Orpheus was dreaming again. It's never good when Orpheus Muse dreams. Well. It’s never good for his rivals. Because what Orpheus dreams, he writes. Words are scratched onto paper, lyrics drip like liquid gold from his lips, sounds are pulled from his guitar no one else can make.

Now, he's dreaming of a girl. No face. Just a petal soft voice and a gentle touch. She was his muse. And he had never seen her face. But she was his.

Orpheus had just finished playing to his usual crowd at his favourite hole in the wall club. The Underworld. His guitar had been tucked behind the bar for safety as he sips his whiskey and writes more liquid gold lyrics in his 'divine diary'.

That's when she sits. Quite close to him, a trio of women between them. A young girl, a women, her mother perhaps? And an elderly woman.

But he can hear her voice. The petal soft voice attempting to get the grumbling bartenders attention. Gentle fingers drumming against the bartop in her soft annoyance.

It was her.

The petal soft voice and gentle touch. And now he had a face to put to it.

His muse.