The man in the silver mask steps back from the great Rassilon, one foot behind the other as though performing some kind of renaissance walking dance.
His shoes are ankle boots and green; his blond hair falls in a pleasant cascade behind him, curling as he moves like the weights in a good cloak. His movements, Rassilon notes with a decided distaste, have the sickly-sweet grace of a masquerade performer. To say nothing of the ridiculous mask.
And oh, he reasons, behind his false amusement, this little upstart is going to be so much fun in the squashing. Can he even still take a proper joy in the snuffing of such a tiny little bug?
It is time to find out. He’s never been one for anything but chess. And he feels a reasonable degree of certainty that the descendant of the only man he’d ever deigned to play chess with is nowhere in sight. The ingrate.
“You know, it’s rather sad that the Doctor isn’t here to see you fall a second time, oh Great Lord Rassilon,” says the trespasser, his silver mask gleaming ridiculously as he takes a half-step forward and circles with the tip of his foil. “… there’s no accounting for taste in compatriots or enemies, is there?”
Rassilon stares at him, this mouse who thinks he is a cat, undecided whether to call him Romeo or Juliet. Or moron. That was the Master’s favorite at all the official assemblages… not that these poor, mentally amputated excuses for Time Lords could ever measure up to the great minds that had held the Pythia at bay in times of old. Ah, but for nostalgia. He relishes, to himself, the thought of finally discussing that meaningless passage with the Doctor, once the little idiot is back within reach.