The Master cocks his head; now here was a party worth crashing. As he looks idly back and forth at the faces gathered for free food, games of Sepulchasm and the pursuit of argument before the promised Fall, he watches them all some more. He’s been watching them all day, rubbing a finger back and forth over the gold ring. One can never afford NOT to watch them. Any of them. They are Time Lords.
The first speaker, a white haired, young-faced man had, of course, been Kenny. Not so much an idiot at first glance as Pasmo, in any case. But Pasmo was of the House of Lineacrux, the senile old schemer. Even his hair has wrinkles, what little of it he has left. Long past due a regeneration, that one. But still- what had the Doctor said about his dealings with House Lineacrux during the War? Ah yes…’Never trust a senile old fool, because your throat is as likely to catch his dagger as his spittle.’
Hiding his amusement behind a glare only two women and the Doctor have ever enjoyed, the Master jumps down from the table, then jumps benches and chairs until he is standing right above the two bickering Time Lords Raspar and Kenny, balancing like a tightropist on the back of a chair in his red Converse.
The two men stand up; they haven’t counted on the Master being interested. In them, anyway.