"Now there was a young boy of Rassilon, who lived high on Gallifrey. And his parents and brothers and sisters and uncles never ceased to pray. For this boy he snickled and snackled and cackled, and never stopped for a thought. Until that day his closest ones decided on a lesson to be taught.
'Now beware the ones of Shakri, who'll take the tempered one. And who'll strip him and strap him and kick him and trap him until there's no bone left when it's done.'
But the boy did not heed to such ridiculous talk, and took off into the night. He laughed and ran and hit and squawk, thinking that this was all right.
But the boy was a foolish and fearless one, for he did not heed the words. For the Shakri take those who misbehave for "fun", and those who displease the Time Lords.
'Now beware the ones of Shakri, who'll take the tempered one. And who'll strip him and strap him and kick him and trap him until there's no bone left when it's done.' "
The mother closed the book, and kissed her son on the head. But this boy had too much passion, too much love for adventure. Every day he'd spend hours, dashing around the Citadel with feverish curiosity.
He flicked the bed-cloths off of his already-dressed legs and opened his viewing-space, slipping outside. The air was cold and terrifyingly uneasy, like a floating block of armed ice. It was otherwise deserted, like the towns of the victims of the Angels of legend.
His mother had always used the myth of the Shakri to keep him from wandering off, or stealing, or being rude. He'd always regarded them to be pure poppycock, an invention by desperate parents to control their wayward offspring.
Ahead of him lay the never-ending mountains of Solace and Solitude, whose silver-leaved forests shone beautifully in the distant, seemingly never-coming morning light. He'd never been there, and never planned to.
He jumped. Had there been...surely not...how? He swore there had been a breath on his neck. Like a icy dagger, mockingly sliding over his flesh. He turned sharply, but there wasn't even a faint breeze or a rustle of slight litter.
Dismissing this to be over-reaction, he continued wearily.
He halted a second time. There had been a shape, a hunched over figure, he swore. To his right. He looked back but found nothing, and despite being scared, continued on.
Suddenly a wind perked up, sending shivers down his spine.
He halted the third time, and this time for good reason. For in front of him stood a robed figure, whose hands turned slightly, as if plucking a harp. The Figure was chuckling, laughing at the boy's curiosity.
The boy tried to run, but the fear and aura spitting from the Figure held him in place. He tried to call out but nothing escaped his lips. The Figure walked at him, reaching out its gnarled fingers...
The mother checked in on her boy the next morning, and found him face down. She went to wake him, and pulled over the covers. But what was there was enough to make her collapse in terror.
For there was nought but his head, its mouth and nose replaced by an over-arching circular hole. Yet his eyes darted, back and forth, terrified. This was how he would stay forever. This is the price for disregarding.
'Now beware the ones of Shakri, who'll take the tempered one. And who'll strip him and strap him and kick him and trap him until there's no bone left when it's done.'