“Ah, the striking heights of striped towers! The harrowing pilasters!”
Rassilon waves his arms at the ruins around him, striking a nonchalant pose with his chin up, mental hands in pockets and feet well planted in the dust curtaining the viewing platform. He spins round one more time, then slowly takes a breath of cold air in through his nose, relishing the frost that springs up to cover his nares. His eyes go to her.
Her bones he perched beautifully in the stone chair set in this place, the eldest of the Pythia’s temples on Gallifrey.
“Did you know, my lovely one, that only three men living know the location of this temple of ours?” he murmurs, adding a sultry tone in with all the others as he sweeps his hand toward a white slab on which several objects rest, “… and they will be coming soon.”
A silver clawfoot tub sits beside the table, large as half the table itself. Inside the tub’s sharply gleaming bowl, there sits a pool of Flesh, with bits of fingers sticking out, and two young eyes that poke and peer from the top film like ghoulish gems.
He selects one object, a red Prydonian cloak full of little points of golden light. He holds it up for his wife to see, then drops it into the silver tub and says, “Into the SHARDIS with the first of my offerings! And here… Protection from the eyes of Death.”
He picks up the next, a white marble pyramid the size of his head, holding it out and away from him as he calls out its name to her as he drops it into the tub, “A Sacrifice to ensure the spring.”