“You must be tired. We will prepare a bed and food for you- but you should have come in the Flesh.” Roda murmurs, casting blue eyes across the green sea and its salty shore behind him.
The Doctor grins, blinks dusty eyes. Thinks and smiles and sighs for a moment or two. Shuffles his feet in the sea green dust. With a falsified yawn, he bows his rabbit head a little, but then it drifts back up again with a laugh on its lips.
“Ha, Roda, Roda, Roda. What gave us away?”
The bird-man smiles his long smile inside and outside of a toothless line, his features pulled slightly out of focus like a taffy denture.
“Your gait. You were stumbling, dear boy. Your choice of mechanism gave you to me, Oh Father of the Sand Before Her Wedding Day.”
The Doctor reaches down and shoves aside his long dust cloak, revealing the slim pronouncement of his pregnant belly.
Roda’s hands reach for the bulge, probing the air with gnarly digits, to press and curl and cup.
His smile dims a little, shortens a little, and the lines of his avian face draw in.
“Had you been able to arrive sooner, we might have glimpsed our Teacher’s face once more. As it is, please enter into the Monastery, and we will tend to you. Your friend with storm cloud eyes may come as well, I take it?”
Roda’s long arm unfolds like a space rigger’s rotary docking claw, so slowly. With it, the bird-man envelops the horizon in a curving line of sinew, the fingers of his long, long hand eventually growing outward and back, leaving one solid digit pointing sharp as a stick at Jack Harkness.