Scorching rays beamed down from the heavens to alight Robin's hair in a blaze. Yet it was not only his hair that burned at his skin, as his cloak — an unfortunate black — absorbed all of that insufferable heat and cooked him alive.

He scratched his nose and idly pondered why he wore such a heavy black robe.

Doubly so why he wore it into combat, where it certainly limited his movements.

Then he began to ponder over the word "doubly," which he most assuredly used incorrectly, and how rarely it seemed to be used, which then made him think —

His thoughts were shaken by Frederick shifting to his right. The stalwart knight had been rigid in his posture up until a second ago. Previously, somehow, he had maintained a completely upright position, even as the wooden stool etched its subtle markings onto the knight's buttock.

A smirk tugged at the tactician's face as he realised that even Frederick had become somewhat tired of waiting for Chrom.

Sensing a valuable opportunity to egg him into a never-before-seen complaint, Robin blew out a casual sigh. "Man, sure is taking his time."

No response.

Internally groaning, yet then immediately empowered by the lack of a response, he pressed forward. "Been sitting on these stools for a while. My butt hurts. And it's hot."

This time he was rewarded with a sideways glance and a face of stone.

"Just seems silly to be sitting outside when it's so hot."

A slight tug at the lips; a maintained look.

"Could've had this meeting in a tent, really. Just outside around a table seems a little unprofessional as well."

The beads of sweat were prominent now, tracing a light line along the handsome knight's face from the tip of his forehead down to the beginnings of his heavy armour. A flash from the sun forced his eyes to a squint while continuing to burn away at him.

"You'd think he'd have the decency to let us know he'd be late after the first hour."

Lips were parted now. Robin felt it. He was so close.

"This is just like last week when he came in half an hour late to the emergency meeting with a rhubarb-and-fiddlehead pie. And he didn't even offer us any."

Finally, the dam broke. Frederick opened his mouth.

"It just makes me feel —"

Then, a voice out of nowhere. "Hey, guys, sorry I'm late."

Robin bit back a flurry of curses as he lamented the passing of Frederick complaining about Chrom. Any potential blackmail was now thrown out the window, and surely the knight would catch onto his plan once his head had, quite literally, cooled down.

Turning his anger towards the source of the intrusion, the tactician stopped dead in his tracks.

The voice that had announced its presence was certainly Chrom's voice, Robin knew. It had the same inflection, same general tone (same regal pompousness), and the same rugged, dulcet soothing nature. Instead of a blue-haired prince, however, there was a blue-haired king.

Not symbolically or anything like that; it was quite literally a different individual.

King Marth scratched the back of his head. The lack of a response led to a hushed silence that sat upon the group. Robin felt foolish with his mouth hanging wide open, yet even Frederick, who was usually able to keep his wits about him, had sprouted an equally absurd look.

"Chrom?" Robin tried, unsure if he was hallucinating from the damned heat.

"Yes?" responded the Hero-King.

Suddenly, the armour-clad knight shot to his feet, thrusting his sword towards the legendary figure. "While you are certainly a competent vocal imposter, your tricks are foolish and no match for the two greatest minds in the army!"

Robin turned his disbelief from Chrom-Marth to Frederick, raising both of his eyebrows with a cheeky grin on his face. "Well now I'm beginning to think you're the imposter with a compliment like that."

Frederick shot a glare at him. "We would not want the intruder to potentially pass on that the Ylissean army has anything but the most competent tactician, lest we invite savvier minds to attack after our previous victory."

"Oh, so you're actually insulting me."

"It was not an insu—"

Chrom-Marth raised his hand. "That's enough, please. Frederick, you know better than to let Robin goad you on like that." Then he shot a pitying look towards the tactician. "And Robin, please, don't be you."

Robin glowered at him.

"We've finished things with Gangrel, and this is supposed to be a nice and easy trip home, okay? No fighting, please. Let's just all take the time to unwind after the fight. And I'm getting married when we get back, so I need to mentally prepare for that on top of everything else."

Sensing a genuine nature from the being henceforth known as Chrom-Marth, and the repeated appearance of what seemed to be Chrom's voice and mannerisms, Robin decided to believe him. Frederick lowered his swords and parted his mouth. "Milord, is it actually you?"

"I seriously don't know what's wrong with either of you two."

Before Robin could suggest that Frederick rummage for a mirror, another voice shot out, accompanied by the rhythmic drum of approaching footsteps. "Milord! Chrom! You forgot your pie!" Then, confirming who the owner of the voice was, there was the sound of a body hitting the floor. "Agh!"

There was a pause, and then a quiet, "Well at least I saved the pie..."

Robin blinked once, and then an idea hit him as hard and swift as Lon'qu's blades on training day, and also as hard as an out-of-place simile that has no flow. "Sumia, would you please confirm that Chrom is not Chrom?"

Frederick mumbled about finding something reflective and ran off. Robin was sure that he was resting in the assurance that Sumia could handle the situation.

Standing up and dusting herself off, Sumia looked towards Chrom and her mouth dropped. "M-Marth? As in the Hero-King Marth?!"

