Predictably, a secret staircase ambles down into darkness.
“The trap door to the Hennal Bay Docks is just a little down here... my boy, just... try to keep up...” the Doctor gasps as he drags Kenny with the aid of the walls down the roundish tunnel, which dangles a plethora of old dead roots and strange stone figures of people with rounded heads.
Sweat spills from his hair, stinging his eyes with his own salt as he struggles along the narrow way.
Suddenly, a singular and damningly painful unpleasantness erupts along his left psoas, a uniquely unforgettable annoyance obviously originant in the non-extant Gallifreyan equivalent of the wolffian duct, as it bites at him with flailing nerve-ending fangs more relation to the blades of some sharp knife given leave to plunge into his back then mere mortal autonymous tissue.
“Kenny...” he murmurs, adjusting the man’s mostly unconscious body and hanging his mouth wide open to catch the most oxygen with each step as he breaths and moves, breathes and moves, breathes and moves toward the dim square of light falling down the steps at the end of the tunnel, “... I’m having a few minor pains, just a little bit of difficulty, just wanted to let you know! We’ll be at the trap door before you know it, just a few... more... steps, just a few... more... steps! Just... don’t regenerate... on me yet, I don’t... think I can... I think I can... I think!”
The tunnel’s egress looms closer, a right angle mouth of scornful pyrite teeth.