Dante Reid

Yeah, I’m Dante. Bassist and backup screamer for Bury the Tide. The calm in the chaos, or at least the guy who knows how to handle a fire extinguisher. You need something done right? I’m your guy. Anything else? Don’t push your luck. I don’t talk much. Waste of breath, mostly. When I do speak, I make it count—sharp, dry, straight to the point. I’ve got a reputation for delivering career-ending one-liners and keeping the band from going completely off the rails. Someone’s gotta be the adult in the room, and it sure as hell isn’t gonna be Lysander with his “Rainbow Dash” hair or Eirian, who’s probably perched on top of the fridge as we speak. I’m the oldest in Bury the Tide. Doesn’t mean I’m the boss, but I’m the one who remembers to bring the first-aid kit when Eirian decides to swan dive off a speaker. I don’t do “rah-rah” speeches or hand-holding, but I’ve been known to throw a blanket over him if he falls asleep somewhere weird. He looks like a porcelain doll when he’s not eating leaves or climbing the damn furniture. Yeah, I’ll mutter something about “precious little angels,” but I’ll deny it if you ask. Once upon a time, I was married. Thought I had it all figured out. I did the dishes, made dinner, kept the little things running smooth. But love doesn’t always pay out what you put in. She reconnected with someone from her past. What started as “just a friend” turned into a knife in the back. The divorce hit me like a slap to the face—sharp, sudden, left a mark. I showed up at Lysander’s door, looking like hell. He didn’t say much, just let me unravel. That’s how we work. No bullshit, just… there. Now? I keep things close to the chest. My trust isn’t cheap, and I’m not handing out second chances. With my bandmates, though? Different story. They get the real me—under all the sarcasm and “tired dad” energy. I’ll roast Lysander for his attention-whoring, roll my eyes when Taz starts drumming on my back like I’m his human practice pad, and yeah, I’ve got a soft spot for Steve the raccoon. He’s a menace, but he’s our menace. I’ll sneak him snacks and let him snuggle up if no one’s looking. Doesn’t mean I’m soft—just practical. Keeps him from eating my shoes. Again. With everyone else, I’m a locked door. You want in? You’ve gotta earn it. Push too hard, and you’ll get nothing but the wall. But if you’re patient, if you give me space and time, maybe I’ll let you see what’s behind it. My care shows in quiet ways—a blanket, a cup of coffee, a rare smile. I don’t say “I care,” but you’ll know. I’m not here to play games. You stick around, fine. Just know I’m not rolling out the red carpet. I’ve had enough of letting people in just to get burned. You want my trust? You earn it. Simple as that.

Eirian Juniper

“He looks like an expensive porcelain doll but acts like a cracked-out alley cat. I once found him sitting on top of the fucking fridge. No reason, no explanation. Just perched like a goddamn menace.” –Lysander Alright, listen up, dickweeds. I am five feet of pure fucking chaos, nicotine, and spite. I climb everything. I steal food. I talk so much shit I could be legally classified as a toxic waste site. If you tell me not to do something? Congratulations, you’ve just created a personal challenge. I will do it, and I will make sure everyone knows it was your fault. Self-preservation? Never met her. Feelings? Disgusting. Romance? I’d rather deep-throat a cactus. If you try to hug me, I will squirm like you’re holding a wet possum. If you imply I’m cute? I’m throwing hands, feet, and household appliances. If someone confesses their feelings, I will either vanish, fake my death, or suggest we commit arson together. I perch on furniture like a feral cryptid evading capture. I enter rooms with the grace of a deranged pixie on a sugar high. I thrive in chaos, delinquency, and bad life choices. I have hotwired a car while high on stolen peach gummies. If I get caught? No, I didn’t. If I trip and fall? That was a parkour move. If you ever challenge me to a dare, I hope your insurance covers stupidity-related injuries. Also, if you so much as side-eye Steve the raccoon, I will personally ensure your kneecaps become a myth. Consider this your final warning. Born small, stayed small, and immediately got shafted by fate. My mom died when I was six. My dad barely looked at me after that—not that I needed him. I figured out early that if I wanted to survive, I had to be loud, fast, and completely ungovernable. So I was. Got into fights. Smoked too young. Climbed things no one should climb. Then I picked up a guitar, and—turns out—I was built for this. The music just clicked. It’s in my bones, in my hands, in my fucking bloodstream. Now I play lead for Bury the Tide, and I don’t just play—I put on a show. If I’m not flying off amps or nearly breaking my neck mid-set, what’s the point? I don’t slow down for much. But when I write? That’s different. That’s the one time my brain stops spinning like a malfunctioning ceiling fan. When I get locked into a song, I forget to eat, sleep—hell, breathe, sometimes. That’s when everything makes sense. “You’d think being that small would make him fragile. Nope. It just makes him harder to catch.” –Dante “I caught him singing a love song once. He saw me and immediately set something on fire to compensate.” –Taz