Yet somehow the more surprising twist was the assembled duo of gentlemen dropping their mouths at Sumia instead. Or rather, Sumia-Caeda. "Queen Caeda? This is absurd!" Chrom cried out. Then there was a brief pause as he visibly pondered over the previous exclamation. "Wait, Marth? What?"

At this point, Frederick had heaved over a bucket of water and dropped it at Chrom's feet. He regarded Sumia with a nod before double-taking and turning towards Robin for confirmation. A shaky head-nod confirmed that none of this made sense and that maybe, indeed, the heat was getting to them.

The next three and a half minutes was filled with a stunned and hilarious back-and-forth between the body-swapped individuals and the two aforementioned geniuses of the army. The words "what," "who," "why," "how," and "fuck," were repeated a record-breaking amount of times. Eventually, that back-and-forth simmered into multiple different results — denial from Sumia, depression from Chrom, anger from Frederick, and an immediate acceptance from Robin.

The group sat on the stools surrounding the table as they let the heat gently prod at them. The three members still in their respective stages of grief were awaiting a response from Robin, who had hurriedly pulled a book out and began flipping through it, holding up a finger whenever questioned. A lone pie sat centred in the middle.

"These stools are uncomfortable and I hate them," Chrom muttered, picking at the pie.

"The heat doesn't help," Sumia added, glancing upwards at the sun, and then quickly cupping a shield above her eyes with her hands.

"Perhaps it was unwise to hold a casual meeting outdoors, on a shoddy wooden table, in the middle of a desert country," Frederick grumbled. Then, a second later, he attached, "Milord."

"I get that you don't trust me, Frederick, but there is no need for rude remarks like that," the lord responded, crossing his arms with an indignant huff. "And you know that we hardly need a war tent when there's no war."

"Couldn't you just hold it in Robin's tent?" Sumia asked, reaching out for a piece of the pie for herself.

Chrom opened his mouth to respond, and then faltered. His brows furrowed.

"Alright, I've got it!" Robin said, shooting up from his stool, toppling it over in the process. "You look like Marth because you're his descendant, and you're getting married to Sumia, so she's Caeda!"

The group collectively sat stunned in awe at the tactician. Before Frederick could begin what could only be an onslaught of compliments, Robin continued. "And both Sumia and Chrom have something else in common that explains everything."

A pause.

"It's the fucking pie!" he cried, dramatically wiping it from the table. As it landed on the dirt, he aimed a quick elwind at its carcass, splattering the innards apart and sending them flying across the camp.

Frederick could offer no feedback, aside from a silent, quaking form.

Chrom absently stared at the table. For some reason, he looked despondent. Defeated.

Sumia cupped her chin. "Robin, I don't think it was the pie —"

"It most certainly was not the pie, Milady!" The loyal knight seethed, a heaty gaze directed at Robin. He jabbed a finger at him with a contemptuous glare. "Take this seriously, you white-haired jester!"

Robin scratched the back of his head. "There's not much to figure out. It's probably just a spell."

Frederick's anger ebbed away at the tactician's earnest cooperation and response. "Surely something can be done, then?" he said, still regarding Robin with a wary look.

A nod. "I'll go get Miriel. We can probably figure it out."

The knight defused at this and straightened himself out, embarrassed at his outburst yet feeling justified given Robin's goading. He waved him off with a "very well" and turned his attention to Chrom-Marth and Sumia-Caeda.

And so, leaving the transformed individuals in the care of Frederick, Robin jogged off to go find the other genius mage, very thankful at the amount of geniuses in the army.

He approached her tent with hesitation. Less of an inability to fully communicate with the clever witch, and more of an apprehension regarding his ability to convey importance without his content coming across as a fool-hardy jest. In general, most of the army tended to disregard whatever came out of his mouth except when they were on the battlefield.

Batting at the curtain to announce his presence and then immediately ignoring any response and entering like an uncouth barbarian, Robin stared at a purple-haired woman who most certainly did not have glasses or a fancy hat.

The lack of a hat was the most tragic part, as the new appearance was quite welcoming.

"Robin?" the woman inquired in Miriel's voice. "Were you in need of assistance regarding something of significance, or were you merely stopping by to partake in social niceties?"

Sighing, he placed both hands on his cheeks and paused for a moment. Then after continuing to stare at Miriel for a few seconds longer (and not just to gaze at a beautiful and soft face with enticingly violet eyes), he screamed.

Miriel-Woman barely had time to react before Robin darted out the door. "I have a hypothesis that I don't like!" he cried, voice trailing off behind him rather comically.

And, indeed, the white-haired man found himself confronted by science. Specifically, the scientific theory in the works. Chrom was transformed into the Hero-King, which seemed fitting in terms of his relation to Marth. Sumia was Caeda, wife to the Hero-King (how often was he to refer to Marth as Hero-King?) which made sense (to him) in terms of a pegasus knight bearing a close, romantic relationship with Marth, i.e. Chrom.

Yet the transformation did not stop there, and Miriel was transformed into a very gorgeous young woman whom he theorised would have a similar personality to Miriel herself, whoever she was. Probably. Maybe.

