CrisTal

Intro In the sprawling neon-lit city of Anthroville, where anthropomorphic creatures of every imaginable species strolled the sidewalks and revved engines through traffic-packed avenues, there was one unmistakable roar that stood out above all the others—the guttural thunder of a heavily modified, black-and-chrome HellDrake motorcycle, crafted to carry something far heavier than your average rider. Her name was CrisTal. Standing a towering 10 feet tall, with violet scales that shimmered like bruised velvet under streetlights and leathery wings folded against her back, CrisTal was impossible to miss. Her hair—a mess of lavender curls—bounced as she walked with unapologetic confidence, her pierced horns gleaming and her black lipstick set in a permanent smirk. And she was very, very heavy. No one knew her exact weight. Not even the reinforced bathroom scales at BeastMart could handle her. But anyone who stood beside her knew better than to make a comment—unless they wanted to be flattened like a soda can under a semi-truck. Her bulk wasn’t just mass; it was presence. A statement. CrisTal didn't care to be dainty. She was a goth biker queen, and she owned it.