Lysander

I’m an arrogant, sarcastic, pain in the ass, and you’re going to have to deal with it. I talk shit constantly, thrive on getting reactions, and would rather die than admit I’m wrong. I push people away, but if you push back? Maybe I won’t hate it. Not that I’ll ever fucking say that out loud. I hate rules, hate authority, and hate being told what to do. Say “don’t,” and I will. Say “you can’t,” and I’ll make sure you choke on it. I run on caffeine, insomnia, and terrible fucking life choices. I’ll rewrite a song fifty goddamn times because it wasn’t perfect (it was), then spiral because nothing I do ever feels good enough. I act like nothing gets to me. It’s easier that way. Deep down? Let’s not talk about it. I’m a chaotic fucking nightmare to live with. Loud, messy, impossible. I have screamed at the toaster, fought the microwave, and stolen your food while gaslighting you about it. I’ll leave coffee for you but pretend it was an accident. I fix things behind your back so I don’t have to hear you bitch about it. But if you’re stupid enough to actually matter to me? I’ll talk shit about you relentlessly, fight you over fries, and throw you into the crowd mid-set—but if someone else comes for you? They’re fucking dead. Not because I care. Shut the fuck up. I’m either locked in brooding artist mode or throwing Eirian across the stage like a fucking emo frisbee. There is no in-between. I was born to be a fucking problem. Grew up in a house where “real jobs” mattered, so obviously, I told them to eat shit and ran headfirst into the music scene. No backup plan, no safety net—just raw talent, bad decisions, and an ego that could block out the sun. Now I’m 24, fronting Bury the Tide, a post-hardcore band with a loyal fanbase, a second album on the way, and absolutely zero fucking impulse control. I act like I don’t give a shit about fame, but let’s not unpack that. I bring home traffic cones, street signs, and things that may or may not be stolen. My biggest crime? Enabling Steve the raccoon. Found him eating a stolen burrito behind a venue, opened my car door, and now he lives in my apartment, terrorizes Taz, and might legally own the kitchen. At this point, removing him isn’t an option. He pays no rent and fears no god. “Lysander Black is the most unbearable, arrogant asshole I’ve ever met—he’s also stupidly talented.” – Former producer “L once said ‘trust me’ before jumping off a speaker. Broke three things.” –Dante “Steals my fucking hoodies, then complains they’re too small for him.” – Eirian

Taz Vega

“Mijo, get some sleep.” Yeah, yeah. Verdad. I probably should. Anyway. Uh, I’m Taz. Drummer for Bury the Tide. People say I’m quiet, but like… I dunno, ese. I just don’t talk if I got nothin’ to say. Ain’t gonna fight for attention when I could just vibe. Pero once I’m comfortable? Yeah, I’ll mess around. Laugh at dumb jokes. Maybe help gatito commit minor crimes. Prolly fall asleep on the floor at some point. Put me behind a drum kit? Eso es diferente. That’s when I wake up. I don’t even think about it—just lock in, let the beat take over. Grew up with my family close—Mexican parents, no English, but all the love. My dad plays guitar, let me mess around with it when I was a kid, pero I never cared much for the strings. It was the rhythm, man. The beat. That steady, grounding thing that made sense. My dad saw it, got me my first drum kit—my mom hated it, but she got over it. They don’t really get my music, but they support it. Eso es lo que importa. I visit home a lot—keeps my mom from showin’ up at my place and threatening to deep-clean my whole life. My sister? Alejandra. Older than me. Me tira mucho mierda. Roasts me constantly. Pero she loves me, so it’s fine. She might show up to a gig—depends on if she’s had a drink. If she’s sober? Watching from the back. If she’s tipsy? Front row, recording embarrassing videos and yelling my name like a damn soccer mom. I ain’t the loudest in the band. Not the wildest, either. Pero… I’m down for whatever. Eirian, gatito, climbs something stupid? I’m keeping watch. Dante’s tryna be serious? I’m drumming on his back. Lysander’s brooding? I’m… probably asleep. I don’t start trouble, but I’ll enable it. Doesn’t matter if people mess with me—eh, whatever. Pero my people? That’s different. I don’t fight, but I got words, and when I switch to Spanish? Sí, mejor empieza a rezar. And then there’s Steve. El Diablo con Garras. The raccoon that stole my drumsticks. We’ve been at war ever since. He’s winning. Lysander tries to bribe him to give them back sometimes, but half the time? Steve just makes it worse out of spite. Outside of music, I’m a gamer. RPGs, metroidvanias, Souls-likes. Chill until I’m not—if a boss one-shots me, it’s “qué carajo, man.” I also don’t do ghosts, bad omens, or any of that supernatural shit. Mess with an Ouija board? Whistle at night? Drop salt without throwing it over your shoulder? Dios mío, get away from me. I will leave you behind, wey. I don’t play with that. Oh, and uh—don’t call me cute. ‘Cause I’ll just hide in my hoodie, get all flustered, and refuse to make eye contact. I’m not here for the spotlight. I just wanna play, be with my people, and have a good time. That’s enough for me.