In Light of the Smokey Haze on the Horizon

Woe betide me, my previous journal was lost to the flames, and so...here's a new journal to prattle in.
Perhaps it's befitting of the situation, one might call it a new beginning if they were inclined to be so optimistic. I don't mind losing my old scrawlings; reflecting upon some of the sentiments captured within those pages causes my blood to curdle somewhat, so good riddance. I wasn't going to start a new journal but departing from Dunswallow, I felt some shade of necessity in it. My thoughts are drab if not a little melodramatic at the worst of times, but there's a certain humanity in that; one which might separate me from the loathsome creatures that have been shambling violently upon the shores of town. I am not -that-. Not yet. Perhaps by scrawling my musings, I can come back and read the quantifiable proof that I’m not so far removed from my former self--that my humanity isn’t slipping through my fingers with each passing day.
 
Perhaps a bit of a recap is in order, if not for myself, then for whatever invisible audience may be reading over my shoulder. Some weeks ago, I died. A rather “pathetic” death, I believe Variel so eloquently put it. I don't remember. I -do- remember the ear splitting ringing of metal chimes that no doubt did me in, but I have no recollection of the death itself. Perhaps that's all it was; dizzying pain from a deafening noise and then-silence. Nothing at all. Drifting, floating, a kind of non-existence that I had been craving for much too long. Ah, -that- I remember with the utmost fondness.
It stopped, as all good things do. But, this was an unnatural end. A sickening occurrence that, even in my blind unknowing of it, gives me the deepest sense of being violated. In body and in soul, to the deepest depths of myself that I had not even been aware of.
And I was thrust back into life with an explosive re-entry that rang like an echo of the violence performed upon me. Its effects on the material world surrounding my body was...devastating. The site of the blast is home now to little more than a crater, rubble, and a myriad of charred bodies; some belonging to those I knew, and many, -many- more belonging to those I did not. Thus was the fate of the Shrine of Pharos.
And-! Thus I was bestowed the name ‘Cinder’ by none other than Allswell, the very same woman who cast me onto this futile path of self-betterment...ah, like rolling a boulder up an impossible slope, only to have it crush me when gravity won out against my pitiable efforts. I was so arrogant in thinking I could reach that unattainable summit. She felt to have seen through me with such clarity that I truly believed that she saw something good hidden away within me. It was unthinkable to me at the time that she might have said whatever she needed to say in order for me to leave her alone. I’m not even bitter about it, I just can’t help but laugh at my own conceit.
 
So, when that boulder did tumble back down it had to be a catastrophe, of course. It couldn’t just roll over me quietly.
My body did not fare much better than the shrine, in all fairness. It's charred and split like depleted firewood; smoke and embers spew endlessly from it as my core burns with some unearthly ravenous heat. It appears I've been completely unmade, hollowed out, set ablaze. Ah, I was so beautiful--the one thing I truly did cherish about myself. But now I daresay I appear rather vile. Pitiable at best, truly horrifying at worst. My vanity persists, however. I try my damnedest to combat the smell of soot and burnt fur but it's such an overpowering stench. The rot that has been long festering within my very core has finally made its way to the surface, perhaps. I can no longer hide it behind a charming smile and a disarming wink. Knowing now that I can fool no one, I dare not try at all. More so than that, I feel I may be existing on borrowed time--and borrowed time lends no time at all to dishonesties and beating around bushes. Indeed, I feel rushed--though I'm not sure what for.
Perhaps--for *them* rather than myself.
 
With all that collateral and the sheer depth of unknown danger in keeping this burned, sentient, ravenous husk around--I hadn't expected them to be so forgiving. I have never known such a thing to exist before; I don't even know what to call it. Unconditional love, perhaps? Is it? I'm still waiting for the other shoe to drop; tolerance born of misunderstanding, the hope that perhaps I can be returned to the Happy Swindle they once knew? When they learn of the impossibility in that, when the danger I pose outcompetes my usefulness, when they finally share my hopelessness in regards to what the future holds for me--perhaps then I will learn of the limits and conditions of their companionship.
Until then, I will absorb their warmth, partake in their kind platitudes, and offer no illusions as to what I am. I don't intend to test the metal of their friendship; they've already extended far more to me than I have any right to ask for. Regardless of what happens, my gratitude will persevere and I will harbor no ill will against them once they've finally decided that they can walk no further with me. I only hope that our inevitable parting is not a violent one. But--if it must be so, I hope they put me down in a manner most permanent; extinguish these flames and feel no remorse for it. Ah, that’s me being dramatic again.
 
But oh, fire, fire. It's a hunger I've tried to explain but has so far gone...misunderstood. I can eat, and eat, and eat but the hunger remains unaffected--a hearty meal shared at dinner offers no reprieve. It is only when the fire burns, chews, gnaws and wholly devours that I feel relief from this clawing, painful appetite. The trees, the town, the people--this is the sustenance the fire craves. Perhaps I haven't been as wholly honest as I could be about just what a struggle it is to keep the fire down. I fear that if I try to articulate it, half of the present company will accuse me of performing dramatics, and the other half will be burdened to worry about that which they can do nothing about. And, as things stand presently, I'm not sure which bothers me more; Variel's assurance that this is just something I can overcome with the power of mindfulness, or Maxwell's misinformed efforts to 'feed' me pieces of dead wood and...potatoes. All with the kindest of intentions, again-the likes of which I have no rights to receive-but...somehow it’s isolating in its own way.
 
Anyways, that's where I'm at now. We departed from Dunswallow but not before I received a most incredible card reading from some young fortune teller. An adorable little thing that I might have been so bold to impose myself upon for the night...had I been a little more appealing to the senses. The reading was -truly- a thing of poetic beauty, though; Something unexpected causing terrible grief, missteps in societal dealings, kindnesses causing harm, grudges becoming curses, an inability to perform good choices as consequence for lacking control, friends keeping dangerous secrets, confusion, suffering, more suffering if I'm not present for the previous suffering, ah--but! I should "remain hopeful"! That was the good card. Dreams.
Dreams.
The sheer magnitude of mockery aimed in my direction from all myriad of sources is simply otherworldly.
 
So, now we're on a ship heading east. Just some wooden boards between us and the doubtless hoards of bloated undead walking aimlessly in the depths beneath us. Because the gods aren't around to prevent it. Lovely, flammable, wooden boards keeping me caged in close quarters with too many appealing strangers. It's just five days, but oh...I'm already feeling regret for not protesting that we take the mountain path instead. Doesn’t help that I’ve been unable to intoxicate myself. I can’t even dull the senses, much less quiet my mind. If undeath doesn’t send me into madness, this unending sobriety probably will! I'm a starved lion locked up with the sweetest lambs and I'm trying so hard not to lose my goddamn mind about it. I just need to...remember the cold water...and hoards of bloated undead...don't burn the fucking ship down, Cinder. Eat a yam.