But there is a string of web trickling outside, a glowing blue line of Time like the spindly wet gleam off a dolphin’s back.
More useless words.
He is leaking fluid.
Time to run, on wobbly, distracted legs. There is a place he must reach… part of him is almost there… far away, in the place with rocks and upside-down things. Shiny trees, too.
Rassilon… that bubbles up from the cauldron of his memory like bones from an old pool of tar- he must reach Rassilon… yes. Rassilon is the man he must… reach.
Panting through the hot ice chipping at his spine and lower torso, he plants feet forward, on and on, slipping here and there on a wall, bloodying things- a table here, a person there, with a couple of wet handprints.
His toes baste the floor as his body drains still more blood down his legs, leaving a grisly thick, clot-strewn trail in his wake, like bread crumbs.
So much water along with all that blood… what the hell?
Swaying, he grabs a blank-faced woman in grey and throws her down to keep his balance, then ambles farther through the march of white hallways, stopping to rest against the silvery frame of a door only when his brainstem instinct buzzes –safe-. Something spurs him to raise his head, so he does.
There is a sign above some up-down stairs which reads:
It is the ascending stair he wants, so he ascends, weaving his slow way to the Teleporter Bay, bannister by blood-slick bannister.