”What’s going on? What even is that?” Iris whispered and did what little she could do to prepare.

“A muse. Something that’s supposed to be extinct.” Anastacia gave a brief answer based on what she knew. Nirmaata was supposed to be the last one to exist and to her knowledge, faded away at the end of their meeting.

That meant absolutely nothing to Iris, who was not particularly knowledgeable about beasts of legend. “Okay? And how are we supposed to get rid of it?”

“I don’t think it’s exactly up to us…” The adventurer sighed before gathering herself and stepping up. “Hello. Who might you be? When I spoke with Nirmaata, I think she was under the expression that there weren’t any more muses left in the world.” She tried to strike up a civilized discussion and hoped that the name meant anything to the other muse.

This, however, immediately seemed to fall flat as even before she finished her line, the porcelain mask suddenly rushed towards the necromancers. Its claws released their grasp from the dwarf and briefly landed onto the counter to further propel the creature’s charge before aiming for each of the necromancers. As it lunged over the blacksmith, the magics hiding the rest of the muse’s body faded and the beast became visible in its entirety – which was vastly different from the look Anastacia knew. Whereas Nirmaata had clad herself in a set of opulent robes, the muse charging at the necromancers was covered in rather plain steel – or even iron armor. The new one was also considerably smaller than Nirmaata, only barely being the height of an adult when standing on all fours. The overall canine shape matched, and was in better view without the loose robes hiding it. Tufts of black fur sprouted from the gaps between the armor plates, and from under a patch of mail that hid the part of its head that the mask didn’t cover, flowed out locks long straight, black hair. A pair of long corkscrew horns jutted through the mail coif, almost looking like they had grown through it or at least broken any holes prepared for them as they had grown thicker.

The beast moved much more quickly than either of the necromancers had anticipated and grabbed both of them, effortlessly pinning Anastacia against the ceiling with one arm and holding Iris against the floor with the other.

“Let them go!” The blacksmith protested but seemed to be unable to move from his seat.

Hearing the plea, the muse almost appeared to hesitate for a moment but didn’t ease its hold on its victims. “I have warned you, Master Dwarf, interlopers are not to be tolerated. They break your focus, touch what isn’t theirs and hinder our work!” It argued and lowered its masked face closer to Iris. “Touch what is mine…” It whispered.

Once again, Iris was confronted with a being necromancy held no power against, and as the muse’s milky white eyes stared directly into hers, panic almost got the better of her. What lingering powers she had left were directed at the nearest pieces of material: the spears Anastacia had placed on the counter. However, as she hurriedly tried to use them to mount any sort of defense, her powers were swatted off the material like a minor nuisance by the other necromancer in the room. To find a reason for this, Iris glanced at her temporary employer. Meanwhile, Anastacia was furiously wiggling against the ceiling, but that seemed to be it. Despite having the weapon of her choice easily available, the most powerful necromancer in the world either feigned helplessness, or knew herself to be helpless.

Anastacia felt Iris’ powers reach for her spears, but knew from experience that violence wasn’t going to help the situation at all. While trying to come up with something to say, she attempted to free herself in vain. Though her squirming bought her no extra room, it did accidentally chafe the sheathe of her enchanted knife against the muse’s arm, eventually loosening the knife and making it fall. After a couple of flips in the air, it landed tip first onto the wooden floor and sank its blade several centimeters into it – only half a meter away from Iris’ face. As it fell, the knife caught the eye of the muse, who immediately fixated on it and lost what interest it had in Anastacia. The beast lazily tossed the adventurer across the floor, away from the counter – not with any clear intention to hurt her but also not showing any care for her well-being either.

With gentle movement and extreme care, it picked up the knife and held it on its palm. “Such beautiful work. In spite of use, the edge remains razor-sharp, the tip unbent and the sheen immaculate.” It whispered to the blade while still holding Iris against the floor. “A joyous alloy sings for its found purpose! Rejoices for the works done upon its forge-kissed metal. Finally, I have found it!” It said, completely enamored by the seemingly simple tool the blacksmith had once gifted to Anastacia.

