If there is a noticeable difference between the remaining powder that still coats Antarcticite's limbs and face, and the substance that adheres to Padparadscha's body, Antarcticite can't discern it. They nevertheless peer with keen curiosity at Padparadscha's arm; some relief wells up inside of them. It will be good, they suppose, to have this sorted such that they won't have to worry about it as much going forward... and not to have yet another immediate reminder of the dramatic change that has transformed their existence.

"I don't mind leaving," they volunteer, then look awkwardly around for their clothes again. "If, ah, I can find what happened to my uniform..."

"It isn't dry yet," an Erol'an tells them apologetically, returning with the folded garment in her hands. "Not completely, at any rate. You're sure you won't be too cold from the damp?"

Too cold? Antarcticite tries not to snort and sneaks a hand out of their towel to pluck up their uniform. "I'll be fine, thank you."