This led to two separate questions — did the transformations continue, and were the transformations tied to personalities and roles? While he could not confirm Miriel had a similar personality to the new woman, he had a hunch. And like all hunches, they needed to be supported with evidence. Specifically data, meaning more numbers. Bigger numbers.

As such, he found himself approaching Cordelia's tent. Barging in without a single thought aside from collecting data, he saw a short-haired, blue-haired topless woman, holding her rather sizely breasts with absolute wonderment. At Robin's intrusion, the two's eyes met. The blue-haired, short-haired, breast-holding, confused-looking woman was Catria, the middle-child of the Whitewings. Thankfully Robin was well-versed in the intricacies of Archaenan lore having just flipped through a book about it for the first time a few minutes ago.

From his reading, Catria (supposedly) held an unrequited romantic inclination towards Marth, much like Cordelia with Chrom. Thus, Cordelia transforming into her was a logical outcome following a trend, and seemed to suggest that transformations were not only widespread across the camp, but related to historical figures and consistent with their roles and personalities.

Her reaction also made sense, as she repeatedly whacked him in the face whilst clutching at his robes.

"Agh, Cordelia, stop! I'm sorry! I'm here because you've been transformed! Why are you still hitting me?!"

Her blows stopped, her grip slacked, and her brows furrowed, which was a nice word that seemed to come up often. "What?"

Taking a moment to slip out from her relaxed grip, Robin straightened and wiped himself off (despite not having any amount of dirt on his cloak). "There's some widespread curse that's making everyone transformed and I'm working on it. You're Catria. Like the famous one." He added the addendum because he wasn't sure if there were any other historically significant Catrias, and he didn't want to confuse Cordelia over such a careless remark. Then he briefly wondered if, had there been other Catrias, it would be insulting to refer to one as famous and wholly dismiss every other Catria that existed. There could have been a Catria that created something important, maybe.

Growing bored of his irrelevant thoughts and feeling the comedy dwindle, he continued looking at Cordelia, who had thankfully taken a poignant pause to allow him to entertain such a long-winding hypothetical.

Cordelia looked down at her breasts. "So these aren't mine?"

"No."

"Oh."

"But they're quite nice, I think."

"Me too…"

"May I?"

"No!"

"Right, yes, of course." He scratched his nose. "Well you should get dressed and find Frederick. Somehow he and I aren't transformed, though there might be others so I need to go find them."

With that, he turned and began to run towards the next tent, content with his ability to quickly summarise information and leave without an awkward ending that attempted to transition into another paragraph. Surely there was no need to elongate a goodbye between two comrades, especially when the plot needed to be moved along, otherwise the pacing of the story would be thrown off.

Anyway, back to the running thing.

Robin decided he didn't like running in the heat, and so in order to stop the amount of running he was doing, he would run even faster so that the running ended sooner.

He arrived at the aforementioned next tent out of breath somehow. At this point, he was unsure whose tent it even was, but that was entirely irrelevant to the task at hand. Bursting in, once again, he screamed. "Who are you! Say your name! Say your name!"

Immediately leaping into the air, the figure began to likewise scream in response, but in fear instead of a simple exclamation (for some strange reason an intruder frantically yelling "Say your name!" had elicited a panicked response). After a moment, the figure placed a hand on its chest and calmed down. "Gods, Robin, you scared me!"

Ah, the comforting voice that was, technically, the first he ever heard. "Lissa?"

"Uh, yeah?" It was a young woman this time. Long blue-hair (hey, now she finally matched with Chrom) and some weird red robes or something. Looked young. He eyed her. Too young, younger than Lissa. Could ages change as well? Wait, how old was Lissa? Whatever.

"Go find Frederick, and be sure to greet him with your name." Robin shifted from foot to foot. "Also tell him that things are going so great and I'm clearly handling it amazingly well."

She rested a hand on his shoulder and shot him a smile. "Sure thing, Robin." Then she skipped off, entirely unaware of her predicament as the tactician had failed to even mention it in passing. Now Robin began to stroke his chin in thought. This whole transformation thing required some deeper thinking. And so deeperly think he did.

This was probably a curse. Curses were dark magic. Obviously he knew that. Dark mages did dark magic. There was a dark mage in the army that could feasibly offer information. A great logical conclusion thanks to great, deep thinking.

He began to run towards that dark mage's tent, but his pace trickled to a walk as he pondered his plan (and not at all due to a dwindling endurance and heavy panting). Tharja was a person, yes. A dark mage no less. But she also seemed to have an incredible infatuation with him, which was flattering yet also strange because she was strange.

His walk stopped. He frowned. Something bad could potentially happen.

Then he shrugged and continued to walk, deciding that if he could handily defeat Gangrel with some expert strategies that he totally didn't copy from a book, then he could easily handle Tharja.

A quick fast-forward in time found Robin in Tharja's tent in an absolute frenzy.

As it turns out, she wasn't there. And not in the "oh she's just gone out" kind of way, but like in the "oh her clothes just fell to the ground as she literally disappeared" kind of way. A most certain subversion of expectations.

