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Last profile before the move, and the last character to round out this first batch.
Height: 5’9” (1.8m)
Age: late 20s
Abilities: Sizeshifting
Occupation: Founder, lead guitarist and vocals of City Thrasher
Appearance
City Thrasher. That’s the name you saw on the flyer slapped on the wall of a back-alley crawling with graffiti. A fresh offering to the counterculture thrill-seekers, heaped atop the defaced remains of names and faces of people you’ve never heard of. That’s the band destroying your eardrums, devouring all things harmonic and spitting it back in your face with all the wild fuck you aggression punk can muster. The scene writhes to the chaos, and you write with it, in the haze of smoke, strobe lights, and whatever else everyone is smoking, what little control you’ve yet to surrender to contact high slipping to the earsplitting madness that keeps your frenetic feet on beat despite the tremors. Though it should be coming from the source, it’s the living mass you’re a part of, the squirming organism of hands, heads, sweating tits and ass tossing you around like a leaf in the tempest. A bellow beckons; guitars wail – a new rhythm. Faster, harder. The swarm struggles to feel itself against the growing vibrations. City Thrasher; they’re big. Well, not yet – a one self-released single under their belts, and another through an indie label you’ve never heard of. But in the physical, the here, and now, they’re big, and they’ve got big toys to match. Screaming guitars the size of a car; drums more suited to a flatbed truck slamming your bones with the force of one, and the spitfire lyrics to match. Their gear, the shitty basement you’re all crammed in, struggles to keep up with their growing, their aggression. This place won’t last, but they don’t care, and neither the fuck do you. This is their first song of the night.
History
Music comes easily to impressionable young skinks, especially to those with parents who are musicians themselves. Thoroughly versed in the classics and the esoteric, and just as diligent at their practice sessions as they are in the concert hall, the echoes of melodies past and the strands of future symphonies resonating through their abode, are as infectious as they are impeccable. And they expected no less from their progeny. So it should come to no one’s surprise when young Paine found herself at the dinner table one night, and was told that she will participate in her school’s music program. The prestigious, high-end sort of program for the young and aspiring artists of artists themselves; the sort of high-end program of which they are the oh-so generous patrons of. She’d have her pick of instrument, or better, instruments, of course – they wouldn’t want to force their child into anything she’d later resent them for.
To their outward delight and concealed relief, she took to her choices, the piano and the violin with little complaint, and played each with equal and faultless skill. But endless processions of pointless rehearsals wore on her enthusiasm, the same shallow performances of the same tired, timeless ditties heard by every proud and wincing parent quickly lost their appeal, their stimulation. Doubly so when she’d always perform to her very best, and was always lumped in with the shrill squeaks of reed and brass, the percussive cudgels, the wailing of strings at the torturous hands and lips of her inexperienced peers.
It didn’t take her long to ditch those amateurs at middle school, when she was tragically exposed to a corrupting influence: the wicked siren’s call of punk. She was instantly hooked. No longer prim and proper Miss Straight A Skink, she gradually sunk to fuck you teacher but here’s my homework Miss B- Skink. She never told her parents; report cards mysteriously vanished from their mailbox then reappeared a day later, those B-‘s became carefully edited A’s overnight, her teacher’s concerns spun into praise for their daughter’s imaginative interpretation of compliance. She found an old guitar, became addicted to the rush of a machine that didn’t wail, so much as screamed and shredded. Then she got herself a punk rock album, and practiced by following along each day after school, while feigning interest in piano and violin during. She kept up the charade until graduation, when she told her parents everything, then ditched them for greener pastures. To say they were calm and collected, kissed her on the cheek, and wished her well on her future prospects, was a bit of an understatement.
But her career wouldn’t take off until years later, when she found herself in an old music shop in some city she’d never heard of, and put on a spur of the moment show. It impressed enough people into liking her work, some into playing music with her. It was then she realized she really wanted to be like her idols, the bands she fell asleep listening to under the covers as a kid, on the posters that lined her locker and were buried deep in the walls of her closet at home, on the billboards, and on the lips of a wild audience screaming her name.
