"Why don't you fashion it a greeting?" he asked, sounding not unlike Tom Waits. Nabirius, swathed in the smoke of a brazier full of frankincense and myrrh examined the soul he held to the candlelight, his dark eyes squinting at the figure. "One of those greetings people send for occasions they wish to commemorate?"
"I concur." This was the left-most hound head.
The right head growled, a low rumble of approval or fury.
The tiny fellow writhed between the dog-headed price's thumb and forefinger before he flicked it to tumble into the pit of Hades.
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