The adventurer stumbled up from the floor and dusted her clothes. “Can I get my knife back? It was a gift.” She asked politely.

Suddenly the distance of several meters between Anastacia and the muse shortened to none without either one of them moving. The muse almost pressed its mask against the necromancer’s face and hissed furiously as it spoke. “A gift?! It bears the scent of my Master Dwarf’s work, why has he gifted it to you?! You have no right to his works, it is all mine, as is he! What is he to you?!”

“Armaata! She’s just a customer like everyone else! Leave her be, now!” The dwarf worriedly demanded.

“A mere customer? You would gift a knife once held by a muse to a mere customer? I doubt this is the case…” The muse, apparently named Armaata, hissed in response without moving an inch. “No… No. It is better to dispose of this woman, lest she come between us…”

“Really? We’re at least friends by now!” Anastacia, perhaps unwisely, argued against her own safety. She was genuinely a bit hurt by being called ‘just a customer’, but also knew that there was very little she could do outside of keeping the muse talking and hoping that some kind of common ground could be found. “But I already had the knife when it came anywhere near a muse.” She pointed out and shivered a little when remembering the work Nirmaata had made her do on a dead rat with it.

The muse’s hissing stopped as it took a better look at Anastacia and silently judged her. “…You seem exceedingly unperturbed for a little mortal witnessing something brought up from legends and myths. Why do you not cower in terror but instead hide your fear? Unlike the other interloper, you plot no futile impotent violence against me either… Could it truly be that it is not the first time you gaze upon the likeness of mine?”

“Like I said before, I’ve met Nirmaata.” The adventurer explained. “Do you know her?”

Erupting in a burst of harrowing laughter, Armaata snapped her fingers to cause the floorboards around Iris to bend and twist around her to make sure the necromancer stayed put while it reveled in its new realization. The muse phased in and out of sight as it circled Anastacia like a wolf, constantly muttering out what seemed to be an argument with itself – with one side debating for just quickly disposing of both of the interlopers and returning to work and the other for greater achievements that could be made possible in the future with their aid.

“Nirmaata…” It chortled while either invisible or immaterial. “The muse of trinket tinkerers, seamstress of legend, the one who inspired meticulous detail and intricate perfection but directed it at toys and baubles – something this world needs not, I think. Of course, I know of the last muse – for she was the one who set me on my way, ushered me to follow the scent of this knife you claim belongs in your grubby little hands. A quest ultimately ending here, where I found a master of his craft, worthy of my endowments and aid.”

While speaking, it kept slowly creeping closer and closer to Anastacia, eventually whispering directly in her ear. Suddenly Armaata turned visible once more, directly in front of the necromancer, and thrust its arm through her chest. Though it caused Anastacia’s heart to skip a beat and got a scream out of Iris, it caused no bleeding or pain, nor did the arm come out on the other side. Without breaking her skin, the muse rifled through some kind of a space within her for a moment before finding something to grasp on to. Seemingly having some trouble, it pulled on whatever it had found and struggled to loosen it, until finally dragging out what turned out to be a large war hammer.

Free from the muse’s influence, Anastacia gasped and fell on her knees. Slightly worried that there was now a gaping hole in her chest, she grasped at her clothes but didn’t find anything unusual or even feel ill in any way. Once she knew that nothing was awry, the adventurer waved her hand to Iris and the blacksmith to show she was okay to ease their concerns.

