"Your Honor, while the defendant is suspended, perhaps he could use his Miracles to resurrect nine mice, perhaps of the plaintiff's choice. Mr. Malosloff wanted the mice to be Neutral Good - we could find some other person who would have similar ambitions, perhaps at a Sarenran temple, give them the mice in some deniable way, and let events play out as they may. The Abyss will have a chance of making their argument at some future soul-trial."

"Not a Sarenran temple! Malosloff wasn't actually doing a very good job of making the mice Neutral Good."

"They were affectionate, as animals go."

"Which means very little, when they don't actually have alignments. Malosloff had no concrete plans other than raising them like children, and obviously that doesn't work for children.

Also, I don't want them in reach of Sarenrae, or any other god who isn't Chaotic Evil. I know a perfect cleric of Lamashtu, how about that?"

"Malosloff was not Chaotic Evil. 

How about we keep them in the Boneyard with the babies?"

The judge and just about every other psychopomp in the room glare at him.

Excuse me, Your Honor, I have an idea.

"The Cantor in the gallery."

"It happens that Marra does not send visions, or choose Her clerics' spells, or grant Commune, etc. Within a Marran cult chapter, the mice would actually be unusually protected from divine inference. Malosloff was Lawful Evil, so it's fitting to give the mice another Lawful Evil host.

But if that's not Neutral enough, well Heaven was just arguing that I, a perfected outsider of Marra, had acted for Good, and you, demon, were just arguing that I had acted for Chaos, so I don't think you have any grounds to complain."

It's a overcast winter morning. Chunks of ice float down the river, echoing the logs in the summer.

The Marran encampment's magic shop has just opened.

A person oozes in, wearing a leather jacket that appears to have more life growing in it now than it did when the cow was alive.

"What do you want? The clerk will be here in a moment."

"Greetings on this foul morning, sister in perversion. In the name of the Pallid Princess, I give you, hm, the gift, hm, of vermin."

How many mice can you fit into a rotting badger skull? At least nine!

Squeak!

"I don't understand, uh -"

The person is gone.

(The drips on the floor are still there, already growing mold.)