Prologue- The 11th Hour- 11 Pipers Piping
A wheezing groaning sound filled the main ball, vanquishing all other noises. Every note from an instrument, every spoken word, every sung chorus was swiftly drowned within its immense volume as the strange image came into view; fading and flickering, glowing and dimming, the picture appeared to flow into view wave by wave. It took a few moments for the picture to even become comprehensible, but once it did, it was unmistakable; a large, navy blue police box, approximately the size of a small arch or door way, branded with the pure white emblem of the "St John's Ambulance Service". 8 crystal lights shined from the walls, cutting through the haze, blinding all who stood too close.
A fumbling of keys and locks could be heard from the other size once the seemingly wooden machine had materialised completely. With one final click, mighty doors creaked open, and a lanky, raggedy man fell out, stumbling onto the ballroom. He scrambled to his feet like an excited puppy, his eyes wider than a child's mind. He rubbed his boney fingers along the edge of his silky smooth dickie bow, adjusting it until it was once again centred, parallel to his enormous, clean shaven chin. The Raggedy wan thrusted out his twig like arms, forcing his green-grey tweed jacket sleeves further up his arms, revealing an upside-down wrist watch. Raising the palm of his hand to his face, he monitored the time. "Late! Late again!!" He muttered with the voice of an imaginary friend. "I hope I haven't missed the dancing...don't tell me I've missed the dancing!".
The Time Lord known as the Doctor whipped the long strands of his midnight black hair from his eyes as he turned to face the crowd, many of which who were already facing him, no doubt due to his dramatic entrance. "Oh! Hello! I'm the Doctor. Sorry I'm late, I had a little trouble with the space-time visualiser; in my attempts to recalibrate the old girl I may have accidentally pressed a few big red buttons I should have and well...I may have invented a new species of bulldog." He was only greeted by an ocean of blank stares. "Tough crowd, huh? Alright, suit yourselves. I'm going to go back to the dancing...."
Regardless of the songs playing, the Doctor ran onto the dance floor, arms flailing like a child approaching an ice-cream van. Once his pointed leaver shoes came into contact with the floorboards, everything changed. His lanky wrists were thrusted into the air, and began to spin them with a propellor-like motion. This was, of course, his signature dance move, made infamous throughout the galaxies by his incredible skill and creativity. The Drunk Giraffe- A Wisdom of his own creation.
He continued to express this array of hand actions and cheering until a something strange caught his eye; the argument going on between the
red headed man and the Prinnie. Without any care for his own safety and without any tact or finesse, the Raggedy Doctor approached the duo. Oh, how he envied the man; of course, he had no desire for the man's aggressive nature or brash instincts, however, he had taken a rather strong liking to his hair. In all of the traveller's lives and regenerations, not once had the Tine Lord been blessed by even one line strand of red or ginger hair, and how it irritated him. With 12 differs faces under his belt, you would expect at least of them to be a red head.
Only paces away from the instigator, the Doctor froze, realising something rather important; he was without a costume! He slammed the palm of his hand against his forehead again and again. "Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! That's what I get for skip reading the memo!!" But he, of course, had a fix for this situation; it was neither glamorous nor subtle, but, at the end of the day, neither of those things were his style anyway. He reached into his tweed jacket, removing a large, red fez, one he had stolen from a museum mannequin in a time gone by. How he had managed to fit such a conspicuous item into such a small pocket would have baffled many, but it did not do so for the Doctor; all he was focused on was how 'cool' his fez looked.
He continued to update is so called 'costume' by pulling a pair of thick, foggy spectacles from the same part of his jacket. Unable to see through the haze of the glass, the TimeLord lowered the accessory onto the tip of his long, sharp nose, adjusting then until they were perfectly horizontal. These glasses, of course, also had their own quirky story to go with them; they had once belonged to Winston Churchill himself, and had been supplied to him in exchange for taking the war leader with him on a trip to Ahkaten...what a day that had been.
The final part of his costume was by far the most ludicrous. Running into the corner of the room, the Traveller grabbed an abandoned mop from a wooden bucket and raised it over his shoulder, like a First World War rifleman. The putrid water rained over the flor behind him, dowsing several guests with the filth of the cleaning utensil. "Yes! A mop, a fez, foggy glasses!! Brilliant! Now...where was I...." Returning to the arguing duo, the Doctor threw his arms around them, grinning from ear to ear. "Hello there, I'm the Doctor, and I'm wearing a fez!" He used his free fingers to point to his hatted head, sniggering like a school boy as he did so. "Any problems here?"