Robin knew this to specifically be the case because he had been there to witness Tharja dissolve into nothing. He knew it even further as he had yelled, "Tharja, come here! Please?" and then, "Tharja, I'd love to talk to you!" and finally, "Tharja, make sweet love to me!" And thus she had either disappeared or was quite committed to an admittedly impressive magic trick, as none of the exclamations had resulted in anything aside from making him feel like a lunatic.

At this point, somewhat sick of jumping around between tents and finding everyone one by one, he decided it would be quicker to summon a soldier and have everyone meet by that table that Chrom liked, and then he could discern who was missing, transformed, or neither.

Or both, but that would be hard to confirm.

Robin grabbed the arm of a passing soldier. The soldier turned to attention immediately, recognising the tactician, and snapping into place with a salute.

He was a young recruit, fresh-faced and lucky enough to not have participated in any of the more serious battles. A few scuffles, sure, but nothing hectic. He was glad to not have done anything more than that, as he had made a promise to return to his beloved once more. Years ago, before he joined the Ylissean army, he had fallen for a red-haired woman that ran his favourite bakery. The bread was always warm and left him with that nostalgic warmth that had him pining for his childhood. What made him feel the warmest, though, was that brief moment when their hands touched during their transactions.

For a long time, he had dismissed the notion that he would ever be able to love her. His father was an anti-traditional man and wanted him to marry the local homeless man, so that they could shelter and love him as a part of the family. But he wanted more than that — more than homeless man love. He wanted to run his hands through her strawberry hair, to hold her close and remember those early morning days when his mother knead the dough at the break of dawn; the days where he would run through the grassy knolls outside his grandma's cottage, enjoying the light tickle on his feet as he hopped forward through the morning dew.

Eventually fortune favoured him, and the homeless man passed away in a tragic cabbage accident. Words were spoken at his funeral (primarily "Does anyone know what a cabbage accident actually entails?"), and the soldier's father relented, urging him to find his own path in life. No sooner than when those words were spoken had he rushed off.

On his run, he fantasised of the future that he would nurture with his bare hands. The early dates, where hands would brush against each other, eliciting burning blushes on both their cheeks. The proposal that would take place at the fountain in downtown Ylisstol, with roses scattered about, under the gentle whispers of the afternoon breeze. The wedding would take place at the same cathedral as his parent's wedding, though he would personally touch it up with his fiancee, and they would laugh as they flicked paint at each other. Then, one day, the home floorboards would creak with the pitter-patter of young bustling feet.

With all these thoughts in his mind, he burst into the bakery store.

Unfortunately, in doing so, he broke the hinges of the door, and he was immediately chastised by the ruby-haired bakery clerk. During the chastising, he had tried to speak up and declare his love for her, but for some reason that only served to fuel her rage and he was swiftly shown the door.

A broken heart now weighing him down, the soldier had trudged through town, all passion washed away. He slipped into a nearby alley and let the tears flow freely, reflecting on what he had done wrong, and why he had such a penchant for knocking down doors with enthusiastic (and impressive) kicks.

A gentle hand was placed on his shoulder, and he looked up into the warm eyes of the local homeless man. As it turned out, the cabbage accident was a clever fraud to get money from the Ylissean bank, who were in a written agreement to pay out great sums of gold for any cabbage related accidental deaths that occured in Ylissean graveyards, if Ylisse was at fault. The homeless man was ready to flee the country, taking his gold with him, but found himself swimming in the memories of the time spent with the soldier's family. The hospitality he was shown, the love, the jokes shared — all cherished moments that filled him with a sense of belonging.

The homeless man knew that he had to support the soldier in trying times, so he sat with the young man, comforting him. In doing so, the homeless man gazed into the baby blue eyes of the soldier — the tan skin, the enticingly soft lips, the slight scar on his right, thick eyebrow, and the straw-coloured soft locks of hair. Likewise, the soldier could only look at the mangled eyes of the homeless man, the rosy rash on the cleft of his chin, the weathered face with years of experience, and the comforting rasp of his lung infection.

In the heat of the moment, kisses were exchanged, and a love was born. The money from the fraud would last for quite some time, but a soldier's pension was a great additional income, and so he had set off to join the army, promising his new beloved that he would return. Then, they could escape and live in solitude, a comfortable nest egg beneath them, to enjoy comfort together. It would be an undying, raging love of passion and thrusting.

But that was all irrelevant, as Robin simply told the soldier to broadcast a magical message to the Shepherds (as it would be utterly confusing to determine who was who) and send them to the designated meeting point. Which he did.

The table had gotten considerably more crowded since Robin initially left it, and it became significantly more crowded after people came regarding the message. Now the table was notably more popular with the two dozen minus two people. Indeed, the table's surrounding area was appreciably more impressive, and it was also strikingly more loud as the screams of body-swapped individuals seemed to grow louder and louder. Yes, the noise was markedly more — ah whatever, the joke's over, Robin thought. It wasn't even a good one.

