‘Claris’ Claristellaniktilineacruxellavanjee takes off his helmet, breathes, then applies his knuckled and gloved fist to Her door.
Soon, the demure, unassuming portal slides open, followed by the whizz-by presence of a large tibia recently gnawed.
“Clarence, come here,” waves a grey, leathery voice some would argue had the consistency of hot needles, “...what news did you bring me?”
Claris sighs, then pitches his find into her room, head first.
The Doctor feels the smushing singe of carpet burn slough off half his face as he hits the floor, arms around his stomach.
A squeal erupts from the Pythia’s blackened mouth, like a little dog being squeezed.
“Oh, and what is this? Clarence, you have brought me my dance partner!” she beams, cutting a predatory circle around the Doctor, her naked black feet decorated in ankle-bracers strung with the long and tiny skulls of several unfortunate tafelshrews.
The Doctor’s eyes flirt with the macabre ankle decorations, tensing for an opening as the Pythia leans down to unbutton his nice white shirt.
“Hello, darling. How was Jersey?” he murmurs, applying a grin in her general direction and adding just a touch of forehead crease for the requisite lemon slice.
While his brain concentrates on the box sitting on the Sepulchasm table behind her, his face remains focused on hers. Waiting. Not daring to enjoy the moment until it actually comes.
“Are you thinking of making for it?” the Pythia asks, puffing out her bottom lip as she presses a foot to his naked stomach and leans into his flesh.