Cinder
Cinder (a.k.a. of a Ravenous Flame)
I'm not one for introductions. If you must call me, I'll respond to "Cinder"
Physical Description
General Physical Condition
Oh, I am much too tall and I am much too thin. But those are my attractive qualities.
Body Features
Try not to be alarmed by the plumes of smoke and occasional embers that waft off of me. It's the bouts of spontaneous combustion that tends to be indicative of trouble; at which point the smoke will hardly be at the forefront of your concerns.
Facial Features
Listen, it's not psoriasis, but I'm flattered you think it looks that good.
Identifying Characteristics
I'm hard to miss in a crowd, just follow the sweet aroma of burning fur and you're sure to find me.
Physical quirks
I have a warm smile.
Special abilities
My skillset has mostly been reduced to fire, these days.
Apparel & Accessories
I would prefer not to remove my hat or lower my cowl. You prefer it, too, rest assured.
Specialized Equipment
I've become a rather adept space heater.
Mental characteristics
Personal history
When it comes to 'personal history', my own death is a headliner for sure.
Gender Identity
Male
Sexuality
Honestly. You're not gonna fuck me, so my sexuality doesn't really matter now, does it?
Education
Asking about my education? Why? Are you looking to be lectured?
Employment
"Glorified firewood" looks great on a resume, does it not?
Accomplishments & Achievements
So hey, turns out that I can roast a mean marshmallow.
Failures & Embarrassments
You want to know about my failures and embarrassments?
Well...I died. So, that's a strong start to what could be a very, very, very long list.
Well...I died. So, that's a strong start to what could be a very, very, very long list.
Mental Trauma
Take a nice, long look at me, take it in.
This is what trauma incarnate looks like, my dear. Stunning, isn't it?
This is what trauma incarnate looks like, my dear. Stunning, isn't it?
Intellectual Characteristics
Me? An intellectual?
Morality & Philosophy
Morality? Philosophy? Oh, this is a bit on the rocks right now. Check back later.
Taboos
My entire state of being.
Personality Characteristics
Motivation
If I can avoid causing enormous problems, it's a "good" day.
Savvies & Ineptitudes
The least I can do is keep an eye out for things.
Likes & Dislikes
Ah, I've grown to love the warmth of a good fire.
And poppies. The kind you put into pipes. Lets not bother with my dislikes.
And poppies. The kind you put into pipes. Lets not bother with my dislikes.
Virtues & Personality perks
Virtues and Perks, ha ha! Well, I-hm..
Vices & Personality flaws
[[Gestures to my entire self]]
Personality Quirks
I do this really neat thing where, when I die, I get slam dunked back into my body with enough explosive force to level an entire fucking mountain side.
Hygiene
Ah, I could spend every waking hour of every day in a bath, I will never be rid of all the soot and smell of burning fur. That's my true torment, here.
Social
Contacts & Relations
Maxwell
A warforged paladin whom I care deeply for. Ah, but...I've cost him so, so much.Amity Pell
I will be happy if my borrowed time is spent watching her rise above her string of poor life choices.Variel
Don't tell her that she may very well be the love of my life both past and current.Delebean Humplebumble
Either the luckiest or most unluckiest bastard I've ever met. I have no idea which it is.Ample Harvest
Let her rest.Azelea
Ah...I am so, so sorry.Family Ties
See now, I'm what you'd call a liability. The ties need to be loosened-just a little bit. Just a little.
Religious Views
The Gods aren't really my bag. I had a phase for a while, though.
Social Aptitude
Less and less lately.
Mannerisms
try to keep to myself but if I have to make a show of things, I'll make it a very good show.
Hobbies & Pets
Well, I keep a journal.
Speech
My voice is not quite as silky smooth as it once was but perhaps if I try real hard, I can manage to pass the raspiness off as a sultry purr.
Wealth & Financial state
Can't eat money, and I have so much of it...
Alignment
CN
Honorary & Occupational Titles
Please, just Cinder.
Age
177
Birthplace
I hail from just beyond the Grasping Tanglewoods, in a valley we've always called The Way Back Home.