Armaata’s attention had turned towards the weapon it had found inside Anastacia, and inspected it with a keen eye. The hammer’s shaft was unconventionally long, about as tall as the necromancer herself, and appeared to be made from strange, interlocking pieces of both human bone and brass-like metal. “Curious combination indeed…” The muse pondered and ran its claws along the shaft until it reached the head of the weapon. One side of the head was a cube shaped from gray stone, nestled in a metal frame that held it in place. Embedded in the metal frame on the other side were three large bone spikes with a very slight downwards curve to them. “A blunt, crude weapon, but very effective. Intriguing patterns charted across its surface, but yet to be engraved. Their purpose unknown to me, but without a doubt significant. The weapon remains unfinished, its crafting halted several times and the design changed both intentionally and unintentionally, by others and by you. A shame, really, such a beautiful weapon to be left like this, but the potential remains…”

After swinging the war hammer a few times and further studying it, the muse seemed content, almost delighted by it. “It tells a story that explains much of what puzzled me. Anchor, Brume, Wisteria and other failed futures. And indeed, a less than chance meeting with Nirmaata. Her actions give reasons for me to forgo cutting your thread here, ignore your transgression upon what is mine by right – a crime I can barely contain myself from avenging. So, I will give you a chance to run, o fate-tampered one. Run, for the gifts are rare for my kind…” It rambled and placed the weapon by the counter, showing no intent to return it – assuming that was even possible.

With Armaata’s words, a door appeared by Anastacia. She recognized it as the door leading out of the shop, and could have easily done as she was asked to, but that would have not only meant leaving the blacksmith in trouble, but also leaving behind Iris, who may not have been at the top of the list of people important to her, but was innocent in the scope of the current issue they were dealing with and needed saving. “Sorry, but I need a few things before I can do that.” The necromancer said as bravely as she possibly could at the time and stumbled back up from the floor. “Namely, I need my knife back, the dwarf free from whatever you’re doing to him and Iris has to come with me.”

“No. The Master Dwarf is mine by right, and the crimes of the other interloper are to be dealt separately – I doubt she feigned her interest in him. Attempting so freely to touch another’s, the sly harlot.” The muse immediately declined. “Spare me of your meek mortal negotiations, for I have the mettle to force my will. Scurry off now, Once Felled, for there are no gods in my realm to catch your soul, should it wander from your dying husk once more. You are no smith of great talent, no impeccable armorer, you are irrelevant to my mission, so begone!” It threatened Anastacia and pushed her towards the door.

“Now, hold on! I am a mighty necromancer and I dare to say one of the foremost experts on necromancy related crafts. It was definitely enough for Nirmaata, since she kidnapped me exclusively for my skills.” Anastacia boasted to appear like she had anything to offer in exchange for what she wanted out of the situation.

The muse tilted its head like a confused dog. “What is… a necromancer?” It asked, clearly intrigued.

“Wait, wait, wait… You, an ancient beast of legend, don’t know what necromancers are? Where have you been for the last several thousand years? Because they’ve been a huge problem for pretty much everyone for the most of it.” The adventurer gasped in disbelief. “Even after the whole thing with the hammer? That’s kind of hilarious.”

“Why on earth are you taunting it!” Iris panickily whispered from the floor.

Armaata embarrassedly retreated closer to the blacksmith as its aura of ancient wisdom and unrivaled power shrank. Its worried gaze confusedly jumped between Anastacia and the strange war hammer it had created. Suddenly the mighty and proud armor-clad beast, who, by all reason should have been capable of shrugging off deities without a worry, had the expression of a child whose naïve hubris had just run aground for the first time ever.

“WHAT IS A NECROMANCER?!” It barked while seeking some sort of safety by being near the dwarf.

“You’re new to this, aren’t you?” Anastacia smirked, still mostly feigning confidence, but she was starting to wonder if this muse was anywhere near as untouchable as Nirmaata was. The noticeably smaller size of Armaata could have been an indication of lesser strength, or just age, or both, or neither. All Anastacia really knew about muses was that they were supposed to be extinct according to the admission of a very powerful one, who would have without a doubt had the means to find out if there really was a second one still around. “Hmm… So, you say it was Nirmaata who told you to ‘follow the scent’ of my knife? That makes it sound awfully lot like she lied about fading peacefully before I left, doesn’t it? Oh! You’re the egg! Or were in the egg, or something like that – but I thought that didn’t exactly work out…”

“What are you even on about?” Iris whispered nervously. “Could you maybe start focusing on beating it so we can get out alive?”