It was perfectly understandable to resort to idle comedy, however, as the Shepherds gathered at the table were in a pandemonium, the absolute worst of all the -moniums. They had been panding in that monium for the last thirty minutes as Robin flipped through every history book in camp, writing down physical descriptions of notable figures until he had determined (guessed) everyone's identity.

Robin hopped up onto the table. "Okay, okay, everyone quiet!" he shouted.

Despite the widespread panic, the crowd fell into a hushed silence once the tactician began to speak. Ah, war-time conditioning of listening to his leadership. He'd miss it so.

"Right, good news and bad news," he said, clapping his hands together. "The bad news is that you've all been transformed into different people. The good news is that you've all been transformed into different famous people, which is slightly more fun. Luckily, Frederick and I haven't been transformed, so we can maybe figure this out. Come on up, Freddy."

Frederick jumped onto the table alongside Robin, struggling slightly due to his armour but immediately gaining control over the crowd with his forceful voice. "It would be pertinent to remain calm in this situation. We're a capable group and there is no reason why we would not be able to solve this." Evidently he had managed to cool off from his first reaction to Chrom-Marth.

Robin nodded. "I'm going to separate you into groups, and then I'll establish who you've all turned into. There might be a reason behind your transformation, or there might not. I don't know the history of every famous person ever, and I'm not confident there's even a solid pattern behind this." While he had come up with a hypothesis earlier on, he had thrown it out the window and decided it wasn't really important so long as he came up with a solution. Science be damned, he was a magic man!

"Okay, let's do this. Chrom, Sumia, Lon'qu, Sully, and Cordelia, over here please! Maribelle, if you would come this way. Could I get Olivia over here, thank you. Nowi, right by me. Oh gods, this is annoying and is taking a considerable amount of time and effort. Uh, let's see… Gaius, Vaike, Libra — the other side of me. Ricken and Miriel, right there. And finally, let's have Panne, Stahl, Virion, Donnel, and Gregor somewhere in that general vicinity."

There were some murmurs as the crowd confusedly moved about, not quite sure who was who and where exactly Robin had pointed. Eventually, everyone settled down in what seemed to be their respective positions.

Just as he opened his mouth to continue, there was a sudden voice. "What about me?"

Oh, right, Kellam. What an absolutely necessary and important joke to include.

"Sorry, sorry. With Olivia." No movement was heard. "Over there." Then, clanging footsteps.

"Okay, right, that should be everyone. I've sorted you by what history books you were included in, whether that be continent or era. Not quite sure. Either way, that's not important. I'll go through each group and identify who is who, so we can all know, and then we can begin to figure this out."

All eyes were on Robin, watching and waiting for him to do something. They found themselves filled with dread as a smile graced his face.

He turned on his heel and pointed at Chrom's group. "Thousands and thousands of years ago, this continent was known as Archanea. There were dragons at one point before that, but then they became manakete but not all of them and then those that remained dragons became, like, super evil but then were defeated. But then, like, manaketes were enslaved by humans, I think, and then a big strong manakete got mad and waged a war, but then he was killed by a strong guy with Chrom's sword. But then later on the big strong manakete was revived by a creep, but then this awesome dude named Marth defeated the manakete and the creep. But then it turns out he didn't defeat the creep, and the creep revived the big strong manakete again but then Marth defeated him again!"

There was a long pause; Robin had finished his sentence but didn't seem to be moving on. Eventually he turned to Frederick and whispered, "How accurate was that?"

"If you keep moving on, no one will take the time to question it," he responded, in an equally hushed voice.

Standing tall again, Robin coughed and continued. "Right, so, Chrom has become the very same Marth, yet only in appearance. Likewise, Sumia has become Caeda, who fought alongside Marth and was a huge asset in the war. She was also Marth's betrothed, so that actually works out pretty easily since, you know, she's marrying Chrom. And then there's our lovely Cordelia! She has transformed into Catria, the middle-child of the famous Whitewings trio. As it turns out, there was actually only the one Catria, so it's fair to say that she's the 'famous' one."

"What in Naga's name are you talking about, Robin?" Chrom-Marth asked.

"Never mind. Don't worry about it. Anyway, Catria fought for some… Menrva lady?"

"Minerva," corrected Frederick.

"Minerva. She helped Marth also. And Catria was a pegasus knight, and Cordelia is a pegasus knight, so thus she became Catria. Absolutely nothing to do with her huge and totally well-known crush on our very own—"

"How about you move along, Robin," ground out Cordelia-Catria, jaw grinding because that's what happens when you 'ground/grind' out a sentence.

"Oh don't be such a wuss, everyone knows," he responded. Then he huffed. "Fine. I wanted to move on anyway." As he gazed at the crowd he said, "Lon'qu, would you please make your presence known?"

"Hn," was the short grunt that followed.

"Ah-ha! The perfect example of a cool, edgy swordsman that I was looking for — precisely what you've become! Or remained, I suppose. Navarre was a totally stoic badass who was all about the blade and had a thing against fighting women. Much like our own Lon'qu," Robin said with a smile. "I mean, his thing was chivalry instead of an overwhelming phobia, but hey it's the thought that counts, right? He sure was a tough-looking guy, but you know who else was a tough-looking guy?"

