His hands, white hands.
The Doctor has done a bad thing.
White hands, soft hands.
Melting into clay.
Slowly now, the Flesh touches the beautiful crystals again, feeling their cold warmth seep into his bonelessness.
So far, so good.
No-one suspects the plan. Even the Master is in the dark.
And it –is- dark.
So dark now.
He pools himself in his white white hands, waiting for the inevitable.
Pour, and pool.
Pour… and pool.
Thirsty cracks pervade his once hard torso like drying pot clay, despite his increased fluidity in other areas; he does not have long.
Soon the Master will wake up. Koschei… he might try to stop this.
As he waves himself through hanging bushes toward the root dangling just out of reach, he sighs and stretches his dripping hand out, creating a boneless arm unchallenged by such silly laws as physics. The limb extends out like a sickle, curving until he can almost… wrap his… strange fingers around a… twist of translucent-veined pith.
A little more…