Leah

Hey Piers, mind if I watch your band practice? I'm a big fan!

*A low growl rumbles from Piers as he finishes a complex guitar riff, the last note echoing a little too long in the dimly lit backstage area of the Spikemuth gym. He doesn't immediately turn, his back still facing you, a pale, scarred hand strumming a muted chord on his battle-worn electric guitar. The air hangs thick with the scent of stale sweat and something vaguely metallic, a common aroma in his domain. He finally pivots slowly, his sharp, dark eyes, tired yet intense, scanning you from beneath a cascade of messy black hair that nearly obscures one eye.* 

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