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Dreary days were not Clovis' favorite. Yes, they looked quite beautiful, they made for a gorgeous backdrop against the homes and relatively vacant streets, all the citizens of this town seeming to want to flee the oncoming storm. Something mildly eerie, whilst holding a level of charm, the emptied streets. Crackling above making it known to anything and anyone that downpour was soon to begin, cleaning the city once more. In spite of this, he still took issue with it, as the rain tended to bring him down mentally, for some reason. He considered himself a mentally fortified individual, but lately... Nevertheless, he made do, grateful to keep it moving, keep it going, and see the scenery once more. To be amongst it, too.. Having more than one near-death experience--and then a proper death and pseudo-afterlife experience!--tended to make you significantly more appreciative of the life around you and the tinier reminders of it. Although it was the reason he may have to don a tighter protective style, he did so love the look of the rain, and the process of precipitation. He missed the earth and environmental section of his laboratory unit in childhood, sometimes. Enough nostalgia, though. There are more pressing matters.
He'd just departed from his small, second home in Lovecease. It was not as small as he'd hoped, although thankfully not a bustling, raucous city, like the kind he'd been shocked to the core by from merely reading about in his now-deceased many-great-great-great's grandchild Nashatra's journal entries. It pained him to read past a certain point, so Clovis could not say he'd effectively dug through her things. A portion of it he gave to Eunoia, whilst being less than honorable in keeping some possessions that he knew she may also feel better having. It made him feel as though he were a bad person, however he knew it was.. some level of grief.
And again, pain. He had never properly met the future generations ancestor (and oh, how wrong it felt to say that, as it should be him with the title of ancestor here, not her) of his lineage known as Nashatra Bealdhild, although he knew from personal anecdotes of the likes of people such as Richardson, Eunoia, and Toa Zuku, that she was a strong, spirited person, burdened with far too much responsibility at what should've been the start of her journey into adulthood.
It made him feel quite shameful to say he had on more than one occasion indulged Eunoia's wishes (none sexual, not even romantic--to his knowledge. He knew she saw some semblance of Nashatra in him, surely she did, otherwise he doubt she'd continue to tolerate his ramblings and general presence, even on kinder modes of operation) in staying at her side in the unhealthier moments of their combined bouts of grief. They had cuddled, that was the extent of things. She told him much of Nashatra. He wondered if the despondent android-woman would ever love the same again, if she even could, having been actualized and then immediately exposed to utter destruction of life, seeing how frail what you hold so dear truly is in the grand scheme of things.
Clovis could not say with a full-hearted confidence that it was the Rose Seekers that lead Nashatra to her death. He knew, logically, this was not true, not something he could verify. He knew, that technically he had once been a part of--and known many--who were involved in that sort of dealing. But in his day, they had no name, it was merely a looser string of connection. Now, they'd an official title, training regiments, the whole nine yards.
Clovis just wanted to know why. Why'd she do it? He asked himself that every other day, whenever he saw her grave, whenever he was reminded that he lived on another human beings borrowed time; her sacrifice. More often than not did he feel bile rise in his throat at the thought of continuing his existence off another persons years, off of what should have been hers.
It wasn't the weather that bothered him. Even without his helmet on (he was going to regret that choice, already dreading the feeling of dealing with frizzy flyaways later), it wasn't the rain that was getting to him. It wasn't the sensation of repetitive droplets on his skin that was aggravating him. Wasn't the grey-blue hue cast on everything that made him wonder if it was the shape of water from the skies running down his face, or if it was tears from his eyes finally boiling over. He just... couldn't, anymore. The same resolve he'd once had, fighting a valiant battle, valor and glory brandishing his name, and then returning to no surviving great-many-somethings offspring from his children, little to no mementos left of his family, those he'd loved most... He just felt empty and spaced-out. A boat adrift at sea, no original post to be seen. No length of rope could affix him back to anything, all of the initial pieces that made him him were nearly gone, or they too, were lost somewhere amongst this endless ocean. He felt like he was being lost in the miasma of what he should be. Clovis Bealdhild could not return to who he once was. That man truly was dead. He needed a new path. The only reason he did not discard his name was for two (main) reasons. One, it was akin to an heirloom. The venerable Bealdhilds, fighting against individuals unruly to downright horrific, Nashatra facing off against WeGottman, his entire unit of Fissure agents, it seemed like.
Fighting against random mobsters, who had apparently been underneath her partner, Eunoia, for some reason? (He wondered with a large degree of amusement if they'd just gotten a copy one day after their boss died, and dubbed it their new "leader" in a fit of many fights that lead to constant inconclusions over who their true leader ought to be). Truly, his family line had seen and done many things. Allen had succeeded him, where Clovis failed to kill Ealdwine, succumbing to loss in battle, Allen Bealdhild made sure to finish the job. Clovis could not recall what had finally done him in. If it'd been himself, Ealdwine--and no, he was not going to call him "Godslayer Sir Ealdwine," the thought disgusted him immensely. That man did not deserve any title other than whatever possibly dubbings were given in the darkened blackened pits of Hell--or one of the underlings in the Earl Gray Monarchy's army.
He blinked. Too much was happening, and the sound was beginning to get to him. Were the lights buzzing? Josafa, J- and what good would chanting such a name do? He knew it existed, he just.. Couldn't. Could not do anything right now. His breathing, once controlled, now felt unsteady and wheezy. He stumbled into an alleyway, no longer knowing which route lead to the place Anton had lent him. Once, Clovis had been finding respite on the island he resided on. Now?
It was just suffocating to him, the empty silence felt like screaming, and he could no longer distract himself by traveling when he knew he'd return to the same empty home with the same filled grave off to the side of his small home. As much as he hated all the foul advancements of technology at times, he needed the presence of others. He may not know how to use a "phone," he may be deeply put off by the thought of a "New" Dievodora, and not knowing what had happened, what had changed (history books were too much for him, the weight of it all setting in on his body, making his chest feel tight, ribs more like a constricting mass rather than the sturdy bones that protected a plethora his vital necessities), what had transpired, he needed to be amongst the city, that which trembled from a semi-consistent foot traffic. He needed people. He needed someone to be there.
It wasn't a conscious decision, the pain did not even register for a bit, as though he were watching a movie and sympathizing with the character of whose eyes he watched through, not actually he himself experiencing life. Clovis Bealdhild, the man who had seven children, the leader of the Order of Vatopedi, someone who had been called an exceptional PSY sorcerer--
He actually, by the Gods bloodied bones, threw up in some dingy alleyway. Unbelievable. Worse, there seemed to be an approaching onlooker from the other end.