“That’s the Indso Tys...it looks like something Omega coughed up after he fell down the rabbit hole...” says the Flesh Valeyard, his neck craning painfully upward at the rise of brick and crystalline structure draped in ice now flickering like a ghostly rock candy on the TARDIS view screen.
Rassilon touches the Flesh Valeyard’s shoulder a moment, then clicks the button, shutting off the view.
“I believe,” he mutters demurely as he eyes the double doors at the entrance to the TARDIS, “... that the Captain is somewhere inside? Frozen, like one of those dairy treats with the stick in you ate a box of last night. I’ve never been here before; are you coming?”
But the space the Flesh Valeyard had been occupying near the console is empty.
A door to the right opens, and a mess of tan and grey fur traipses out and into the console room, bouncing jaggedly, like a dying balloon. Two pink fuzzy boots, one of which bears a large pom pom, poke out from the tall and swaying mass.
“What?” the Flesh Valeyard gripes from inside the hairy covering, “I’m not going out there again unless I’m reasonably assured that my toes won’t fall off.”
He goes to the doors, knocks once; the double entrance glides open and out, catching slightly as if the Old Girl is an old office lift instead of a time machine.