Rassilon walks in the ice covering Mnrva, striding toward the place of rendezvous. He thinks of Flamina, sleeping in the Doctor’s room in a queer blue pram dangling gold stars, lovingly tended by the hologram hands of a Victorian party girl in scruffy, scandalous blue.
He comes around a corner, shifting his weight from foot to foot in the manner of confident gait, his body tensing for the sights he might glimpse should he procure a premature glance at the solemn winter now dolloping most of the planet.
He places his feet again in the center of the street by a brick, following the compass needle lead of a twisting glass and brick thing far in the distance... the Indso Tys.
The window of a shop comes into view, drifting heavily between the dignified signage of a prominent carbonated soft drink facility- a green roundish building set into a square gold base, and the towering pyramidal modern glasswork of a once bustling escort service. That one’s sign is only partially-covered; it reads:
E . . . . . . T
. . . . I S T.
In the pass-through between them, a shadow plays along the lines of parking space, running thick, distorted fingers through the network of rows.
Rassilon picks up his pace, diverting his attention to this new presence as he begins to skirt the side street leading to the backs of the shops, crunching the ice underfoot, spraying frosty bits of snow in limp little spritzes.
“You know, I’ve a message for you, Valeyard,” he says to the shadow.
An abrupt end to the dancing figures, then.
No more prancing long dark wands of shade against the opposite walls, as the sound of soft, dejected walking taps toward him.
Before a minute passes, the man himself turns in an appearance, seeming to hover as he walks into the snow-light.
“Meh. I was making ice people. With my sonic. Is this what you’re reduced to, Dallyrasse? His royal nerdiness’s missive boy?” the Valeyard quips, before reaching down to furiously scrub his toes, “... I can’t.”
–feel my toes-
“I take it the nails are blue?” Rassilon murmurs, cocking his black haired head and blowing no his fingers demurely. “Your cheeks are a bit hollow, and your eyes seem darker. But I know better than to ask why. Of course you have a plan, so I won’t bother asking –that-. I have a message for you, by the way.”
“I can’t... I can’t seem to decide between grey or black,” the Valeyard breathes, pinching his lips in a vague pout as he holds up a derby of the aforementioned color in each hand.
Rassilon sighs, and brushes a hand through his hair. He smiles.
“Do you remember that time we were stranded in the Silver Devastation, during the First Campaign?” he chirps, patting the Valeyard on the leg. “Definitely the grey. It brings out your eyes.”
“Hrm, I see your point. And who could forget Them? Those damned priestesses pulled a rusted blaster on us, trying to force us to sleep with each other so they could watch- the dirty old bats... gods but they had been holed up in that rotted hovel too long! Oh my word. So. Funny. Do you remember what they called you when you finally relented and stripped for them? I do.” The Valeyard grins, rolling his eyes up into his head as his mind recalls the word. “Conqueror Worm. Hilarious.”
A hot blush spills over Rassilon’s features, coloring his face in cherry-chalk.
“Do not tell the Master, or I will steal every one of your hats and cast them into the Everlasting Fires of the Icy Void from whence your little problem comes,” Rassilon snarls, his face a mess of catshark teeth.
“Just hand me the bloody note, you wretched fool! I can’t take the suspense.”
The blue post-it exchanges hands.
The Valeyard fingers the dyed paper, soaking in the beloved color for a moment before reading the inscription aloud.
“He who makes the nostrils of whales and insects to open.”
“Oh for the love of Pete Tyler, how annoying...” he mutters, waving to Rassilon as he putters back toward the shop and his set out selection of suits, waving a foppish backhand, “...the grey it is. I’m thinking a nice stick as well... something with silver, so I can look dapper falling on my arse as I’m being eaten alive. Personally, I’d rather be sleeping with River right now, excepting that a good suit is ten times better than a good woman, and I’d rather be dressing for my last hurrah then spend it in bed with that midas-haired demon wench. Savvy?” He ascends the small stair leading to the shop, leaving the single glass door with its bruised gold etchings to creak closed by itself. His fingers open over the long antique brass handle, and...