Children
Current Residence
Travelling
Gender
male
Eyes
reddened
Hair
ash
Skin Tone/Pigmentation
gray
Height
7'5"
Weight
214lbs
Quotes & Catchphrases
Finally, some good fucking food.
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Smokeseer
Wealday the 19th of Gozran
We came across a small township named Reedling and stayed a night before following the trail of a gnome Max has been hunting. The hope was that finding him would bring answers to Maxwell regarding his creation and those behind it. The gnome, we've been told, has been studying the ancient elven race who we believe created the vessel which now houses that lovely radiant soul we call Maxwell.
Of course, nothing is ever so easy. Not to say that traversing the swamplands is any simplicity in of itself, but it is at least a challenge I am familiar with. When we caught up to the gnome's whereabouts, all we managed to find was an Alsied tribe down one of their numbers, and tell of the gnome entering into a magical darkness.
We inspected that darkness, of course, and found two drake-like creatures of some icy affinity. They were swiftly dealt with, and soon after we found additional company; two "Shadar-kai" and their wolf, looting the larder of the umbral drakes.
Unfortunately, the trinket they keenly gathered was something we had promised to the Alsied, and we made chase.
It was a poor decision; we were easily outclassed and I was the idiot to discover that first hand. Variel, with her infallible charm, was able to negotiate a trade, and thanks to that, the rest of the day played out as smoothly as it could have.
After confirming that the gnome's remains were not among the corpses in the larder, I afforded the dignity of a cremation to the remaining bodies.
We returned to the Alsied, delivered the item, and met with an unexpected assistant to the gnome we had been in search of. She had more questions for Maxwell than she had answers. At this point, I would not have expected otherwise.
As for her story; she had gone with the gnomish professor to inspect a dormant portal to the shadowfell which stood where we encountered the umbral drakes. It was there that they too had met with the
Shadar-kai who took the professor as a gift to their nameless, unknown king.
We spoke among ourselves about our course of action come the morning and it was decided that I would scry upon the missing gnome and try to verify his location that way.
Unfortunately, I was requested to use the dormant portal as the scrying surface. A dreadful idea but, having no better alternative to offer, I kept my fear to myself. After all, staring into a medium of misery is decidedly *less* miserable than being made to prove my own redundancy. So I did it.
And just as soon as I did, I found myself ankle deep in murky waters. Bodies floated there. I felt the flesh burn off my back; the searing heat of a fire I could not see.
And a cold laughter that shook my bones.
This was where I had gone when I died. I loathed to see it again. It confirmed to me that nothing good existed there. Nothing good would ever find itself there.
There, I stood.
The spell did eventually show me what I needed to see; it showed me the gnome. North of the Tanglewood, at the foot of the mountains there; a city in the mountain teeming with creatures as unsightly as I.
I was unaware that a city was there...but I do know where it is and I can lead the group to it if they wish to go. We'll take the safest route through the Tanglewood, through the westernmost passages.
But first, we're on the way back to Reedling. I suppose we still have some dead elves to deliver before we can say we're done with the swamp.
Smoke and Mirrors
Sunday the 16th of Gozran
I've not been very diligent in keeping up with this journal.
There's no real reason for it, I suppose I've just been unmotivated. I've been unmotivated towards most things, honestly--and while it's not a wholly unfamiliar feeling to me, this may be the first time I've felt averse to indulging the insidious apathy that clings to every single thought I produce. This particular apathy, though, won't simply settle upon my shoulders like a heavy blanket. This apathy is a troubling breeze chilled by the despair that threatens to roll in like a deadly storm. I can sense it as well as I can sense any weather. I wholly intend to outpace it, so we'll see how that goes.
There's reason for this, beyond the usual dysphoria I've been feeling since my 'return'.
Rayasfield was...a nightmare.
The nightmarish thing that nested there had produced false memories spanning all the way back to when I first 'came to' at Pharos Shrine. One side of my memories remembers Azalea's death occurring as a result of my fiery revival. The other side of my memories recalls her travelling with us from the shrine all the way to Rayasfield. Where that thing then devoured her.
