Por Palfour, or, Capistrano
“I was about to come and fetch you...” Rassilon says softly, turning from where’s he’s been leaning on the TARDIS.
The Flesh Valeyard glares at Rassilon, then throws his elbows out in a grin of sinew, reaching up to pull on the dangling ends of his undone silk tie, a study in grey.
A shadow falls across them both then, climbing the snow drifts above them, an unexpected sundial.
A shadow in a flowing twist of robes... and a long... hooked...
Roda Palfour’s long bony bird-fingers conspire around the handle of a pulse pistol from the safety of his overlarge sleeves. He waves it at them, his lengthy bird-head cocking incongruously to the left, like a bobble-head doll, his sunken eyes more sunken than they had been.
The Flesh Valeyard feels a chill run over his spine; he hears himself say, “...Oh, Roda...” Then he sways, clutching his head.
Rassilon daren’t take a step toward him though, as Roda’s shadow crawls closer into the light, waving that tepid projectile. Not yet- there is a scene to be played out, here.
Roda pokes the gun in the Flesh Valeyard’s ribs; the man does nothing, being hunched over, his hands weaving a tight basket ‘round his head as though his temples are imploding. His cane flies out of his hand, falling and clunking some ten footsteps away.
“I notice, Time Lord, that your aged hand is caught in the hem of your shirt- surely you feel no pity for this murderous creature?” Roda quails dizzily, beating the Flesh Valeyard over the head with the pulse pistol before shoving the weapon into the man’s stomach and clicking back the last catch.
“Indeed. You fail...” Rassilon says, keeping hold of the hem of his shirt to which he has been clutching fast. He takes a step toward the monk, whose slender long bird-limbs are quivering under the weight of the bulky pistol, “...to ascertain one... vital fact.”
The bird monk sighs. The top and bottom of his long dry beak shiver apart, revealing rows of tiny egg-teeth and a dangling, equally querulous long tongue.
“And what is that, most ancient and revered Time Lord?” Roda pipes, caressing the Flesh Valeyard’s struggling upper body with the butt of the pistol and his free claw, tracing the pregnant man roughly, as some drawing made in a picture book with a chunk of charcoal. “I intend on leaving this place. The others are frozen; my contact... my contact has promised me death in a place far from the drone of the ancient dead sea I have guarded with my brethren. I am inclined to take him up on his offer.”
Then he smacks his long forearm front to back, raking the Flesh Valeyard’s knees into his elbow-y grasp and knocking the man down.
The Flesh Valeyard’s abused patellas hit the ground and thud, sliding wildly apart so that they slip him off-balance on the thick, sludgy ice. He coasts along a ways, glaring as his body follows its own momentum toward the direction his cane went earlier.
His fingers make a cracking sound beneath him.
Although, Rassilon notices with patient glee, they also seem to be curled around his cane.
If a man is going to do it, it should be now, at a moment like this.
“...I am not the Doctor.” Rassilon says simply, before reaching out with a bare hand and squeezing his fingers slowly together until his nails form the little pale mouth of a fist with a crooked thumb tongue.
The Flesh Valeyard’s eyes bulge out at the sound of the resultant damp krikkk, and he suddenly begins to smile at Rassilon’s advancing form, despite the groans he hears coming from his own dismal ache of a throat.
“Good to see you’ve come in out of the cold, as well...” Rassilon murmurs, offering a hand up and a steady shoulder as the Flesh Valeyard eyes Roda’s inert body, “... at least now all three of us can quit with suffering, for the moment. Do you remember the taste of my famous recipe for stuffed cat shark? He’s stringy and... not exactly seafood, but he’ll do.”
Then they gather themselves through the TARDIS entry, and the Lady is happy to shut her doors behind them.