingers, and drop it into another jar. "That wouldn't explain everything. Maybe parts of it."

Sour words from an encounter a few days back come unbidden to Rutile's mind, reminding them that they haven't the slightest right to make conjectures here. They fall silent.