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The blue hound stared at the man of the notebook; gilded in the green garb left by his brother, with his corpus of notes by his belt, standing like an impish grasshopper before the azure one whose size could break the Nephillim. "Erouh, Rough Rough, Grr," he began. His oratory, of a few words, was only just enough to bring the forsaken sleuth to his knees. But to this wretched man, these were not only the calls of dogs; they were the voiced words from the hearing gift, the rare trait twixt him and his brother, from the foaming mouth of Thoth incarnate speaking to Peime-nte-rê, Shepherd of Men, his blood descended from the Syzygy-of-God-and-Wisdom's gift to a single slave, that his seed forever know of the secrets hidden in all things, a Tertönship that would repeat itself across the male bloodline – and the blessing of brother Pneumatics, of earthly Henosis. In his wrung ears he heard ringing like the snarls of wolves: "Where are the clues, Steven?" The feeble Adam-son fell to his knees in prostration to the archon.


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