Rassilon walks in the ice covering Mnrva, striding toward the place of rendezvous. He thinks of Flamina, sleeping in the Doctor’s room in a queer blue pram dangling gold stars, lovingly tended by the hologram hands of a Victorian party girl in scruffy, scandalous blue.
He comes around a corner, shifting his weight from foot to foot in the manner of confident gait, his body tensing for the sights he might glimpse should he procure a premature glance at the solemn winter now dolloping most of the planet.
He places his feet again in the center of the street by a brick, following the compass needle lead of a twisting glass and brick thing far in the distance... the Indso Tys.
The window of a shop comes into view, drifting heavily between the dignified signage of a prominent carbonated soft drink facility- a green roundish building set into a square gold base, and the towering pyramidal modern glasswork of a once bustling escort service. That one’s sign is only partially-covered; it reads:
E . . . . . . T
. . . . I S T.
In the pass-through between them, a shadow plays along the lines of parking space, running thick, distorted fingers through the network of rows.
Rassilon picks up his pace, diverting his attention to this new presence as he begins to skirt the side street leading to the backs of the shops, crunching the ice underfoot, spraying frosty bits of snow in limp little spritzes.
“You know, I’ve a message for you, Valeyard,” he says to the shadow.
An abrupt end to the dancing figures, then.