“It’s obviously a warning from our little friends. Idiots. Never touch the free food. Anyway, just regenerate and you’ll all be dandy again- it’s just a slight dosing of aspirin cut with cyanide- meaning that some of your vital enzymes were inhibited. You all should be lucky I’m such a good boy now,” he says, clapping as the whole group gives a collective gasp, then regenerates almost at once in a rather appealing light show of golds and greens and blues and the occasional rainbow sparkler.
Gutarriezknindrakastorblyledgespillioth, with long blue hair now and green slashes of makeup like a Tromellian whore, is the first to come swaying up like a drunkard, bruising himself on overturned tables as he trips up the circular stairs to where the Master is standing. He coughs, and bits of gold light shove out in broken semaphore, looking for all the world as though he’s swallowed a torch.
“Lord President, should we inform the Doctor now, or when he arrives?” says Nemontiarla.
The Master scowls at her, because the regeneration has got rid of her lovely silver eyes and replaced them with red ones. She looks, he remarks to himself, quite like the Albino from the Shadow Proclamation(excepting the straight brown hair and the affinity for old books), only in the cheerful grey and silver of her Chapterhouse. Ah, good old, reliable, politically atrophied Dromieans. There is also, he notes as he takes in her dusty form and clothes, a spec of Caltreevian plaster from the ceiling motif in her hair.
So he grabs her by her silver-banded arms and kisses her hard.
“You’ve been doing some out of sequence mural work on the roof again,” he says, grinning as she blushed. “ … well keep at it. The Doctor will be thrilled. He has a thing for the hands-on approach.”