Rassilon smiles. He had noticed the old man’s obscene lurching gait, even as Pasmodius had stalked his prey. “You stole my break-fast of blood, old man. Tell me,” He is attentive now, even anxious, but he dares not let it show. Things are becoming interesting after all. “Did you enjoy your kill?”
“Bah. Too stringy; all meat no brains. When I was young, we used to hunt Giant Tafelshrews in packs of three to six Cousins,” the codger mutters as he cleans his blade on the Terrorist’s gaudy green undershirt with a nod to Rassilon and a cracking back for his troubles. Then he sits himself down on one of the few benches which haven’t been overturned in the mass regeneration earlier and slumps with a satisfied harumph, perhaps wisting after a good cheese pie.
“He’s on about it again, my Lord Cardinal! Why don’t we give him a sedative and cart him to the Infirmary along with the Master so the rest of us can clean up?” says Kenny –whose fishnet-slashed sleeves hang just past his official robes, not to mention his arms, being a bit too long for him now- as he pats old Pasmo on the elbow.
But Pasmodius is already snoring.