@carrotsaversion sent:🍑 🍇 🍉 //casually floods you xD also hello! o/
🍑 how meticulously does my muse look after their physical appearance? do they spend a lot of time on their hair, makeup, grooming, and clothing? is there a particular reason why they do or don’t?
“Ah.” Clive raises a hand to the back of his head, his hair even more unruly than it usually is, dark strands matted down by sweat and dirt from a recent scuffle. “Is it that bad? I only just got back from an errand. Ran into some trouble…” He turns his head, gaze averting with the movement and takes a covert, selfconscious sniff of himself, afraid he’s not only looking, but also smelling the part.
He thought he could get away with at least turning in what spoils he procured before returning to his chambers to wash up, as he is — for once — not covered head to toe in blood and monster guts at least. However, he clearly underestimated what others would be able to pick up on if his current appearance warrants inquiries such as this.
Brought up as a noble, hygiene and a well maintained appearance were part of his daily life and even nowadays he enjoys a good soak in a bath if given the chance, although an opportunity for anything beyond a quick daily scrub down with soap and warm (if he’s lucky) water rarely arises.
He has given up on maintaining any sort of proper haircut years ago, but he does remember that his hair drove some of the servants tasked with keeping him presentable mad with how thick and abrasive it was even back then. Nowhere as soft or easy to tame as that of his little brother and definitely nowhere near the dark silk of his father’s hair either.
The latter was why Clive was in a constant struggle to have his own be kept longer as a boy, wishing to emulate his father’s appearance, ever regal, never a strand of hair out of place, only for his own hair to be cut shorter again and again whenever it grew past a certain length because it was deemed unruly.
Whether or not the same could be said about his facial hair he hasn’t attempted to find out yet, usually keeping his beard closely shaven. He’s rarely clean shaven for more than a day or two for lack of time or a looking glass while om the road, but also his face is seldom adorned with more than a stubble for the sole reason of him always having kept it like this. Less a conscious choice and more a force of habit rather than anything else.
As for his garments, there are few items of clothing he even owns, preferring to travel light he rarely purchases new garments unless he absolutely needs to, and what sees the most use of the things he does own is his armor of course, which he treats with great care, checking it for scratches and tears each day. For one, because these clothes are what keep him alive on any given day, but also because they were his father’s and therefire hold great sentimental value, too.
🍇 : how would my muse describe their childhood? how much has it impacted the person they are now, or will become as an adult? around what age did they or will they start to mature, and why? do they wish to go back to their days as a child, or have they embraced adulthood?
Clive tenses visibly before giving a heavy sigh in response. “This is rather a difficult thing to speak of. I doubt it would serve as a particularly pleasant topic for conversation.” He crosses his arms infront of his chest, shielding himself from any other question that might follow.
As the firstborn son of the Archduke of Rosaria great expectations were placed on his shoulders from a very early age, far greater than they should have been for such a young boy. Not only his parents, but Rosaria’s people as a whole expected him to be the heir to the throne, the Dominant of the Phoenix, and when it became apparent that this was not what fate had in store for him, but for his little brother instead, Clive was robbed of what everyone had told him was his purpose in life.
Still, he never resented Joshua for it, but instead turned to another cause immediately, finding reason and validation in becoming the First Shield, seeking a way to earn his way back to the love and affirmation he was previously so readily given by his parents. His mother in particular.
Clive would like to say that his father’s behavior didn’t change in the aftermath of this development, but the truth of the matter is that even at such a young age he could see the disappointment and the worry for his youngest son in Elwin’s eyes, which in turn caused Clive to withdraw from him as well.
Even without taking into account everything that came after that ambush at Phoenix Gate, Clive was marked by these circumstances, and while it may not be as easily seen as the mark or the scar on his face it is something he will carry with him until his dying day.
However, sometimes the lighthearted, bright boy shines through the rough exterior of the battle-hardened man he is today. The boy that used to hide away in his room to read tales of heroes long gone and Gods almighty, dreaming to someday be of the same might but also the boy that once brought a frog home from one of his explorations in the field and laughed uncontrollably alongside his father when the little creature ended up disturbing a rather dull dinner between lords, causing an uproar for a good half hour until it was caught and safely returned to the outside. Yes, the boy that used to look upon his future with such determination and hope but also the boy that was forced to grow up too quickly —
Rarely, when he looks with wonder upon the places where age old stories played out… when he laughs alongside his companions over a particularly bad joke during dinner… when he gets to stop and pet a stray cat during his travels… when he sits leaned against a tree with Torgal’s head resting in his lap…when the winds of fate are quiet.
Then.
He feels he is still that boy.
🍉 : which of the four seasons suits my muse best, and why?
“Huh,” he says, clearly caught off guard. “I can’t say I’ve ever given it much thought.” Clive tilts his head, thinking, a hand raising to his chin as he seeks for an answer, likely taking this far more seriously than it strictly needs to be.
He could answer with the obvious choice. As a Dominant of Ifrit, an Eikon of fire, surely it must be summer, with its scorching heat. But then he thinks of early spring, of the days where for the first time after a long dark winter he’d be able to run back outside, Joshua, Jill and Torgal in tow, the last remnants of snow thawing away, making way for a new year, for new beginnings.
And while this is clearly personal preference caused by nostalgia and good memories he’d like to think it’s this what suits him best, too, for how many times has he started over since? How many times has he fought for this exact thing? A new morning. A new day.
“Spring,” he answers at last, oddly satisfied with his answer, smiling slightly. “I think it’s spring.”