Abilities
City Thrasher may not be topping the charts just yet, but Paine’s got enough talent in her little finger to carry them there. Music runs through her veins, and performance comes naturally to the skink. Keyboard and guitar, her tools of the trade, are her playthings, the former learned, the latter mastered merely playing by ear. With the right groove backing her, her vocals, while not her strong point, can become a powerful force as she channels her favorite childhood bands into the music they play. And with so many disparate, sometimes clashing, personalities to juggle, she’s got enough force of personality to keep their butts in line to do what she wants, and turns it around to get their foot in the door that’d otherwise reject a no-name band. Will, charisma – she’s not at all sure what to call it, but it gets them results.
Sick guitar riffs are well and good, but size-shifting is what draws in the crowd, semi-choreographed acts of reckless abandon that evokes their namesake and all-encompassing theme: crushing The Man™ and his work and putting both in their place – under their boots. They grow with the flow, getting as big as it takes to make their message loud and clear, location and height restrictions be damned. Though varied in their means and maximum sizes, each member of City Thrasher is capable, Paine included. For her, it’s sheer projection, willing herself bigger with effort. None of them know how it works, but getting big and getting back to normal is all she knows and is, in her opinion, all she needs to know. If it’s magic, then books are for nerds, so there’s no chance in hell she’d learn anything else; if temporary gigantism is somehow hereditary, then her boring parents were holding out on her. Whatever the case, the bigness is a huge signal boost, and they’ll take all the help they can get.
Personality
Gigs are the lifeblood fueling the soul of every performer. Facetime is the divider, the threshold separating good ones from the roar of a crowd, popularity, immortality of a sort, and the failures dying quiet, creeping deaths from obscurity. Paine understands this, and the urgency of the hustle. She’s always on the lookout for venues, bookers, promoters, big or small, respectable or seedy - any opportunity to get their voices heard, and faces seen. And she’s not afraid of pounding pavement or dragging her bandmates with her to stay ahead of the game. And they’ll moan, whine, complain. Then shut up when she works her charm and gets them the in they desperately need.
It’s the same bold assertiveness she channels into scorn for the establishment and authority. What else could’ve happened to her when her parents thrust some instruments in her face and told her ‘play’? Now that she’s older and bolder, she’s not afraid to tell anyone bossing her around to shove their attitude where it doesn’t shine, the get with the program or fuck off. It’s what keeps their name on the peripheral of the underground, gets people to do what she wants, tells Lucas to cram it whenever he feels like challenging her leadership with any bright ideas he gets in his head. City Thrasher is Paine’s baby, and she doesn’t let anyone tell her how to run her show, even if she’s got to tell off a giant shark more than twice her size to do it. But as hard as she (and he) is on the band, as easy as it is to rile her up, she can be chill when there’s downtime, and times are good. Or as good as things can be for a lean and hungry band of rag-tag punks ever eager for eyes and ears.
Hobbies and Interests
Managing City Thrasher is pretty much her life now. Part of the reason she’s so relentless when it comes to gigs is because it’s their sole income. Doubly so for the skink who more or less cut her parents out of her life. In another life, or whenever things settle down in some indefinite point in the future, she can see herself running a grungy no-name music store out of some nondescript back alley in a city she’s never heard of, preferably in one where nobody’s heard of her, all of her favorite bands plastered and peeling off all the grimy walls, their tracks blasting in her ears, her shop an impromptu stage whenever some group showed up or whenever she felt like turning it into one. Until then, she’s got a band to run, and the hustle of the game to keep them on their toes.