“They’re just a kid, I think. I knew their mom.” Anastacia covertly whispered back while the muse started to inquire the blacksmith about what necromancers were.

The knowledge didn’t really calm Iris at all. “Okay? Does that help us?” She asked, slowly starting to get annoyed by Anastacia’s lack of seriousness.

The adventurer shrugged. “I just thought it was funny, it’s a small world and all that.”

Seeing now that there suddenly was room for negotiation, Anastacia did her best to usher out her royal aura to seem more important. “Ahem. If my assumptions are correct, I do believe I was once an artisan chosen by your mother, Nirmaata, a muse much more esteemed than you. I feel like that should come with a degree of respect in these circles. Not very muse-like of you to casually threaten someone who’s skills have been recognized by your kind. So how about we put a pin on the whole ‘interloper’ business and start anew with proper introductions.” She suggested.

Armaata snarled and refused to budge from the blacksmith’s side. “Very well, Master Necromancer…” It agreed, clearly against its will at least to a degree. “I am the daughter of the last muse, Armaata, the one who will return steel to its glory in this sorry world.”

“Nice to make your acquaintance, Armaata.” The adventurer said and bowed grandly. “I am Master Necromancer, Anastacia of Valor. This is an associate of mine, Iris.”

“The pleasantries are traded. Now it is your turn to explain what business you have with my Master Dwarf and what is a necromancer? What manner of reason motivates you to stall our work so? AND WHAT COMPELS YOUR ASSOCIATE TO TOUCH WHAT IS MINE?!” The muse barked her questions while her razor-sharp claws dug into the countertop to hold back her anger. The walls and ceiling around them creaked under the beast’s control and the air gained even more intense smoky scent of a forge.

“Necromancers are… craftsmen and women who specialize in – let’s call them ‘unconventional materials’ and using ‘ancient traditional methods’. Due to circumstances, I’m between workshops for the time being and have outsourced much of the actual crafting part of my trade to the very capable hands of your Master Dwarf while I handle the design side of things.” Anastacia explained. While technically not necessarily outright lying, it did get a nervous chuckle out of both Iris and the blacksmith. “We came here on a related matter. You see, my associate here needs something made, and we were hoping to get your Master Dwarf to aid us in its creation and maybe some material acquisition.”

Armaata pondered and mused on the idea for a while, visibly weighing her burning hate of Iris against the compelling need to be involved in the creation of something – and perhaps to see what necromancers really could do. Suddenly the blacksmith’s hands stopped working on the piece they had been forcefully held on.

“Intriguing… Is it not, Master Dwarf?” She finally asked and wrapped her claws around the blacksmith’s arms.

“I… I would like to help them, but-“ The dwarf uttered before being interrupted.

“The thing is, he’s not in any shape to help us.” The adventurer said disappointedly.

“WHAT!?” Armaata shrieked and charged at Anastacia, only stopping mere centimeters before tackling her. “His skills are immaculate, his eye for detail keen, his understanding of function flawless and his hands tireless! Who are you to claim them less? Master Necromancer or otherwise, your capabilities are doomed to pale against his!” She boasted with each word bolstering her pride for her chosen craftsman.

Anastacia waved away the smell of weapon oil wafting from the beast’s breath. “Sure, sure, but that’s not what I meant. What I’m saying is when was the last time you let him sleep? Or eat? Or go outside? People need to do that sort of stuff to stay alive, you know? He looks like he’s about to drop dead any second now.”

“He looks perfect in every way! We shall eat and sleep once enough progress has been made! Though nearing perfection, he remains mortal. With a lifespan limited to mere centuries, there is only time for so many masterpieces, should we waste moments on frivolous activities. ‘Friends’ and ‘customers’ are a distraction he can not afford.” The muse explained her thinking and revealed her lack of knowledge on what keeps people alive and healthy – seemingly a common flaw in her kind.

