No more prancing long dark wands of shade against the opposite walls, as the sound of soft, dejected walking taps toward him.
Before a minute passes, the man himself turns in an appearance, seeming to hover as he walks into the snow-light.
“Meh. I was making ice people. With my sonic. Is this what you’re reduced to, Dallyrasse? His royal nerdiness’s missive boy?” the Valeyard quips, before reaching down to furiously scrub his toes, “... I can’t.”
–feel my toes-
“I take it the nails are blue?” Rassilon murmurs, cocking his black haired head and blowing no his fingers demurely. “Your cheeks are a bit hollow, and your eyes seem darker. But I know better than to ask why. Of course you have a plan, so I won’t bother asking –that-. I have a message for you, by the way.”
“I can’t... I can’t seem to decide between grey or black,” the Valeyard breathes, pinching his lips in a vague pout as he holds up a derby of the aforementioned color in each hand.
Rassilon sighs, and brushes a hand through his hair. He smiles.
“Do you remember that time we were stranded in the Silver Devastation, during the First Campaign?” he chirps, patting the Valeyard on the leg. “Definitely the grey. It brings out your eyes.”
“Hrm, I see your point. And who could forget Them? Those damned priestesses pulled a rusted blaster on us, trying to force us to sleep with each other so they could watch- the dirty old bats... gods but they had been holed up in that rotted hovel too long! Oh my word. So. Funny. Do you remember what they called you when you finally relented and stripped for them? I do.” The Valeyard grins, rolling his eyes up into his head as his mind recalls the word. “Conqueror Worm. Hilarious.”