Whenever they’ve got some downtime, she couchsurfs wherever the band happens to be crashing – some friend of a friend of a friend’s place or a place one of the members managed to scrounge up through a loyal fan from a show – provided they can all fit inside it afterwards, of course. And whenever she’s got some extra dough burning a hole in her pocket, she’ll treat herself to some shows or a club. Networking, she calls it. Getting lost in music and the mouths of anyone attractive that moves, if either can be called networking. If she isn’t couchsurfing or networking, she’s doodling whatever scribbles pass for art in her sketchbook, or playing board games with the group to pass the time; affordable, fun, and can be played just about anywhere. If nothing else, they make for good bonding excursions when they recreate their favorites on the macro scale.
Relations
Perhaps the most crucial component of a successful group are its members, arguably the most important people one works with, eats with, sleeps with, and shares their successes and failures with that aren’t your mother. Even the most talented group a soulless corporate committee’s dirty money can buy will horribly implode if egos clash, if too many hands pull the band apart from too many directions, the resulting PR disaster ripe for the tabloids. Paine wanted people who were on the same wavelength, knew what the band was about and what its music represents, who were good fits with her and the other members, on top of being halfway decent musicians. She’s done a good job picking them, as far as she’s concerned. One’s some vulture who skulked around tryouts, played bass guitar, then joined the band, no questioned asked – probably for the best since the bird isn’t much of a talker herself. The other is Flint, their gigantic drummer of a croc who doesn’t talk about his past, or the gazelle always fiddling with her phone in the back of their concerts who is probably his parole officer. They follow the program, even if they need a kick in their asses once in a while to keep up with her and capitalize on the momentum of their growing popularity. But Lucas, City Thrasher’s newest member, is the occasional problem that keeps popping up. He gets in his head now and then to assert himself, finding gigs for the band that don’t line up with their manager’s vision of their future. More eyes and ears on them: mainstream. The kind she doesn’t agree with. She’s not sure if it’s some deep-seated urge to throw his weight around, or the fact that his wife won’t let him do it at home. But it’s easy enough for her to shut him down, and as long as he keeps being a kickass guitarist, she’s willing to put up with his assertive phases.
She’s had the privilege of visiting his house. And every time, she’s always awestruck at how such a colossal place, and equally colossal sharks and their furniture, can fit in what all outward appearances would suggest is a perfectly normal, two story suburban house. His daughter, Cait, is quite literally the biggest fan she’s had the treat of meeting. She has every record, goes to every concert, knows every song by heart, and has all of their shirts. It puts a smile on Paine’s face seeing the muscular and imposing 12-foot shark break down into a giddy and screaming starstruck teenager who’s just met their dream idol. The same experience the skink always wanted growing up, and she’s glad someone so enthusiastic loves their work. And she rewards that devotion with a front row seat to the show and backstage access, all a diehard fan could ask for. But it’s Vivian who she watches out for. It’s not that the sorceress doesn’t approve of their music or her husband’s line of work – she’s more of a medieval folk rock kind of gal – Paine doesn’t like her eyes, those huge, grey eyes always staring down at her hungrily. Like she’s some kind of walking snack. Paine shifting to their size as a not-so-subtle way of dissuading Lucas’s wife from eating her only makes the drooling and the staring worse. So she keeps her visits rare, short and cordial, and hopes Lucas or Cait stay in the same room.
Paine doesn’t talk about her parents, sticks in the mud who only 55% approve of her line of work, who rarely call and when they do, it’s to moan about her life choices. While they’re ‘happy’ for their daughter’s healthy exploration and expression of her musical talents, and are ‘happy’ she’s become a musician like them, they don’t approve of the kind of music she plays or the sort of people it attracts. They’d probably have a heart attack if they ever deigned to see one of her shows. Fine with Paine; they’re missing out on the fun.
These have been pretty fun so far. I still don't have much to say down here, so if you've got something to say, say it and I'll answer. :v
Paine doesn't appear in anything yet, but if/when she does it'll be linked right here!
Art done by
JetMongrel / Jet on Twitter
Flint belongs to
sybilthesnake / SizeSnake on Twitter
Paine and the rest belong to me.