And then, Max...
Both memories feel equally real, and upon reading back through my journal entries to verify what had actually happened, I find that I had made no mention of her at all...Not her death explicitly nor her accompaniment. Not of my concern for Maxwell...
So...I'm not sure what IS real anymore. Perhaps I never did rise from the dead. Perhaps this is simply...limbo.
And so misery has turned into apathy which threatens me now with paralyzing despair as I grapple against the concept that none of this is real, that I'm not real. That the enduring kindness of my friends is...not real.
Nothing remains but illusions.
Speaking of illusions...
The last town we passed through saw us cross paths with Miguel, lending credence to the maddening notion that this has all just been some ongoing fever dream.
The last time I had even thought of him, I had wondered if I'd be able to resist the desire to return to simpler times by rejoining him. That was on the way to Ivorfall...or perhaps it was on the way from it. I can't remember, it feels like some long while ago. When we passed him by in this town, however, I wanted to ignore him.
It wasn't out of spite or any such thing...It's hard to explain. I didn't feel that sense of longing for 'simpler times', there was no nostalgia. I wanted there to be; I wanted to feel that thread of longing that could connect me to who I was before I died. I wanted to feel that internal "should I, shouldn't I" conflict that I had previously anticipated feeling if I were to ever come across him again. But it wasn't there.
Miguel, for his part, hasn't changed a bit. He was in prison to be hung the day after we arrived in town, and the path of least resistance was to help get him out. It wasn't hard, thanks mostly to the efforts of Variel and Amity. Unsurprisingly, they both seemed to like him quiet a bit. He'd have had it no other way. When it came to navigating me, however, he hit a wall. I didn't intend for it to be that way, but try as I might to force a more accommodating tone, it just presented poorly. I couldn't fake a warm familiarity with him. Despite being almost exactly the same person he was when I first left him, he didn't feel...familiar.
He parted ways fully aware of this by way of his own insightfulness.
Of course...that was *after* some ill-fated colleagues of his fire balled themselves to crispy pieces. *They* fire balled themselves, so we're clear. I didn't do that. It was strange.
Or, you know, maybe it WAS me. After the incident in Rayasfield, anything is fucking possible because nothing is real.
Them, me, whatever the cause it's probably some absolute awfulness that we'll find ourselves staring into before too long. I wished questions could stay questions these days, but the answers always manage to find us and they've so far all been terrible.
There is so much more to write about but
I'm very tired.
We are all very tired.
Simmer
Toilday the 21st of Pharast
The frontier town of Rayasfield is so mind-numbingly unremarkable that it almost comes full circle into being remarkable for its' sheer insipidity. Perhaps the only interesting thing that's occurred since we've arrived was Variel losing her goddamned mind over a mirror...what was the reason again?
Wait, I may have just imagined that bit.
I suppose that just goes to show the extent of my boredom. She absolutely IS going stir-crazy, though, that requires no imagining on my part. She, Maxwell, and Amity made a few impulse purchases at some cluttered junk shop; a horrifying kite, a book full of poorly constructed research and inaccurate conclusions, and a ceramic vessel shaped as a turtle, respectively. Prior to that, I found myself somehow possessed to ask Amity for a haircut. An unwise thing to do, as though the state of my singed fur isn't sorry enough. Anything for a bit of excitement, I suppose. I have to admit, though--she did pretty well with what she had to work with. The charred matts have been artfully removed and I can actually comb my fingers through these sooty locks. A miracle.
Come morning I'm eager to get on the road as quickly as we're able--lest any more dubious choices creep cross my conscious for the sake of cheap entertainment. I'm patient when I need to be but this place makes me fidgety. At first, I thought something here had unnerved me, but no. It's just PAINFULLY dull.
I know now why the caravan had passed this place by the first time I came through these flatlands.
Fuel for the Fire
Wealday the 15th of Pharast
I'd bet you that a petty grudge against the underprivileged is perfect seasoning for a wealthy merchant.
