Dwarmin / Iris

Name: Iris
Class: Shaman
Character Specific Skill: Wrath
Affinity: Archeus
Personal Fault: Raven dark tresses, hid eyes cold as the dark face of the moon/If Iris is above 50% HP, -10 Critical Rate
Personal Skill: In carnage she bloomed, like a flower in the dawn/If Iris is under 50% HP, +10 Critical rate
//Personal Skill: Dusk after daylight, then came the deeper shadow/If Iris is wielding a weapon of the Dread Category, +2 Base Damage
////Personal Skill:

Preferred stats: Skill, Magic

Weapon profs: Dark (E)

Level: 1 (0/100)
Total Level: 1

Progression spent: 330%/330%

HP: 17 (70%)
STR: 2 (0%)
MAG: 5 (50%)
SKL: 4 (70%)
CON: 5 (+2)
AID: 2
LUK: 2 (10%)
DEF: 0 (10%)
RES: 5 (70%) (+2)
SPD: 4 (50%)
MOV: 4

Current stats:

HP: 22
STR: 2
MAG: 10
SKL: 7
CON: 8
AID: 7
LUK: 3
DEF: 2
RES: 11
SPD: 9
MOV: 5


Inventory:
Name 				| Type ( ) | Rng | Wt | Mt | Hit | Cr | Ql
Flux 				| Dred (E) | 1-2 | 9 | 8 | 70 | 0 | 28/40 [E]
Estus 				|	1/1	   | 10HP
Fool's Ring 		| Equipable | [E]  Hit -20, but crit +10 when equipped.


With Flux
MT: 18+2=20
Hit: 86 / Fool-20
AS: 9
Eva: 25
Crt: 3 / 0 / 13 / Fool+10

Levels:
Lvl2: +MAG, SKL, LCK
Lvl3: +MAG, RES, SPD
Lvl4: +HP, SKL, RES, SPD
Promotion: HP +2 STR +0 MAG +2 SKI +0 CON +3 AID +3 LUC +0 DEF +1 RES +2 SPD +0 MOV 5

Lvl2: +HP, RES, SPD
Lvl3: +SKL, +SPD
Lvl4: +HP, +MAG, +DEF, +RES, +SPD

Bio: The Monarchs fall silent, the Fire fades, Kings abandon their thrones-whatever words you use for it, the world is coming to an End. There are some who look for a path beyond this world, however...

Iris was born of no particular rank-sole child of a pair of bakers-and eventually, she found her calling, and became an artist of some repute. In those times, a painter could live comfortably at the pleasant demands of the nobility. And she lived comfortably, indeed. Her brushwork, impeccable. Her style, vigorous-full of broad strokes, vibrant colors, daring arcs. Her subtle touch imbued with wild, unpracticed magic, bringing her worlds to chaotic, colorful life. She captured other worlds on her canvas, tended them, and made them bloom for others to see. Iris made a sum of wealth, and knew people great and small, and was considered a master of her art. Iris had a life, doing what she loved.

...

And, the Darkness comes on, as it always will, and the colors wash out, and everything fades into slumber. They didn't need painters anymore. They didn't need her. An empty penthouse, at the top of an empty city, in front of a dying fire. She considered what to do, the morning the mark appeared on her arm. Wondering at the cold, creeping up her spine.

Being who she is, she decided to make a new world. A better one. She'll paint a new world, the real world, and leave the old and broken one behind. A perfect world, with all sins forgiven, and all things renewed-forever and forevermore, amen.

Iris picks up her brush and paints, and looks at the blank easel. Hesitant marks, unclear and without purpose. Where do you begin? Where did the Gods begin? With Light? ...No. It all begins, and ends, in darkness...she remembers her lessons. Always use the right pigments. Color is important as technique. The principle of the matter is dedication. You must be willing to take a task all the way to it's conclusion. She takes a sharpened painters knife, and applies it to her own skin. Her blood comes out black.

Perfect.

She passed out and died, for the first time, before she was quite finished the outline of the distant mountains, under a newly darkened sky.

...

The woman known as Iris now travels to the Land of True Kings, looking for the right pigments and techniques to finish her masterpiece-that perfect world, she often dreams of, if the newly dead can be said to still dream. It is an amusing irony, she considers, that at the height of her craft she was forced to start over again, learning new ways, and imagining new things, finding the new colors that stood out best in this cold, hollowed out world. There are the critics, of course. Still-rude, clumsy things, with no appreciation for art and beauty. Little better than potters clay, unformed and crude. Yet, they have a use. She makes them take her to the very edge of dissolution, and in that precipice she has found the perfection she needs to finish, the absolute moment of certainty between the two extreme points of life and death. She is nothing if not a master artist, and now her brushwork must incorporate crude, forceful strokes of combat, and jagged, frightful lines of violence-but, yes, she will persist until it is done.

It must be perfect. The world she is to create must be without error, or the cycle of briefly flaring flame and ever-quenching shadow will repeat, over and yet over again...it must be without flaw, and she must be perfect, if she is to create a better world, one beyond light and dark.

Maybe it is here, she will finally find the perfect place to finish...or perhaps become the person who can finish it...maybe a touch of Godsblood in the azure paint, will let her finally fill in the stars of her strange new sky...