Height: 5’9” (1.8m)
Age: late 20s
Abilities: Sizeshifting
Occupation: Founder, lead guitarist and vocals of City Thrasher
Appearance
City Thrasher. That’s the name you saw on the flyer slapped on the wall of a back-alley crawling with graffiti. A fresh offering to the counterculture thrill-seekers, heaped atop the defaced remains of names and faces of people you’ve never heard of. That’s the band destroying your eardrums, devouring all things harmonic and spitting it back in your face with all the wild fuck you aggression punk can muster. The scene writhes to the chaos, and you write with it, in the haze of smoke, strobe lights, and whatever else everyone is smoking, what little control you’ve yet to surrender to contact high slipping to the earsplitting madness that keeps your frenetic feet on beat despite the tremors. Though it should be coming from the source, it’s the living mass you’re a part of, the squirming organism of hands, heads, sweating tits and ass tossing you around like a leaf in the tempest. A bellow beckons; guitars wail – a new rhythm. Faster, harder. The swarm struggles to feel itself against the growing vibrations. City Thrasher; they’re big. Well, not yet – a one self-released single under their belts, and another through an indie label you’ve never heard of. But in the physical, the here, and now, they’re big, and they’ve got big toys to match. Screaming guitars the size of a car; drums more suited to a flatbed truck slamming your bones with the force of one, and the spitfire lyrics to match. Their gear, the shitty basement you’re all crammed in, struggles to keep up with their growing, their aggression. This place won’t last, but they don’t care, and neither the fuck do you. This is their first song of the night.
History
Music comes easily to impressionable young skinks, especially to those with parents who are musicians themselves. Thoroughly versed in the classics and the esoteric, and just as diligent at their practice sessions as they are in the concert hall, the echoes of melodies past and the strands of future symphonies resonating through their abode, are as infectious as they are impeccable. And they expected no less from their progeny. So it should come to no one’s surprise when young Paine found herself at the dinner table one night, and was told that she will participate in her school’s music program. The prestigious, high-end sort of program for the young and aspiring artists of artists themselves; the sort of high-end program of which they are the oh-so generous patrons of. She’d have her pick of instrument, or better, instruments, of course – they wouldn’t want to force their child into anything she’d later resent them for.
To their outward delight and concealed relief, she took to her choices, the piano and the violin with little complaint, and played each with equal and faultless skill. But endless processions of pointless rehearsals wore on her enthusiasm, the same shallow performances of the same tired, timeless ditties heard by every proud and wincing parent quickly lost their appeal, their stimulation. Doubly so when she’d always perform to her very best, and was always lumped in with the shrill squeaks of reed and brass, the percussive cudgels, the wailing of strings at the torturous hands and lips of her inexperienced peers.
It didn’t take her long to ditch those amateurs at middle school, when she was tragically exposed to a corrupting influence: the wicked siren’s call of punk. She was instantly hooked. No longer prim and proper Miss Straight A Skink, she gradually sunk to fuck you teacher but here’s my homework Miss B- Skink. She never told her parents; report cards mysteriously vanished from their mailbox then reappeared a day later, those B-‘s became carefully edited A’s overnight, her teacher’s concerns spun into praise for their daughter’s imaginative interpretation of compliance. She found an old guitar, became addicted to the rush of a machine that didn’t wail, so much as screamed and shredded. Then she got herself a punk rock album, and practiced by following along each day after school, while feigning interest in piano and violin during. She kept up the charade until graduation, when she told her parents everything, then ditched them for greener pastures. To say they were calm and collected, kissed her on the cheek, and wished her well on her future prospects, was a bit of an understatement.
But her career wouldn’t take off until years later, when she found herself in an old music shop in some city she’d never heard of, and put on a spur of the moment show. It impressed enough people into liking her work, some into playing music with her. It was then she realized she really wanted to be like her idols, the bands she fell asleep listening to under the covers as a kid, on the posters that lined her locker and were buried deep in the walls of her closet at home, on the billboards, and on the lips of a wild audience screaming her name.