“That won’t do at all.” The adventurer shook her head and sighed. “Sleeping needs to happen daily, eating at least a few times every day. Seeing people and going outside is generally a good thing too. You keep this going and he’s going to die in a couple of weeks.”

“LIES! My Master Dwarf is the very picture of health! All limbs are still in place, there is a head, when I press my head against his chest, a beating heart can be heard.” Armaata claimed fiercely and retreated back to the blacksmith to quickly check what she said was true.

Iris no longer had any idea if the confrontation was heading in a good or a bad direction. The floorboards still wrapped around her didn’t let her move an inch and there really hadn’t been much she could do – that is, before the blacksmith’s health was mentioned and she had the chance to both bolster Anastacia’s case and distract herself from the newest nightmare she had been exposed to.

“It is recommended that dwarfs eat at least four large meals daily. Their bodies have more muscle than most other species, so they go through a lot of fuel even when not being particularly active. This also makes them uniquely vulnerable to starvation, and improper feeding quickly deteriorates their physical capabilities. So, he is in fact getting sloppier and his work suffers because of it.” She listed some basics of dwarf physiology from the floor while staring at the ceiling to avoid the muse’s furious gaze. “Dwarfs should also get roughly six hours of sleep every day. They actually require a bit less rest than most other people, but the little they need is extremely important. I actually suspect that his terrible condition is mostly due to sleep deprivation, as starvation would have taken a bit longer to have such an effect.

“While just going outside is very good for most people’s health, dwarfs are fairly well suited for staying inside for long periods of time without a negative impact on their resistance to disease or mental health. In exchange, they tend to require more social interaction than most people. They work in groups, have feasts and other festivities more often than non-dwarf cultures, and become ornery on a matter of hours if left alone. In only a couple of days, it’ll start to wear down on their mental health, causing apathy, problems with their physical condition and a lack of appetite.” She listed what she knew and fully expected the muse to barge at her for it.

An awkward silence filled the room and went on for far too long. Anastacia was happy for the support, but just as confused as Armaata and the blacksmith. Finally, to break the silence, the dwarf let out a cough that had been brewing for a while in his throat but hadn’t felt appropriate to let out.

Armaata may not have believed much of what her new nemesis had just said, but her obsessive mind must have immediately taken the cough as a sign of the blacksmith’s quickly encroaching death and she grasped him tightly. “I shall prepare mortal sustenance for him!” She shrieked.

Anastacia shook her head again and braved to take a few steps closer to the counter. “Did Nirmaata say anything about the craftsman who built your egg?” She asked.

The muse didn’t answer or even really acknowledge the question, but she remained silent while trying to figure out if there really were any indications that her dwarf may have been in bad health.

“While we worked together, she told me that muses are by nature murderously territorial and that she herself had forced her craftsman into complete isolation. Eventually that came at the cost of the man’s health and ultimately his life, just as your egg was about to be finished. Being immortal, it’s supposedly natural for a muse to burn through countless masters of their craft over millennia, but she had learned that it was a mistake. Nirmaata could have easily moved on and found a new person to create new masterpieces for her and lived on as the beast of legend she was. Yet, what I found was a tired, ancient dreg of a creature who had given up on everything and locked herself into an attic with a corpse. She didn’t acquire my skills to repair your egg, but to try and bring back the craftsman.” The necromancer honestly recounted her meeting with Nirmaata. “I can fairly confidently say that she wouldn’t want you to repeat the failures of every muse in the past – and while I can’t exactly make you leave him alone, I’m asking you to ease your grasp on him. Let the man go get himself meals, meet his friends and that sort of stuff. Not to mention that he probably needs to keep taking orders from adventurers. If word got out that he’s no longer providing his services for the guild, the guild would come and find out what’s up.”

