Rassilon frowns; a spark is ignited.
“Did you lose your child?” he asks, curving the outlines of his eyebrows at just the right height, so that even he may be considered a paragon of merciful concern, “I could look for her…”
Those words surprise him; he feels even the man jump a bit at the severity of his earnest.
Golden Ball Head shakes his orb at him; it’s piteous, somehow; piteous in the sense that somewhere on that golden bulb, there is a flash of metallic pity running circumferences away from the sun. Or toward it. And for whom?
“I am a Geldoracht- the spheres on our necks crack and sprout, feeding our offspring from within. As to your inquiry, there were instructions left with the Desk about leaving that room occupied, I believe; on the third level perhaps? I was here with my wife. I would have gone to see about it, but I…”
He shuffles off, leaving the Time Lord alone behind and again, in the narrow strait of ongoers.
Rassilon hears a gasp slip slightly aft and starboard as he takes a step.
He turns, blue eyes searching for the sheer height of the Geldoracht as a visual reference to how far he’s come from the nondescript lobby.
But the Geldoracht is kneeling on the ramp, his marble hands slack and supplicant. The golden ball atop his neck has a crack too; it reveals a whiteness.