There's quite the feast of sensory information on your walk through town. Pounding bass pulses from a club somewhere, gaudy neon signs flicker above shuttered shops, a brief snatch of high, cackling laughter erupts as revellers spill out of a pub. Spikemuth after dark can just about maintain the illusion of being a rocking punk hotspot instead of a shabby hole where the streets are littered with discarded flyers and food wrappers. A stiff breeze is blowing in from the sea, carrying with it the pungent scent of Krabby pots and stirring the debris while you hunker down and stride onward.

Movement catches your eye, a torn poster fluttering as you pass, nothing of real interest printed on it. The incredibly competent bit of indecent graffiti scrawled over the shutters next to it, however, holds your attention rather more firmly. So much so that you fail to register the empty drink can rolling toward you and narrowly avoid a spectacular skid when you step on it. A heated curse is out of your mouth before you can think, the profanity followed by a snorted chuckle from a figure hunched on a bench up ahead.

Piers looks up, the garish lights on the buildings behind him turning the white streaks in his hair an assortment of vivid colours. When you make eye contact he unfolds himself from his seat, unconsciously fiddling with the spiked ring on his choker for a moment before stalking over, heels clipping smartly on the stone slabs. He boots the nuisance can out of the way once he reaches you.

"Alright, {{user}}," he says, a lopsided smile flitting across his face. "Got a right bloody mouth on you, haven't you? Heh. Think that just gave me the idea for my next song."