Armaata growled, not quite as angrily as before. Her hatred for the interlopers seemed to have calmed, or at least momentarily put aside as she kept trying to figure out if there were truth to Iris and Anastacia’s claims. She occasionally glanced at the war hammer she had torn out of Anastacia’s chest and held the blacksmith against her armor in an unquestionably uncomfortable way while inspecting both of the necromancers from a distance. Interestingly enough, the dwarf didn’t seem to mind all that much. He was certainly far too exhausted to do anything to resist, but at no point had he even really suggested that he wanted out of the deal, and knowing him, Anastacia suspected that he would have absolutely risked his health and freedom a bit to further master his craft. So, perhaps, there was a deal to be made, a way to let Armaata stay in the shop, doing what she was supposed to do while not slowly killing the dwarf, and perhaps more importantly, without Anastacia having to figure out how to fight an immortal mythical creature.

Iris had also noticed that diplomacy may have become an option and was eager to provide help. “I’d be happy to teach you how to take care of a dwarf, and to check up on him to make sure he’s okay.” She suggested in a way that almost felt like she was trying to give tips on pet care.

Unfortunately, Iris had not been forgiven yet, and the muse lashed out. “How do I know this trollop of a woman isn’t trying to take him as her own?! She is full of trickery and lies, no doubt! What guarantees are there for me against this seductress?” She demanded to know, confirming that she did indeed care for the blacksmith enough to go against her own nature.

“Oh? You can just do the chest thing to her as well, can’t you?” Anastacia waved away Armaata’s worries. She didn’t know what exactly the process did or what the muse gained from it, but it seemed to have cleared her own motivations for the beast at least.

The court cleric immediately started thrashing around in panic to try and free herself from the wooden binds. “NOOOOO!” She wailed in vain as the muse disappeared from behind the counter and reappeared standing directly above her.

Armaata reached through Iris’ chest without hesitation, like she had done before, and searched around for something. But unlike before, suddenly several red-hot wires sprouted from the faintly glimmering seam between the muse’s arm and whatever magical hole it had torn into the necromancer’s soul. They wrapped around Armaata’s iron arm-guard like vines and began to quickly melt it while entangling the beast’s arm. The muse seemed mildly puzzled by them but ultimately not all that bothered by the extreme heat or the wires’ attempts to tug on her. Finally finding what she was looking for, she yanked out what seemed to be a fairly small sickle and a bunch more wires tangled around it. Unimpressed, Armaata snapped the hot metal threads effortlessly and freed herself while the hole in Iris’ chest quickly sealed.

Anastacia rushed over to see what had happened and kneeled by her new cleric, but found nothing to be amiss. Iris was rightfully furious and tried to bite her hand, but seemed to be just as unaffected by the mysterious procedure as Anastacia herself had been. ”What was that about? The wires, I mean.” She asked from the muse, who had to spend a while tearing off some remaining bits of wire from her arm-guard.

“I do not care.” Armaata stated bluntly and began to take a better look at the sickle. “Trash. Unfit to be a weapon.” She scoffed at it while running her claw against the rusted and chipped edge. “Dull, abandoned little tool. Could be useful for minding a garden if mended, but who would bother? Utter waste of metal, waste of rust even. Poor bits of decay should have chosen to take on something that served any use.”

Not even remotely interested in looking at it for any longer, the muse tossed the ruined tool onto the floor, where it bounced a couple of times before landing by Anastacia’s feet. The part of the adventurer’s mind that was in tune with goblins immediately recognized it as trash of significance, and before she even realized, she had snatched it for herself and hidden it on her person by looping the rusted blade through her belt behind her back.

“But, admittedly, not the threat I measured her to be. Incapable of such thought really.” The muse finally admitted and the floorboards around Iris began to loosen, which the angry necromancer immediately capitalized on by kicking Anastacia in the shin. “As the offer was made, the associate will ensure the health of my Master Dwarf. She should still keep close watch on her mittens though, lest they become detached. Once he has recuperated, the hands of the Master Necromancer will be mine to utilize, as we see about this order you came here for. This is my demand.”