Rassilon taps his fingers on the console in front of them both, a horrid, dull thing of drab grey-blues and mismatched rows of raised cubical buttons and depressed bubble lights. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. “All the other cretins I vanquished are usually dead by now. Cretin.” His strong, nimble hand dips into the bag, draws out a fragile, dangling lump of breaded, curling claw, and pops it in his mouth, crunching on each digit with a deliberate leisure. “Yes, the bat does melt on the tongue. And the answer to my question would be?”
Koschei of Oakdown knows he is the Master, Great Lord President of all life upon this gorgeous, drowsy stolid little red rock, and all that lies beyond it. But the drowsy little rock won’t be drowsy for much longer. The documents secured by the Hand will prove invaluable to him in rooting out the worms. And as for the Doctor…
A snort from Rassilon in the plastic-y chair beside him, and the Master returns more of his attentions to the screen. “Do you think you could shut up for a minute? I’m busy calculating… things.” Snorting back at Rassilon, he crumples something small, blue and thin in his left hand, then swivels back to the screen.
Another snort, but this time a hand to the fall of shadow tucked below the prominent chin. Consideration, so blatant. What is in his mind?
“Lord Master, Lord Master, Lord Master- that was weak, even for you. I have not been a child for a very long while. Therefore, shall I be gracious and give you lessons on being an adult?”