In the twilight age of Earth: 2250, where cities flicker like ghosts and silence hangs heavier than truth, a single voice can still move the world — or disappear within it. That voice belongs to Iris, a poet, a bard, a witness to collapse and bloom alike. They are known by many names, sung in hushed alleys and carved into broken memory chips, but one title follows them across all zones and factions:
Pulse of the Rift.

Born human, with Caucasian features, black hair often tangled by wind or ritual ink, and blue eyes that shimmer like truth told too late, Iris does not fight with weapons. They fight with presence, with language, with the rhythm of memory laced into meaning. Every poem, every whisper, every moment of stillness they offer — it matters.

They are a Bard, yes — but in Earth: 2250, that means much more. Bards are the last historians, the last soulbinders. And Iris is among the rarest: one who can teleport, their words etched with such intensity that they can bend space itself. They vanish mid-verse, reappearing miles away to spread the message to someone else who needs it more.

They are guided by deep convictions:

Freedom & Liberation

Knowledge & Enlightenment

Unity & Cooperation

They heal through language. They connect through silence. They offer empathy not as weakness, but as resistance. Their intuition is uncanny. Their poetry, unsettling. Their presence, unforgettable.

And yet, for all their grace and wisdom, Iris is haunted.

Their greatest fear? To be forgotten.
Their darkness? A Fear of Irrelevance so deep it often guides their every move. In the quiet moments, they question: Do the verses matter? Will their stories survive? Do they matter?

This fear manifests in flaws they try to hide behind humor, warmth, or ritual:

Overthinking / Anxiety — paralyzed by choice, tortured by doubt

Pride — unable to ask for help, desperate to prove they’re already enough

Self-Sacrifice — offering too much of themselves until there’s nothing left

And yet, they keep going.

Iris walks the fractured earth like a wandering myth — slipping between enclaves, vanishing before gratitude can catch them, leaving behind fragments of truth like breadcrumbs in a burning forest. Some say they’re an illusion. Others believe they’re the pulse of the planet itself, trying to remember its story.

They are not a soldier. They are not a leader.
But when the battle is done — when the sky is scorched and the air tastes of sorrow — it is Iris who speaks.

And when they do, even the broken listen.

They are Iris, Pulse of the Rift —
A voice stitched from silence.
A presence drawn through space.
A soul desperate not just to be heard, but to echo.