I am no thing, not human, nothing, nothuman.

Rémi says this with a straight face, and when the bartender goes into the back room, I reach over the counter and pour myself another shot, my last for the night, to keep my hands otherwise occupied.

I exist solely as a messenger, he says. Pray to me as I sprint past you, jab you in the legs with my caduceus, then raise you up from your injuries as if I had no idea from whence they came.
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