@thebadtimewolf has stumbled upon the Lost Doctor...

It was quiet. Eerily quiet. The sort of quiet that rolled through a community with delicate fingers, making note of every crevice, every soul tucked safely away for the night, only to return with biting teeth with little to no warning. That was usually how the story went, he thought to himself, looking out onto the city below. Always when we least expect it.

His dominant hand, the right, fell to the hilt of his sword: one among them would not rest easy tonight, and he had chosen that mantle when he'd decided to guide these primitive people so many centuries ago (How many had passed since that day? He used to know that.)

They'd come far over the years: graduating from shelter in hollowed mountains to brick-and-mortar civilization. Still working on electricity and vaccines, but what was evolution without trial and error? Wasn't that what the Greats all said in that regard? Maybe...but something's wrong. Something he couldn't place.

The old doors and pathways rooting around his head had grown murky and dark, but he remembered basic history and this society he'd nurtured wasn't growing in the right direction. The jagged, angular buildings jutting up into the sky, the blueish-green fire lighting their homes--the language they spoke that didn't quite land as he remembered and the smoky sky swirling above in shades of midnight grey, and that was without listing off the way they'd physically evolved. He'd never met a gallifreyan whose eyes glowed in the dark.

A thin, hard line pressed into his mouth. He mumbled something in his native--sorry, in their native language, climbing down his perch. He dropped to the dusty roads on silent feet, the light armor he wore clacking together like wind chimes after a storm. That's a word for it, he thought bitterly, beginning the trek back to his own quarters. Ah well, he thought, trying as he always did to brush away his concerns. Every great planet underwent a period of hardship, did it not? Maybe he'd just...missed that history lesson.

It was when he'd gotten a couple of yards from his home (new home, current home, it would never be Home) that he stopped; instincts gathered from a life too long settling in. His own eyes scanned his surroundings now, sharp and keen despite the limited light--and then he saw it. A lone figure in the distance. His hand again fell to his hilt, but he didn't draw the blade, not yet. Not until he knew who (or what) he was up against. After all, he may not be the only one out for a stroll this evening (although hadn't he set up a curfew specifically to keep them all safe?)

"Halt," he said cautiously, the word framed in the echo of a northern accent. His step slowed, and a sliver of moonlight passed over him, illuminating his ghostly complexion: hollowed cheeks and dark circles under his eyes…eyes that glowed in the dark, though he'd be the first to deny it. “State your name and business."