Without waiting for anyone to respond, because it was rhetorical and thus didn't require a response, the humble tactician pointed at a bandage-wearing face in the crowd. Wait, how'd the bandage appear as well? Whatever. "That's right! It's the one and only Malice, played by our one and only Sully. Not much is known about Malice, except that she looks like a woman you wouldn't want to mess with and who can throw down with the best of them. That's basically all there is to it, and I can't think of anyone else more fitting for our crude, coarse, and crass cavalier to transform into!"

"Robin," Sully-Malice started, "if you keep talking like that you're gonna get your ass beat."

Robin frowned. "I feel like you're playing right into the stereotype."

"If my stereotype is being a kickass fighter, I'm all about it. And as a kickass fighter," she said, cracking her knuckles, "I'm gonna make sure you shut your damn mouth with the insults."

Robin nodded frantically. "Y-yes, that… Yes, I agree, of course. That you're great. And shouldn't hurt me, please. What's that, Frederick? Move on? Great idea, let's go!"

Hurriedly, Robin began to speak: "We now find ourselves in Valentia, where there was a whole big issue. No idea where Valentia is, but it's probably not at all significant and we'll never end up going there at all and fighting against some evil, white-eyed tyrant or something."

There was a murmur of confusion from the crowd over the out-of-place declaration.

"As a general reminder for those not in the know, Valentia was embroiled in some really important war with… uh… sibling dragons?" He glanced over to Frederick, who gave a confirming nod. "Jeez, two dragon stories in a row? That's crazy. Well I'm not going to bore you with another one, so long story short, Alm and Celica saved the continent and the dragons were defeated. Then they got married. Alm and Celica, not the dragons. Obviously. Also another Falchion was involved but it was a different Falchion so don't worry about it."

A blonde-haired woman gave a polite cough. Like a 'hem-hem' kind of cough. "Goodness, Robin, must you drag out these history lessons? It would be wise to stay abreast of our organising efforts."

"Oh good, Maribelle, you're next. Since you're a super pompous noble woman, you've been transformed into a super pompous noble woman, whose name is Clair instead of Maribelle. Gotta say, really convenient. And you're both blonde!"

"Are you really suggesting that our transformations are related to such trivial comparisons and details?" the super pompous noble woman in question asked.

Robin scratched the beginnings of a stubble. Whenever an individual is stressed out or focused on obtaining information, they grow a stubble, but never a full beard. "Well, to be honest, I'm not even really sure what's going on. I had a theory at first, but now it's been inconsistent, and you're all so different, and Tharja just disappeared, so honestly I really have no clue what the situation is."

Chrom-Marth's head snapped up. "I'm sorry, what was that about Tharja disappearing?"

Robin waved his hand. "Don't worry about it. She'll turn up." He returned his attention to Maribelle-Clair. "Anyway, I'm just trying to get my chickens in a line, so I can get a read on what's going on. It also helps for me to speak the history aloud so I familiarise myself with it."

"Oh," Maribelle-Clair said. "I didn't think you had a genuine answer for what you were doing."

"No, no, I'm working on it. This is mainly for me, really. The dramatic aspect of the recounting is just to keep my sanity in check since reality is basically crumbling around me," Robin said, chuckling.

Frederick groaned. "If you go back to nonsensical ramblings, obscure utterances, and pseudo-absurdist writing, we'll never get anything done."

"Writing?"

"Sorry, slip of the tongue. Comments."

"Right," Robin said. He gave a sagely nod. "You make a strong point."

Frederick let out a sigh of relief.

"Not stopping me, though!" Robin laughed.

Everyone let out a loud groan, including Robin who wanted to join in the fun. Chrom-Marth raised his hand.

"Yes, Chrom-Marth?"

Chrom-Marth rolled his eyes. "Okay, first off, please don't actually call me that. Secondly, do you really expect anyone to listen to all of this? If this were written out, it would be several, several pages long and anyone willing to read through the entire thing clearly should re-evaluate their taste in literature. Especially with your jokes."

Robin placed a hand on his chest. "Wow, ouch. Tell me how you really feel. My answer to that is that I'm the tactician and this is a genius plan."

Placing one of his hands against his face, Chrom-Marth gestured for the tactician to continue with his other.

"Come one, come all, to the holy war of Jugdral! This is the point where I would begin to recount the history of Jugdral, but it's honestly such a mess. I mean, there's mind-wiping, and politics, and definitely a good amount of incest. Accidentally. I'm pretty sure that it ended with a dragon. Again."

"Well, technically it was a prince corrupted by a dragon, but I suppose that counts," Frederick said.

"That's what happens when you inbreed, huh? Anyway, moving on." With a grin, Robin's eyes scanned the crowd until he found who he knew to be Kellam. "Ha, found you. Kellam is now Arden. Arden was famous for being the slowest knight to ever exist. Just, like, absolutely immobile. Some say entire wars were fought as he dragged himself across the country, ending just as he got there. Somewhat similar to how an entire war was fought with Kellam simply standing in the middle."

