A rustling of purple robes; Rassilon. Jack cops a smile as the canny old alien sidles up with the air of a general and the subtlety of a Chinese fishmonger – the Doctor’s words, according to the rather wrinkled Time Lord called Pasmodius; he’d cleared the halls of lurkers for them. Obviously Rassilon must have wanted Jack to hear him approach, hence the sound. Hence his presence at all. So, he wants information… or wants someone to think he does.
“How is he then? The same as before I imagine, but please- feel free to expound.”
The 50-year old face of a blue-eyed ancient war lord twinkles merrily, like an evil kitten while Jack tries vaguely not to blink as the Doctor’s many warnings about the Time Lords come to mind:
‘Don’t make nice unless they swear they don’t know me. I have that effect. Or better yet, don’t make nice at all; it saves on the arrangements later.’
So Jack grins like a shark all over, fully aware that his –teeth- are like plastic fangs compared to this man’s sharpened incisors.
“The Lord Doctor has warned you against us; I would expect nothing less of my very old friend. You said you had something for me?”