"Right." You rub your temple. "Yeah. That bench looks good. Were you smoking over there? You left your cigarettes... whatever." Maybe you should install an ashtray. "There really should be a tree over here. You can't have a bench without a tree over it. Why didn't we—?"

"You didn't want to duplicate the same tree multiple times, I recall."

"Right. Wait, I should get Gil on this. He's— he knows tree stuff. Sort of."

"He'll produce an edible one, if nothing else. But yes. Why not? Present the fruits of your labor, Charlie."

You bring in Gil, who stays far, far away from the lake, but who gamely helps with the trees. (He has to be beetles while he's thinking it through, though.) For good measure, you call up Earl, who hoots when he sees the lake and slaps your back hard enough you worry about falling in. And Anthea, who wants to know how you did it so fast, and ends up interviewing Richard on the topic.

It's an excellent time all around— even Richard seems to be in a good mood. (You thought he'd be mad about you changing his manse, but he probably can't remember building it.) Eventually, though, he nudges you and informs you that you've been unconscious— your body has been— for a good long while, and you ought to wake up and take a walk before you get sores. So you do.

Sores are the least of your issues. You awaken fine, but you feel trodden on, or like a wagon rolled you over, broke some bones, and jostled a couple joints loose. You were lying there for that long?

"No, Charlie." You startle. Richard is sitting in your desk chair. "Alterations."

"You could've warned me," you grumble. "Could you at least kill the—"

"Not mine, but yes. One moment." He shuts one eye and taps on the desk.

You lean your head back as the pain dampens, then sit back up abruptly. "Not yours? Whose?"

"Well, I don't know, Charlie. You did encounter the Wyrm directly, did you not?"

"I— oh my God, you're right. But it didn't... it didn't mutate me last time... do I look mutated?"

"No."

"Are you sure? If I go outside and there's screaming, I— ahh!" Your hands have drifted up to your scalp, where you've either been hit on the head in exactly the same place you were before, or you have honest-to-God horns. Okay, tiny ones. Nubs. But they're smooth, not fleshy, and hard like bone, and when you poke them you feel nothing. No nerves. "Richard! Are you seeing—"

"I can't see anything, Charlie. Your hair is in the way. I imagine they'll have to get rather tall before they become visible, given your..." He mimes scrunching something above his head.

(6/8?)