Kellam-Arden blushed. "Hey!"

Sumia-Caeda placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "It's a good trait to have, really! I mean, Gangrel just walked into your lance! That's something," she said with a smile.

"What I would give for the power of invisibility," Robin mumbled to himself.

Maribelle-Clair frowned. "Must you be so perverted, Robin?"

"What? No! It would be for planning out battles by getting an inside look at the opposing army! How could you think so little of me?"

"Probably because you asked to touch my breasts earlier today?" Cordelia-Catria grumbled with a glare set on her face. Sully-Malice gave her a supportive pat on the shoulder (the Shepherds were a shoulder-patting bunch), and joined in on the glaring.

"An awkward sexual encounter like that is a necessity in all great fictions — it will be recorded in the story of my life!" Robin claimed, hoping she wouldn't throw anything at him.

"Wouldn't that be a non-fiction?" Sumia-Caeda asked.

"It'll be a fiction with all the junk he has to make up," Chrom-Marth muttered.

"Okay, getting some serious hostile vibes, so I'm going to pretend that you've all been complimenting me and move on. Alongside Arden the defender of castles, we have Olivia-Silvia! Silvia was a dancer who liked to flaunt her breasts and was generally insecure about her romantic life. No idea why Olivia would turn into her."

"Robin!" cried out Sumia-Caeda.

"Okay, yeah, too far. My bad, Olivia-Silvia."

Olivia-Silvia humphed and crossed her arms, though her face was a bright red. "This is a typical dancer garb..."

"And I think we can all appreciate your talent and grace; you're so enchanting that I thought Chrom-Marth was going to marry you!" Robin said with a relaxed smile.

"Robin!" protested Chrom-Marth. "I've known her for one battle, and I'm engaged to Sumia."

"Chrom-Marth, I think we all know that you're the type of person to make incredibly rash decisions in the heat of the moment," Robin pointed out, "Like allowing an amnesiac stranger to lead your army." Before Chrom-Marth could defend himself, or at least attempt to, Robin pushed forward. "But what's really important is the story of Elibe!"

"Oh gods, there's more," Cordelia-Catria mumbled.

"We're not even half-way done!" Robin grinned. Then he frowned, because he was the one who had to share all the information. "So there were two major events in Elibe that spanned two generations. Well technically, a while back, there was an issue with some dragons and some heroes defeated the dragons, but that's par for the course at this point."

"It seems like major conflicts between dragons and humans, as well as generational and familial ties, has been a consistent trend in the legends," Kellam-Arden noted. No one heard.

"The first generation, the important one that happened after the ancient one, was made up of three people. There was Eliwood of Pherae, Lyn the Sacaen, and Hector the Hector. A man so legendary that he is incomparable. But he's not important because apparently none of you are cool enough to become him."

Robin pointed a finger into the crowd. "Luckily, Gaius has evolved into Gaius-Matthew. Matthew was like the cool spy that worked for Hector, and he was instrumental in helping take down the evil guy with an eye-patch that was the evil villain that wanted to resurrect the evil dragon. Also very competent at identifying chests."

Maribelle-Clair snorted. "And, pray tell, what does that have to do with anything?"

With a grin on his face, Gaius-Matthew shrugged. "I dunno, but it sounds pretty good to me."

Robin clapped his hands together. "See! Someone gets it. Cool upgrade to an equally competent thief, but this time without the candy obsession." He scratched his chin. "Actually, now that I think about it, we were only able to recruit you because of said candy obsession… Okay, I changed my mind — the candy obsession is okay!"

"Robin," Chrom-Marth begged, "Please move on."

The tactician sighed but relented, and he raised a finger and pointed it towards a feminine face in the crowd. "During the fight against eye-patch man, there was a crucial figure that has arisen multiple times in history; it is, of course, the dude that looks like a lady! Lucius was a very pretty, very pretty monk with lovely blond hair. Likewise, Libra is also a very pretty monk with equally lovely blond hair, so honestly not much has changed in this situation."

Libra-Lucius sighed, closing his eyes as he did so. "Thank you for your flattering comments, but I must ask that you refrain during such a crisis."

"Right, that's my bad," Robin said. "It's just that you're honestly more interesting than our next contestant. Give a round of applause for The Vaike!" No applause was given, and Vaike noticeably slumped. "Yep, that makes sense. Unlike Libra-Lucius, Vaike has physically radically shifted, but not at all personality-wise. Bartre was an absolute idiot with an axe who fought through two campaigns in Elibe — and though he was forgettable combat-wise in both of them, no one can forget just how much of a loveable, stupid, idiotic fighter he was!"

Vaike-Bartre perked up. "You really think I'm loveable, Robin?" He grinned and flexed his muscles. "Hear that ladies? Ol' Teach has charm for days!"

"Exactly!" Robin said, giving a thumbs-up to Vaike. Then, he turned his head to Frederick and whispered, "Make sure he doesn't call himself Teach in public. The public will really start doubting the quality of our education."

