A hot blush spills over Rassilon’s features, coloring his face in cherry-chalk.
“Do not tell the Master, or I will steal every one of your hats and cast them into the Everlasting Fires of the Icy Void from whence your little problem comes,” Rassilon snarls, his face a mess of catshark teeth.
“Just hand me the bloody note, you wretched fool! I can’t take the suspense.”
The blue post-it exchanges hands.
The Valeyard fingers the dyed paper, soaking in the beloved color for a moment before reading the inscription aloud.
“He who makes the nostrils of whales and insects to open.”
“Oh for the love of Pete Tyler, how annoying...” he mutters, waving to Rassilon as he putters back toward the shop and his set out selection of suits, waving a foppish backhand, “...the grey it is. I’m thinking a nice stick as well... something with silver, so I can look dapper falling on my arse as I’m being eaten alive. Personally, I’d rather be sleeping with River right now, excepting that a good suit is ten times better than a good woman, and I’d rather be dressing for my last hurrah then spend it in bed with that midas-haired demon wench. Savvy?” He ascends the small stair leading to the shop, leaving the single glass door with its bruised gold etchings to creak closed by itself. His fingers open over the long antique brass handle, and...