Fire and ash – a swirling maelstrom of colours to assault me as I walked the obsidian path; I could sense no longer which pain was greater, the fear that lurked still in my heart or the burning heat that lay just below the crater's rim. One step. Two. An agony of torment. My feet bled, burned – tore anew and bled again. I coughed and when I coughed spewed forth black soot; I spat and when I spat it was charcoal and cinders; I might have cried, but the last drops of moisture within me were all but boiling. There was nothing to do. Nothing but to walk onward.

Three steps, four. Suffering of lifetimes compacted into a single point and sent down, down, driving down with a force I could... could not summon the strength, could do nothing but feel myself be carried along. My jaw clenched, my form tensed in expectation of a fiery plunge – and then? And then nothing. I rolled and tumbled, over and over again, wrapped it seemed into the very heart of the mountain. But it was no longer I, rather it was -me-, caught somewhere at the edge of what is real and what is unreal, what is conscious and what is unconscious: where these two forces meet, both those concepts of which we are aware and yet do not admit to, and those which we admit to and yet are not aware. 

Like sand at the water's edge, with the tide lapping ever further and further, creeping fingers trailing upward before being pulled away, withdrawn again to leave everything distinctly changed. New things deposited. Old things taken away, carried somewhere into the deep.

Perhaps it simply was that I dreamt. And now I wake to find myself in a pleasant little glen; there is water here – a pond and willows and a lush swath of green grass running right down to the gently swaying edge. My feet ache, and I thirst... oh how I thirst! I can see a blue sky above me. I must be on my back. I roll over and begin to crawl, to crawl one painful hand over the next – if only! If just! To merely drag myself to the edge of the pond -- cutting a blackened trail of ash and blood and grime through the pristine lawn as I go – takes every ounce of strength I can summon up again within me.

I plunge my head into the pleasant waters... 

But blackness! And pain, so much pain! The pool evaporates into a seething cauldron of lava. I feel the flesh disintegrate in my face, blackness covers me as my eyes melt away and I half-fancy the sound of my own bones crackling in the heat...

Fire and ash – a swirling maelstrom of colours assaults me as I walk the obsidian path; I can no longer say how many times I have tried to find the end and failed – nor, perhaps, if I even will before there is too little left of what once was me to remember. But still I can remember my name – my name is Jezeric Nashira.

Age: Twenty-five or thereabouts

Appearance: Thin, lithe – features angular and lupine in nature, hair dark black – kept long and tied back – eyes a deep grey. A light olive shade of skin. His hands are somewhat slender, for a man's, and he stands only a little above average height. Stature, while unremarkable, he carries well – movements fluid, languid almost, as though he had discovered the most efficient way to carry out every motion and thus sees no reason to hurry.

Personality: Loyal but Stubborn, Level-headed yet faintly Calloused, Open Minded but Egotistical. Generous to those in need, Ascetic in almost every aspect of his personal life. 

Origin: Jezeric is one of the Bereaved – a select group of Warrior Shamans who dwell in and around the volcanoes scattered throughout the length and breadth of Syrro. While the vast majority of the Shamanic sects are relatively peaceful in nature, the Bereaved might be considered the tip of the spear in the small yet terribly competent contingent of their military arm. With a life focused first and foremost on the mastering of one's own Psyche, the mental training and deep forays into realms of distantly altered consciousness provide a natural platform from which to develop a deadly combatant. 

Spells: 

Defensive:

Obsidian Mind:

With such a thorough understanding of his own mind and existence, Jezeric is able to channel magic in brief, one-off attempts to foil opponent's attacks, or all else failing, warp the area around he or a nearby friend such that enemies will quickly become confused as their limbs react in opposing direction to what their minds order. While far more practiced and higher-order Shaman's might be capable of extending this into actual control of another's mind, Jezeric's abilities are still some distance from such a mark. To provide a protective shield for just a few minutes at a stretch would be enough to drive a normal man literally insane.

Healing:

Sleep of the Dead:

Jezeric is able to seek the solace and comfort of his dreams in a way that untrained humans never could; while the body rests in a state entirely apart from the mind and soul, he can focus on channeling his own unconsciousness into a more tangible form. Still, the paths of the dreamworld are risky at best – downright deadly at others – and even should one remain near the shores of their own mind, there is the ever-present danger of anything going horribly wrong. Should he himself be of sound enough mind and body, the power might also be channeled to others he can reach in the dreaming world around him.

Offensive:

Lance of the Abyss:

In a similar yet opposite manner to Obsidian Mind, this skill allows Jezeric the ability to gain insight on his opponent's move – with training, it means that he can estimate with deadly accuracy what their next attack will be, possibly before they even know it themselves. (provided the opponents have little training in the ways of keeping their minds guarded and their thoughts concealed) 

Roar of the Volcano:

In their final test before they might don the traditional vestments of the Beraved, acolytes must successfully walk the Obsidian Path; at its end they will find themselves entering into a pact with the denizens of the world just beyond human consciousness. The price is the loss and regathering of every memory and thought they had ever born in their life prior. The reward is twofold – firstly the ability to gain invaluable insight into their own soul (the prime focus of all Shamans), and secondly the ability to channel the power between one plane and the next. But such acts almost always lead to the insanity and eventual death of the Shaman who attempts it, and history has proven so brutal with those that have tried that it is seen as a self-sacrifice in only the greatest of need.

Any questions, feel free to ask for clarification/changes. I would have gone more in depth, but you seemed to want briefer intros... so... I'll kept things relatively brief in the interest of brevity.