witchesreign | 00:03.

[ Now, generally, the Doctor really hates working in the open unless pressed for time, but his space is limited. His feet are propped up on a bench, and he lies with his back flat on the grass. Various papers lay strewn about him, and he's just tinkering away at the robot cat he's built with his sonic screwdriver. It's usual whirring sound is faintly audible from up to about five feet away, and almost buzzing by the time anyone gets within one foot of him. He's ditched his tweed jacket so he's just in a plain dress up shirt and his usual red suspenders (and red bowtie to match, thank you very much) while he lies on the ground. every now and then, however, he pauses and rubs his eyes, or pauses to breathe deeply. some normal people might take that as a sign of sickness. they might be right, this time. ]

... toxins? No, no, wouldn't make sense--unless I accidentally took aspirin. That... wouldn't be good. Ah, extremely very not good, if I took aspirin, but I doubt I did, would've felt it.

[ he sighs, before reaching beside him. there's a rather impressive stack of crepes beside him, and he pops one into his mouth as he goes back to working. well, he did learn how to cook in 18th century France. --no, er, 17th century. 20th, yes, that's right. One of those centuries. ]

00:03.

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