Abilities
City Thrasher may not be topping the charts just yet, but Paine’s got enough talent in her little finger to carry them there. Music runs through her veins, and performance comes naturally to the skink. Keyboard and guitar, her tools of the trade, are her playthings, the former learned, the latter mastered merely playing by ear. With the right groove backing her, her vocals, while not her strong point, can become a powerful force as she channels her favorite childhood bands into the music they play. And with so many disparate, sometimes clashing, personalities to juggle, she’s got enough force of personality to keep their butts in line to do what she wants, and turns it around to get their foot in the door that’d otherwise reject a no-name band. Will, charisma – she’s not at all sure what to call it, but it gets them results.
Sick guitar riffs are well and good, but size-shifting is what draws in the crowd, semi-choreographed acts of reckless abandon that evokes their namesake and all-encompassing theme: crushing The Man™ and his work and putting both in their place – under their boots. They grow with the flow, getting as big as it takes to make their message loud and clear, location and height restrictions be damned. Though varied in their means and maximum sizes, each member of City Thrasher is capable, Paine included. For her, it’s sheer projection, willing herself bigger with effort. None of them know how it works, but getting big and getting back to normal is all she knows and is, in her opinion, all she needs to know. If it’s magic, then books are for nerds, so there’s no chance in hell she’d learn anything else; if temporary gigantism is somehow hereditary, then her boring parents were holding out on her. Whatever the case, the bigness is a huge signal boost, and they’ll take all the help they can get.
Personality
Gigs are the lifeblood fueling the soul of every performer. Facetime is the divider, the threshold separating good ones from the roar of a crowd, popularity, immortality of a sort, and the failures dying quiet, creeping deaths from obscurity. Paine understands this, and the urgency of the hustle. She’s always on the lookout for venues, bookers, promoters, big or small, respectable or seedy - any opportunity to get their voices heard, and faces seen. And she’s not afraid of pounding pavement or dragging her bandmates with her to stay ahead of the game. And they’ll moan, whine, complain. Then shut up when she works her charm and gets them the in they desperately need.
It’s the same bold assertiveness she channels into scorn for the establishment and authority. What else could’ve happened to her when her parents thrust some instruments in her face and told her ‘play’? Now that she’s older and bolder, she’s not afraid to tell anyone bossing her around to shove their attitude where it doesn’t shine, the get with the program or fuck off. It’s what keeps their name on the peripheral of the underground, gets people to do what she wants, tells Lucas to cram it whenever he feels like challenging her leadership with any bright ideas he gets in his head. City Thrasher is Paine’s baby, and she doesn’t let anyone tell her how to run her show, even if she’s got to tell off a giant shark more than twice her size to do it. But as hard as she (and he) is on the band, as easy as it is to rile her up, she can be chill when there’s downtime, and times are good. Or as good as things can be for a lean and hungry band of rag-tag punks ever eager for eyes and ears.
Hobbies and Interests
Managing City Thrasher is pretty much her life now. Part of the reason she’s so relentless when it comes to gigs is because it’s their sole income. Doubly so for the skink who more or less cut her parents out of her life. In another life, or whenever things settle down in some indefinite point in the future, she can see herself running a grungy no-name music store out of some nondescript back alley in a city she’s never heard of, preferably in one where nobody’s heard of her, all of her favorite bands plastered and peeling off all the grimy walls, their tracks blasting in her ears, her shop an impromptu stage whenever some group showed up or whenever she felt like turning it into one. Until then, she’s got a band to run, and the hustle of the game to keep them on their toes.
