Rassilon touches the skeleton’s dried up cheek, caresses a remnant of small chin, pats the fragile kneecap then draws back behind the table and pulls something up from the dark there, a silver slab bent in a number of places.
“Now this… he was keeping this in the deeps, away from me behind a string of teleports. It leads to his old study, I imagine. And what better means of surveying the landscape of the Self then a sentient Mirror? Such a vain man, the Other... and vanity is a weakness that must be kept in check. These baubles have absorbed his psychic energies, Cossie- the tincture I shall make with them will provide you with the breath to dance again!”
He sets the Mirror to the edge of the silver tub and slides it in, watching as it sinks.
“Now there is only one left, dear- the Violin. The instrument of Creation. I will play it for you now, and we shall watch my brew consume the vibrations of its song and complete itself.”
His fingers glide over the bow of the Violin, bringing a tiny bit of noise to the windy pedestals and crumbled stones, summoning a shadow of doom over the hidden temple of the last Pythia. Then he sets the Kaku Inko to his chin, nestles it, and begins to play.