Eyes may gleam out of the dark, but how many of them have stared into the deeps of hell and laughed?
Marking his territory with a hard roll of strong, steady shoulders, Rassilon ventures deeper into the Hydrax’s innards, rubbing fingers against walls full of old, rotted ivy, traipsing carefully through floors touched with the dust of ancient, pallid mosses. As he journeys inward, he gathers flatly, at least he ought to provide the scuttling somethings lurking hither and about with a nice meal.
His foot trembles over a dusty, fragile, now-cracked object. He doesn’t have to look; he knows what it is, having been in wars where people lost various body parts often enough.
It’s the calcified remnant of a finger bone; the smallest finger, to be precise. This large, once ornate area is where the last vampires fell.
A sudden urge to break into song grips his guts.
He murmurs an old lullaby, softly at first, then belts it out madly, taking the Doctor’s examples to heart and finding his own voice inside the song.
He still sounds like a dullard, just like that night in the Other’s room, after his wife’s… demise, before they had… fallen out. Singing wasn’t his strongest point, and the Other had never missed an opportunity to tell him so, all the while trying so desperately to teach him the finer points while sitting on the man’s simple wooden bed.