As he recalls that bed, stooping to pick up the finger and crunch it to dust in his hand, there had been one blue pillow, with gold thread.
As he considers the thread of that pillow, a brightness beckons at the end of a dirty, darkening hall, swaying a light back and forth. He knows the way, but just the same, it’s nice to have a guide.
“Well, lead on,” he murmurs to the setting trap, “…somewhere the liquor’s getting cold, and I have a schedule to keep.”
So he follows to the end of the hall, the flickering lamp a post of illumination.
He reaches a large room.
The light, produced from an old style hanging lantern, temporarily extinguishes; in its place, a note drops to the floor. He picks it up.
It reads like a comical death notice, in a hand he knows well:
“Hello, Rassilon! Welcome to the bonus round. My old cloak is still clutched in the old bat’s cold, dead hand. Why don’t you come down here among my pets and find it?”
Rassilon grins. He slips his foot inside the handle of the lantern and kicks it out, so that the light flutters over the droning pit hidden beyond the cliff face.
Then he smiles on them all, all those stone faces, waiting.
Waiting for him. Waiting to devour the residue of his chronotic signature. And his would be a feast, indeed.