The TARDIS library is as good a place as any, the Eight Flesh supposes, as he applies wobble-fingers to the cravat around his throat.
It flutters to the floor, followed by the velvet sleeves of his greenish bluish coat.
His trousers… his stockings, too, are cast aside, into the safe from the smelt-pan pile.
He looks down at himself.
Lithe, fit. Slightly bony. Long Byronesque fingers. Well, they had been long, once… now they are a bit like stumps with nerves in.
His eyes move further down, finding melty Dali elbows; his legs are a Carrington landscape of colors one should never want to find on one’s body, should one be humanoid. The right complexion, he has found, is everything.
Calves line up where they ought, albeit full of holes.
His bum will melt a good dent into his big comfy chair soon, if he doesn’t do it now.
Yes. He must do it before his bum melts- else he’ll be a ruby-slippered Saruman singing a queer kind of opera from the wrong tower, and no one wants that. Even if that video WAS funny…
He digs those stump fingers against his chest, struggling numbly over his smoothish, light-hair dusted skin to find the locket he stole.
Toes are absent. Even the feet themselves dribble outward in waves through the smelt in the silvery pan at his feet.