The monks spring back as he shoves himself up and off the litter, but he wobbles against the wall just as his feet touch the floor, recoiling from the cold he finds there.
He leans dizzily, hopping from one foot to the other as the bird-headed pair of ascetics keep their beady little eyes on him, turning his entire lithe frame inside out with their odd little faces in their odd little skulls. The Doctor had enjoyed their company of course, but the Valeyard finds them rather crass and annoying.
“Uhn. Just catching my breath. Don’t you have somewhere to be, something to chant, you understuffed turkeys?” His breath chills, catching the air in a huff of white frost that sprays a foot out from him, then dissipates like fine dust. “Brrr! It’s cold in here! Isn’t it? Can’t you feel that?”
His widening green eyes flare open, flicking from face to face in the dark of the room.
The monks, easy in their black and tan hoods and cowled robes, merely gaze at one another, as though evaluating him for a mental assessment. Stupid birds. Stupid, stupid birds. They’ll be first on the menu, once he’s out of here. He ought to invite the Master for a pic-a-nic…