Whenever they’ve got some downtime, she couchsurfs wherever the band happens to be crashing – some friend of a friend of a friend’s place or a place one of the members managed to scrounge up through a loyal fan from a show – provided they can all fit inside it afterwards, of course. And whenever she’s got some extra dough burning a hole in her pocket, she’ll treat herself to some shows or a club. Networking, she calls it. Getting lost in music and the mouths of anyone attractive that moves, if either can be called networking. If she isn’t couchsurfing or networking, she’s doodling whatever scribbles pass for art in her sketchbook, or playing board games with the group to pass the time; affordable, fun, and can be played just about anywhere. If nothing else, they make for good bonding excursions when they recreate their favorites on the macro scale.
Relations
Perhaps the most crucial component of a successful group are its members, arguably the most important people one works with, eats with, sleeps with, and shares their successes and failures with that aren’t your mother. Even the most talented group a soulless corporate committee’s dirty money can buy will horribly implode if egos clash, if too many hands pull the band apart from too many directions, the resulting PR disaster ripe for the tabloids. Paine wanted people who were on the same wavelength, knew what the band was about and what its music represents, who were good fits with her and the other members, on top of being halfway decent musicians. She’s done a good job picking them, as far as she’s concerned. One’s some vulture who skulked around tryouts, played bass guitar, then joined the band, no questioned asked – probably for the best since the bird isn’t much of a talker herself. The other is Flint, their gigantic drummer of a croc who doesn’t talk about his past, or the gazelle always fiddling with her phone in the back of their concerts who is probably his parole officer. They follow the program, even if they need a kick in their asses once in a while to keep up with her and capitalize on the momentum of their growing popularity. But Lucas, City Thrasher’s newest member, is the occasional problem that keeps popping up. He gets in his head now and then to assert himself, finding gigs for the band that don’t line up with their manager’s vision of their future. More eyes and ears on them: mainstream. The kind she doesn’t agree with. She’s not sure if it’s some deep-seated urge to throw his weight around, or the fact that his wife won’t let him do it at home. But it’s easy enough for her to shut him down, and as long as he keeps being a kickass guitarist, she’s willing to put up with his assertive phases.
She’s had the privilege of visiting his house. And every time, she’s always awestruck at how such a colossal place, and equally colossal sharks and their furniture, can fit in what all outward appearances would suggest is a perfectly normal, two story suburban house. His daughter, Cait, is quite literally the biggest fan she’s had the treat of meeting. She has every record, goes to every concert, knows every song by heart, and has all of their shirts. It puts a smile on Paine’s face seeing the muscular and imposing 12-foot shark break down into a giddy and screaming starstruck teenager who’s just met their dream idol. The same experience the skink always wanted growing up, and she’s glad someone so enthusiastic loves their work. And she rewards that devotion with a front row seat to the show and backstage access, all a diehard fan could ask for. But it’s Vivian who she watches out for. It’s not that the sorceress doesn’t approve of their music or her husband’s line of work – she’s more of a medieval folk rock kind of gal – Paine doesn’t like her eyes, those huge, grey eyes always staring down at her hungrily. Like she’s some kind of walking snack. Paine shifting to their size as a not-so-subtle way of dissuading Lucas’s wife from eating her only makes the drooling and the staring worse. So she keeps her visits rare, short and cordial, and hopes Lucas or Cait stay in the same room.
Paine doesn’t talk about her parents, sticks in the mud who only 55% approve of her line of work, who rarely call and when they do, it’s to moan about her life choices. While they’re ‘happy’ for their daughter’s healthy exploration and expression of her musical talents, and are ‘happy’ she’s become a musician like them, they don’t approve of the kind of music she plays or the sort of people it attracts. They’d probably have a heart attack if they ever deigned to see one of her shows. Fine with Paine; they’re missing out on the fun.
These have been pretty fun so far. I still don't have much to say down here, so if you've got something to say, say it and I'll answer. :v
Paine doesn't appear in anything yet, but if/when she does it'll be linked right here!
Art done by
JetMongrel / Jet on TwitterFlint belongs to
sybilthesnake / SizeSnake on Twitter Paine and the rest belong to me.
Category All / All
Species Reptilian (Other)
Size 905 x 1280px
File Size 129.6 kB
Comments