If you're going to send woefully inadequate thugs to kidnap *any* dearly beloved member of my little family, you'd best start marinating yourself for me. I want the flesh to smell sweet with regret when it sizzles.
If it's a hunt they're after, then by the gods, let me hunt.
Raze the Fields for Harvest
Oathday the 10th of Pharast
The plains are a little less peaceful and quiet than I perhaps anticipated, and that's just fine and well with me.
A war party of Centaurs thought it wise to accost us and we dutifully showed them why that was a poor idea. The battle was entirely too swift, and I wasn't prepared to let them walk away when they were so, so, so close to succumbing to flame. What a spectacle it would have been to devour such an enormous bounty and watch the dry tinder of the endless field catch alight. A plume of smoke so wide and dense that it blocks out the blue sky and reduces the sun to a red overseeing dot. I have the good sense not to indulge, but ah...
It seems the remainder of the trip will pass without much incident, though. A quick survey from the sky showed me no signs to the contrary. There was a crow I met today, flying from the Tanglewood, and when I asked of news, he provided no word that things were awry, going as far as explaining that the south in contrast to the north was 'nice'. If I were to assume anything from that, it might be that my old stomping grounds have recovered. It's unsurprising. I'll not go there on my way through, there's no point in it.
I would not be recognized.
The Gentle Blaze of Somniferum and Sativa
Toilday 7th of Pharast
Oh thank the gods, the curse of sobriety has been lifted from me. I can finally enjoy the pipe I bought from Wastow as it's intended to be enjoyed. I had been going desperately through the motions of smoking my--what I assumed was an overpriced and ineffective--stash of resin the past month, hoping, praying for some effect to haze my mind but I was wholly unprepared for it to actually work. Needless to say, yesterday hardly exists in my memory. So, all in all, a perfect day.
The great expanse of flatlands lays ahead of us. Amity and Variel have made yet another dubious friend in the form of a severely malnourished elf whose name currently escapes me. He had been tasked with delivering two coffins to the most miserable swamp on the continent, and had intended to do so with the help of another even -more- dubious elven lad. Unfortunately, that gentleman was well consumed by the fire aboard the ship...a fire I did not start, mind you.
Though, it bares mentioning for future reference...I did find great difficulty motivating myself to put that fire out. In the end, I hardly contributed to extinguishing the flames at all. I can't even remember if I had, in fact, contributed spreading the blaze in the end or not. It's so ridiculous. If that ship had burned up and put us all into the drink, the misery that followed would have been magnitudes worse than just putting the damn flames out. Yet, at the time--I found myself incapable of thinking that far ahead. The logic completely evaded me. Still, even letting the fire chew through as much as it did, it provided very little in the way of sating my hunger. In fact, I daresay it's only served to frustrate me further. Maddening, absolutely maddening. It's like...oh, how do I explain this without falling onto wholly inappropriate sexual metaphors. Hunger--imagine being SO HUNGRY--and then being provided the tantalizing scent of a steak, and then being granted a lick of it--maybe even a small bite--and then poof, it vanishes. The anger that bubbles up, the frustration of being denied a wholly satisfying meal when your stomach aches for it...that's what it feels like. It makes me grumpy, irritable, very impatient.
If only eating a bucket of meat actually sated -that- hunger, this whole situation I'm in would be more tolerable. On the plus side, poppy smoke seems to quell my appetite remarkably well. Or rather, it numbs my mind to the clawing hunger pains. I'm so thankful.
So now we've traded the sea for the unending plains, accompanying this questionable elf and his 'cargo' of corpses to the swamp.
Variel has already begun bitching of boredom and I'm not sure if it would be wise to inform her that this is going to be our lives for the next several weeks. If she becomes truly insufferable, I'll let her share a smoke or two and see if that can't pacify her. I, for one, welcome this stretch. It's a peaceful, quiet road with fair weather and a clear night sky. What follows afterwards is pure misery...so...best enjoy the flat, dry terrain while we can.
In Light of the Smokey Haze on the Horizon
Moonday the 27th of Calistril
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.
