“Where… where is Rassilon?” asks Raskalin, cowering behind Pasmodius’ purples.
“Upstairs, downstairs, give a dog a stone…” says the Valeyard, eyeing the shivering masses, “It seems the father figure has left the building! Time to die.”
He play-lunges, directing hands and bodies in the opposite of his path as he swings himself wildly, his white eyes joying in the emanations of fear from the Time Lords around him.
The Valeyard Flesh raises his hand, as if to snap his long, squarish, whitish Flesh fingers together; then he rubs his chin instead, making sure to sink the tips a bit into his half-melted plastilina skin. He cocks his head to the side, then says, “Just kidding!” Then he smirks, grinning as the faces flinch and turn away at his every breath, like piles of blood-stuck feathers in front of a fan.
As he punches a symbol onto the Flesh-generated leather strap he’s just formed on his wrist and pats the pocket of his new Flesh-generated coat, he sings out merrily, “…it’s just no fun plucking sacrificial chicken anymore… in any case I think I’m turning vegan. Ciao ciao for now!”
Fitfully for those staring ahead at the empty space, he is soon gone to parts unknown, in a burst of displaced chronons.