“I was about to come and fetch you...” Rassilon says softly, turning from where’s he’s been leaning on the TARDIS.
The Flesh Valeyard glares at Rassilon, then throws his elbows out in a grin of sinew, reaching up to pull on the dangling ends of his undone silk tie, a study in grey.
A shadow falls across them both then, climbing the snow drifts above them, an unexpected sundial.
A shadow in a flowing twist of robes... and a long... hooked...
Roda Palfour’s long bony bird-fingers conspire around the handle of a pulse pistol from the safety of his overlarge sleeves. He waves it at them, his lengthy bird-head cocking incongruously to the left, like a bobble-head doll, his sunken eyes more sunken than they had been.
The Flesh Valeyard feels a chill run over his spine; he hears himself say, “...Oh, Roda...” Then he sways, clutching his head.
Rassilon daren’t take a step toward him though, as Roda’s shadow crawls closer into the light, waving that tepid projectile. Not yet- there is a scene to be played out, here.
Roda pokes the gun in the Flesh Valeyard’s ribs; the man does nothing, being hunched over, his hands weaving a tight basket ‘round his head as though his temples are imploding. His cane flies out of his hand, falling and clunking some ten footsteps away.
“I notice, Time Lord, that your aged hand is caught in the hem of your shirt- surely you feel no pity for this murderous creature?” Roda quails dizzily, beating the Flesh Valeyard over the head with the pulse pistol before shoving the weapon into the man’s stomach and clicking back the last catch.