It was a week before I was allowed to leave my room, the steward was kinder than usual. He tends to be a little rough around the edges, all professional but it seems that my near-death encounter warranted some love. “If at your permission I will let Wayward Jorgonzilrye know you will attend breakfast.” So, his speaking habits had not changed, but the fluctuations in his voice were a little more inviting? I may just be imagining it. I was out of bed and ready before he even gave me the all clear to do so.

Walking to the dining room I began to look all around me, most of the place was underground but I still had not gotten a good look. I have been so exhausted most days to really look at my surroundings. Everything was stone bricks with large wooden support beams holding everything in check. As far as I could tell, there were about ten different living quarters, a dining room, a kitchen, a lounge room, and the study which had nearly a hundred books and of course the three desks. There were two wings to this place, the living quarters and the general use in the other. Everything was basic, some furnishings were expensive looking, while others were the bare minimum. Everything in here were clashing with each other. Safe to say, it was an ugly place, but it was also comforting.

Reaching the dining room, the old man stood from his seat and pulled my chair out. He hadn’t done this before, and it was a shot in my pride. Had he thought lesser of me now? No, silly I am just hurt, and he is worried. Pushing it aside I thanked him. With a warm smile he nodded and sat down.

“How is your morning? Any pain?”

There was some pain, especially when I moved. I was not going to tell him that though, “No, thank you though.” He nodded and then I looked at my pile of food. The steward was a man of very few needs, taste being nonexistent. His food had not tasted bad, but it didn’t taste good either. Each food he prepared he somehow drained it of all flavors and made it well, uninviting. The old man seemed to not bother and ate every scrap each time. But now almost finishing a third month here, I really wanted something juicy and savory. Taking a bite having some hope that the steward was indeed taking a liking to me and showing it in his food, I shrunk a little. The old man laughed at my expense, must have been plain by my expressions what I was feeling.

I have become used to using only one arm for many tasks, my tentacles being a bit unruly for many tasks that I had to perform. Eating with one hand my other rested I my lap, this prompted the old man to speak. “I see you still lack the proper control over that?” He gestured towards my tentacles for a hand. I nodded as he continued, “It is fine, it was your first-time transmuting. You think you can walk so we can get you changed back?” I had been waiting for this. How much I began to love this thing for a hand, mainly because it saved my life, I had wanted my hand back. I haven’t told the others yet, but sometimes I can feel irritated for no reason more often. I can get a surge of anger when the pain radiates upward. I was just plain more irritable, and I knew it, must be the use of the magic.

“Yes!” I nearly yelled in excitement then spoke quieter, “Sorry, I mean yes.” He only laughed; I take it he understood the need to return back to normal. Well, as normal as I can get. I was getting worried that I would not be able to get my hand perfectly back in order. Well, the old man did say that we strive to get mostly correct. I won't be getting my original hand back, but I would get it as close as I could.

“After we eat, I will escort you out and we shall perform the task.” He looked at me to get confirmation from, I nodded. “Good, the steward will go ahead of us and make sure the area is safe. Some beasts have exceptional sense of smell, and I don’t doubt that you will reopen your wounds. Sadly, we do need to change you back, we don’t want you forgetting your original state if we can help it.”

We finally arrived back at the same clearing I was at last time. Sitting I started to enter my meditation state, it had become easier over the week being able to enter and leave at will. IT almost felt like I knew what was going on around me, but I was able to acknowledge it or not as needed. It would not distract me as easily and I began to learn. Looking at the tentacles I already knew what changes I wanted, I have been thinking about it all week. With amazing speed, I began to work. Pulling the magic in, pouring it into my tentacles I started to mold and reshape them, balling it up then making five digits. I pressed every wrinkle I could remember, I then paused. Do scars actually matter? I had a few scars on my hands from various reasons but not thinking about it, the steward and the old man lacked any scar that I could see. Deciding to leave out the scars would be a test, then I could fix the scars on my legs when it heals. I was not become self-conscious of them, but they still looked ugly, and it twisted my stomach when I looked at them.

The underlying tissue was harder, I had to do different layers of skin, muscle and rewire all the blood vessels I could remember. As I worked, I could see the differences from my memory and what I had been sculpting. I knew what needed fixing, but every time I would try and fix it, it would just be wrong, and I knew it. This reminded me of when a stonemason got frustrated at his work at the town’s center because it would not reflect what he imagined. Before I thought why not just complete the task, he had the skill and the ideas in his head to work with. Now doing what essentially was sculpting, I knew why. It was not a lack of skill, but the mind twists images and changes slightly making it harder to reflect that. Accepting that I would not get it perfect I opened my eyes.

What I already noticed was an improvement to my behavior. I was already no longer foggy in the head, which I had not even noticed. Looking at my hand I saw, my hand. It actually looked the same, every crease, every freckle, but lacked any scar. Regretting removing the scars now I looked at it, but now I know I could do it. Well, I think I could, it might be too small of a change to really affect me. “I noticed no scars on you so far. Do they matter?” I decided to just ask instead of wracking my brain about it. I did have a mentor for a reason.

“Kind of, if you think the scar is a part of you then yes. Image of oneself is important, deviate from that means you can't use more mass than you could otherwise. I am one of the people who don’t believe scars has an importance. I see them as I do a healed bone, a weak point that needs to be fixed.” This kind of made sense, but too simplified. I did not ask further though, instead just gazed at my work. “Well done, so far, I notice no flaws, at least superficially. Now, we must go before the scent of blood calls others.” He reached out his hand for me to grasp, I took it with my work of art. I now understood the pride people had at carvings, paintings, or any kind of art that they created. I was proud, and I was not scared to show it.