Pita listens patiently to Fireant's critique of his bardic skills. He wondered what had gotten his friend's furry neck hairs up in arms -- so to speak.
He felt like he was living in a bad dream that needed waking. Poor Maryann murdered with all sorts of people rushing in to announce the obvious: that she was dead. Didn't the gasping, neck clutching, and death throes sort of give that away? He half expected Dr McCoy pop in and intone: "He's dead, Jim."
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