Evenin' all,

Bit of a weird one here -- this is the first time in long time that I've done this stay-up-late,knock-out-a-fic-and-post-it-without-properly-checking-it-the-ne xt-day, but hey, we've all gotta take a break sometime ;) Besides, what with all the Muse activity going on recently I thought I should introduce mine a bit more -- there should be something about Bronwyn coming out soon.

Phil - PS, does anyone know how to phonetically write a Welsh accent? I gave up after the first couple of tries...

Friday night at the Writers Bar, and as usual things were hectic. Pinocchio had already had to deal with half-a-dozen fictives who'd decided that the Subreality Café wasn't good enough for them, and if the Writers could gate-crash their pad, then it was about time they gate-crashed the Writers café. Fortunately for most of the Writers Pinocchio hadn't been afflicted with some of the bad writing the Bouncer had had to put up with, and so the place had been kept pretty clean of anyone except Writers and Muses.

Not that they couldn't cause trouble, though. Frank, Lyssie and Ana had managed to all but clear the whisky, kaluha and baileys and were currently attempting to set up a karaoke spot in the corner, Humbug had had one too many mouse cocktails and was mock-chasing Kes around the bar to their mutual amusement, unwittingly scratching a number of Writers on the way, and Seraph was in the process of explaining the premise for an extremely complex Round Robin to a number of Writers and Muses in the corner. Loudly.

Mary Shiva sighed and shared a look with Hank McCoy. At least it couldn't get much worse, she thought, turning back to the bar. Her eyes opened wide as she saw the two people sitting there, and she briefly swore never to think that particular phrase with this many Writers around again. Breathing in deeply to prepare herself she headed over to where the two men were leaning at a disconcerting angle against the bar.

"Evening, gentlemen. What'll it be?"

The short man in the red-and-white striped rugby shirt looked up at her with a swaying head. "Pint of Guinness fer me, luv," he grunted. "Ieuan?"

The larger man in the blood-red rugby top nodded his head, leaning against the bar to support himself. The shorter man translated, "an' one fer 'im as well."

"Sure," she replied, false smile plastered firmly on her face. "And something for Bronwyn?" 'Oh please not! Oh please not! Oh please not!' she mentally recited.

"Nah, she's not wiv us tonight," the Writer replied. "'Ad other things on."

'Thank you!' Mary said inside, trying to hide a sigh of relief. Ieuan and Bronwyn -- the two Muses assigned to this Writer -- were both fine on their own, but get them together and the arguments could be heard over half of Subreality. Her smile coming more naturally now that that disaster had been averted, she poured the drinks. "Out for a celebration tonight, then?"

"Yeah," Ieuan replied, his Welsh accent more prominent with the beer. "We finally managed to get some ideas together an' thought it deserved a drink, didn't we, boyo?" He slapped the short Writer on the shoulder, nearly sending him over.

"Yeah," the Writer replied, regaining his balance. "We carry on like this an' that TCP bit should be done by... aw..."

"End of next year?" Ieuan smirked, taking his drink.

"Heh, yeah. About that time, at this bloody rate."

Mary smiled as she passed the other pint over to the Writer. "Weren't you supposed to be working on that John Constantine 'fic?"

Ieuan growled and the Writer winced. "Bit of a sore point," he said in an undertone to Mary. "They still 'aven't sorted out who's taking that one..."

"Ah." She gave an understanding smile. Not that she did understand, really -- the constant bickering between the two Muses wasn't exactly normal behavior -- but every good barmaid knows that an understanding smile is worth its weight in gold. "Have a good night," she called out to them as they headed over to a quieter corner of the bar.

"Aw Christ, 'ow much 'ave we had tonight?" the Writer muttered as he slumped down in one of the large leather armchairs.

"Heh. Told you you English couldn't hold your beer," the Muse replied, betraying his own drunkenness with an unsteady wobble as he took the other chair.

"Ah, don't start. Besides," he grinned. "According to Frank you're out like a light on three whiskies."

"Whisky's not a Welsh drink, is it? If he'd stuck to beer I could've lasted all night, no problem."

"Yeah, whatever..."

"So, whad'ye reckon for the rest of the night, then? Over to the Mharie hut for a few more after this?"

The Writer moaned. "Christ, no. I've got work tomorrow. I ain't at Uni any more, y'know."

"Hah!" Ieuan laughed, half deafening a nearby Writer. "Those were the days, eh mate? Down to the Uni bar for fifteen pints, then back to the labs to bang out some Common People story 'till after dawn. And we'd still be drinking then!"

"Yeah, that was a good bloody laugh, all right." The Writer snorted. "Explains some of the crap I came out with then as well..."

"Bollocks! Those were some great stories we did back then. You remember that last TCP? Stories You Hear Down the Pub? Bloody excellent, that was!"

"Heh, yeah. I remember the Saturday that inspired it, an' all."

