Gutarriezknindracastorblyledgespillioth picks up his feet against the dismal mountain backdrop of curtaining peaks and weathered tyrant hills looming diminutively at his right.
To his left, the grey and winding path back to the Citadel. As he stares, it traipses away from him, through rough cables of dense shrubbery, a wall-thick hedge that had risen to the middle of a man in places, sewn through with the dangling occasions of abyssal blue weeds and the silvery crawl of glittering lichen.
He turns toward his destination, eyes ambling up a particular slope on a particularly flattened hill where the Shrine of the Pythia stands like a watchfire, the ephemeral tower of cloudy wood and vibrant stones forever out of the reach of children and fortune hunters. His fingers turn in the pockets of his travelling robe; it’s a nice robe, shifty and utile- it blends with the landscape using subtle fibers like tiny lenses made of thin carbon... at least that’s what the blue note he found in his pocket said.
The note sticks to his fingers even now...another one of those things... what did the man call them? Sticky notes. Post-its, even.
As he slides his way down a bank of fine grey blow and tiny cracked stones, his upper body rattles wetly.
A scraping sound.
Not long then, he muses, touching two fingertips to his chest; he shouldn’t breathe in too much of that dust. It isn’t really dust, you know. More like ashes, of Daleks, Time Lords... probably others.
The ten billion, perhaps? Best not to dwell on a phrase shrouded in mystery, he thinks, as he considers the dark, and weighs it against the pain which will surely well on the Doctor’s face if ever he should ask.