“Indeed. You fail...” Rassilon says, keeping hold of the hem of his shirt to which he has been clutching fast. He takes a step toward the monk, whose slender long bird-limbs are quivering under the weight of the bulky pistol, “...to ascertain one... vital fact.”
The bird monk sighs. The top and bottom of his long dry beak shiver apart, revealing rows of tiny egg-teeth and a dangling, equally querulous long tongue.
“And what is that, most ancient and revered Time Lord?” Roda pipes, caressing the Flesh Valeyard’s struggling upper body with the butt of the pistol and his free claw, tracing the pregnant man roughly, as some drawing made in a picture book with a chunk of charcoal. “I intend on leaving this place. The others are frozen; my contact... my contact has promised me death in a place far from the drone of the ancient dead sea I have guarded with my brethren. I am inclined to take him up on his offer.”
Then he smacks his long forearm front to back, raking the Flesh Valeyard’s knees into his elbow-y grasp and knocking the man down.
The Flesh Valeyard’s abused patellas hit the ground and thud, sliding wildly apart so that they slip him off-balance on the thick, sludgy ice. He coasts along a ways, glaring as his body follows its own momentum toward the direction his cane went earlier.
His fingers make a cracking sound beneath him.
Although, Rassilon notices with patient glee, they also seem to be curled around his cane.
If a man is going to do it, it should be now, at a moment like this.