Ieuan grinned. "It's like I told you, mate. Your best ideas come when you're pissed. Like that Sandman piece we've got going now -- I got most of that through to you when you were back in Wales a few months ago. And you weren't sober more than an hour, then."

"True," the Writer said with a sigh. "Problem is, I've got the time to get the ideas, I just ain't got the time to write the bloody things down anymore."

"Ah. It'll happen, you'll see. You're a Writer. It's in the blood, so you'll find a way. I've seen Writers doin' a lot worse than you before."

"Yeah, yer right, I suppose."

"'Course I'm right! I'm your bloody Muse, aren't I?" Ieuan held his glass up. "Iechyd da!"

"Iechyd da!" They clinked glasses and took a long drink of the Guinness.

"Yeah, anyway, I don't wanna get onto that conversation again," the Writer said, wiping the froth away with his hand. "I'm in this job for a while yet, an' moanin' about it ain't gonna do much good. Besides, there's a couple of things I've been meanin' to ask you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. About you. I mean, we've been working together, what, four years now? An' I still 'ardly know anything about you."

"Like what?" Ieuan put his pint down and leaned back, a half-smile on his face.

"Like what you were doing before you started Musing for me. Who you Mused for. Why you stopped Musing for them, an' why you picked me to throw story ideas at."

Ieuan grinned. "'Cos you can drink, boyo," he said, lifting his pint up again and taking a large mouthful.

"Nah, lissen, I'm serious 'ere," the Writer said, putting his pint down and leaning forward. "Things are changing around here, in Subreality, just like they are out there in real life, an' I wanna know a bit more about who's in here with me."

Ieuan laughed again, more quietly this time. "Bit late for the Month of Muses, aren't you?"

"Probably. Then again I normally am," the Writer smirked. "Late, that is. Look at wot 'appened with the CFAN awards. An' I completely missed out on all that Court of Miracles an' Film Noir stuff."

"And whose fault was that?"

"Heh. No-ones, I suppose. Real life was kinda fun back then."

"And it isn't now?"

"Let's just say it's slowing down a little, at the moment." The Writer picked up his drink and took another mouthful. "Anyway, you're getting off the point. I know us artist types're supposed to 'ave the monopoly on introspective self-centredness, but that ain't an excuse fer you to avoid answerin' the questions."

"You've been listening to Bronwyn too much, boyo." He held up his hands as the Writer opened his mouth to respond. "All right, all right. My Life As A Muse, By Ieuan the Welsh boy." He grinned, and half-drained his drink. "Truth? I can't even remember when I started bein' a Muse, it was that long ago. I mean, I've got some vague ideas, of course, but there's no way I could place a time or date on it. Jesus, this was a long time before any of you English came to Wales, after all. All I do know is it was a long time ago.

"As for who I was Musing for before you, well, there's any number of Writers I could mention. Bards, poets, playwrites, I've Mused for them all at one time or another -- and a few others as well. No-one you'd know, of course, unless you've been studying Welsh literature behind my back." The Writer grinned and shook his head. "No, I didn't think so." He paused for a moment.

"And as for why I'm Musing for you, well I meant it when I said it was because you could drink."

The Writer laughed. "And that's the reason Writers get picked by Muses, is it? Alcohol tolerance?"

"You'd be surprised at some of the reasons we pick you, you know," Ieuan replied. "Seriously, I like your style. You've got a bit of talent there somewhere, and I wanted a break from some of the other stuff I was doing."

"So fan-fiction is the Muses' holiday now, is it?" the Writer asked, eyebrows raised in mock-sarcasm.

"Hey! There's a lot of good stuff coming out of fan-fiction. Some of the things you Writers are creating here hasn't been seen in a long while -- believe me it's not a holiday. Calliope gave me a free choice for the next Writer, and I chose you, all right? There's really not much more to it than that."

The Writer considered. "Fair enough. So's that it?"

"That's it, unless you want me to tell you my life story. And that'll take all night, at least."

"Nah, yer right. 'Specially after hacking through that much of the TCP stuff." He drained his pint. "Another one?"

"You were the one who was supposed to be at work tomorrow," the Muse said with a grin.

"Ah, bollocks to that. I work best when drunk, remember?"

"Don't I just, mate. Don't I just."

"Hey, Mary! 'Nother couple of beers over here? Cheers."

Hokay, credits --

Kes belongs to Rhianna
Humbug belongs to Tessela
Frank belongs to Rossi
Lyssie belongs to Ana, who, in turn, belongs to herself. As far as I know.
Seraph also belongs to herself
Writers Café, Mary Shiva, Pinocchio, Hank McCoy are mostly down to Seraph re-vamping the place, although I'm sure a few other people had a hand in it
Bouncer was originally created by Falstaff
John Constantine is the sole property of Vertigo
The TCP concept was down to me and Kielle