The Master

Ok, this is where you tell me what a great job I am doing; what a terrible job I am doing; that you think my icons rock; that you think my icons suck; that you'd like to "steal" an icon; that you have some hot pictures of John Simm to share with me; that you'd like to plot with me; that you have a burning question about why the Master did such-and-such, or whether the Master would do such-and-such, in a plot; that you want to have my babies; that you want me to have your babies; that you are my biggest fan; that you are my worst enemy; the high points of charismatic sociopathy; and so on.

Anon is disabled but all comments are screened. This isn't a trap; I really want to know what you think (of my rping). I won't hate you if you're relatively kind, I promise.

Because why not.

Lost Muse. If found, please RUN.

Poking at the last known survivor of the Master Race

Forgive the overuse of italics, he's awfully incensed

Regarding the heatwave event at Amatomnes

Poking at the Metacrisis

Shaking off the dust

Title: Hello, Sweetie.
Author: Meeee (unfortunately)
Fandom: Doctor Who, set during "Silence in the Library" and "Forest of the Dead"
Characters: River Song, Tenth Doctor, the Master
Rating: PG
Summary: She never traveled with him in this body. There is no River Song. These are the places he's already been. With someone else.

Located here.

This is an in-game history and CR chart for the Master in Taxonomites, 8/2010-11/2010, RIP.

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This is an in-game history and CR chart for the Master in Anteceded, July-August 2010 RIP.

( Transmissions, Logs, and Chats )

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He had no way of knowing how long he had been in the dark; it was a funny thing, perhaps, but even a Time Lord must concede (as much as it might personally gall him) that death is timeless by its very nature. Still, he remembered everything.

When he awoke, groggily, the first thing he did was clap a hand to his neck, expecting a mark or a hole where the persistent memory of pain told him it should be. There was nothing. A ghost feeling. He blinked twice and sat up.

The room was dim, dusty and unused, and the small sink in the corner rattled ominously before spitting out water of some unsavory color, but there was comfort, egregiously tiny as it may be, in washing up as best he could. He surveyed his surroundings again. Besides the mattress he'd woken up on (and who had placed him there?) the room boasted nothing else.

He knew when he was, but not where. Or why. Not for the first time, he wondered if it might not be a prison.

The Master took panicked strides toward the door, fully expecting it not to open when he yanked on the handle roughly, and almost falling backwards when he was proven wrong.

A maze of hallways spread itself before him, each equally dim and dusty as the room behind. As the Master began to walk, it became obvious what he'd somehow known from the moment he opened the door. It wasn't a prison.

It was a ruin.

Hmmm. And one has to wonder where the Doctor is in all of this. Hiding in the TARDIS, like the coward he is? Aren't you meant to be the hero of this piece, Doctor? Saving everybody? You and your faithful companions? Isn't that what you live for?

Or perhaps you are, at this very moment, working on an absolutely brilliant plan which will inevitably culminate in blowing it all up? That does seem to be your modus operandi. Nothing a good cleansing fire won't fix, eh?