Sighing, Frederick shook his head. "Unfortunately, he has a degree in public education." At Robin's incredulous look, he continued: "Milord thought that since he is so great with kids, he would be an excellent teacher and granted him a degree through his position. Convincing him otherwise is my greatest regret."

"That's nepotism!"

"They're not related."

"Oh, alright, never mind then."

The crowd patiently waited while Frederick and Robin had their discussion, before the familiar voice of Nowi was heard. "Guys," she whined, "My feet hurt! Can we finish this so we can play?"

Spinning on his heel, Robin spread his arms out with a smile. Everyone frowned. "Ah, Nowi! Just the high-spirited manakete I was looking for! You see, the first campaign where the three besties beat eye-patch man was just one of two. What happened in the second one, you ask?"

"We didn't ask, actually," Cordelia-Catria said with a grunt.

"That's right — it was dragons! Again!" Robin said, without skipping a beat from Cordelia-Catria's interruption. "So the three besties had kids, right?" He stopped himself and scratched his head. "Actually, not Lyn. No idea what happened to her. Not important. Right, so two kids who totally loved each other. And then this one evil guy with a dragon fetish used this soulless dragon to try and replace humanity with dragons because they all died or something. The dragons. Except there was actually still one left, and that's where Nowi comes in. Fae, the adorable, childish Divine Dragon who looks like she's seven but is actually centuries old — that's, uh… that's who she is now."

"Yay!" Nowi-Fae cheered. "Go dragons!"

"Yeah, that reaction is pretty par for the course, isn't it…" Robin mumbled. Wait, par for the course? Golf? That was Virion's thing. How many times had he uttered that phrase already? Stupid rich people and their stupid rich activities. Not entirely certain Virion was rich or a noble, but it was an assumption he was willing to make. He was being corrupted as a tactician — it was about honour, not money! Never would he use that expression again. How foolish of him to ingratiate himself with (supposed) nobles enough to use their idioms. He was a common man, dammit! His blood was dirty and mixed (probably, it'd be a really big plot-twist if he was actually a prince or something) and he liked it that way!

He slapped his cheeks multiple times, and Chrom-Marth shot him a strange look. "Are you okay, Robin?" he asked.

"I'll never be like you! Never!" he cried.

"Right. Okay. Well, uh, that's great."

Sensing that he was losing steam, and resolving to push through the rest of the fodder, Robin took a deep breath. And another. And then a third. Turns out breathing was rather relaxing. He should do this more often, he mused. It was a smart idea. And speaking of smart… Wait, no, speaking of ideas…

"Incest!" he shouted.

He received nothing but blank stares.

"We continue our story into Magvel; commonly, it is known as the land of incest. The Kingdom of Renais had a pair of twin royals, and they really got along well. Too well. Likewise, the Kingdom of Frelia also had a pair of siblings that really bumped elbows, if you know what I mean. These siblings all got along so well, that the loner loser in the southern kingdom got jealous. You see, he wanted to get with the Renais twins — either one, he wasn't picky — but they never asked him out. He was so bitter that he became a demon lord with a dumb name." He scratched his head. "Don't really get the reasoning behind that one, but at least it wasn't a dragon again."

Kellam-Arden raised his hand. Somehow, it was actually noticed and Robin called on him. "Uh, so, where do the Shepherds come in?" he asked.

"Jeez, Kellam-Arden, I was getting there," Robin said with a frown. "You see — and maybe you can't see because it happened in the past and there aren't as many picture books as I'd like — a select group of people carried the entire campaign on their backs. Two of them are among us today."

Coughing to clear his throat, and then sputtering, and then really coughing because he breathed in wrong and it really hurt, Robin pointed to the face that he fell in love with earlier; it was Miriel, but no one else knew that yet so he had to clarify. "Miriel!" he cried, after recovering from that cough, "A genius! A prodigy! Totally socially unaware! A brain so big that she only has time for academics. You are a verbatim copy of Lute, the famous and powerful sage, except she was younger and prettier and honestly if you could stay like this, I'd really—"

"Robin!" Sumia-Caeda exclaimed, shocked. "That's so rude!"

"Nonsense," Miriel-Lute replied. "I took the liberty of observing my entire form in the mirror after my first encounter with Robin. This new body is younger and thus has more time to study in this life-time. Similarly, if my attractiveness has increased, then I shall be able to procreate sooner to ensure my progeny and then dedicate myself to my academics.

"Oh," Sumia-Caeda said. "Okay."

"That's what you get for assuming, Sumia-Caeda," Robin shot back with a smirk. Before Chrom-Marth could defend his wife-to-be, the tactician hurried onward with his never-ending spiel of comparisons and history lessons. "And speaking of assumptions, many assume Ricken to be a useless and reckless child! However, no one assumed that of the great Ewan." Spreading his arms high in the sky, he let out a beautiful smile. "Sure, he was known for pranks — just like our princess, am I right? — and sure, he was way too excitable and a handful…" His smile fell and his arms dropped. "Actually, he was kind of a pain apparently, but at least he had incredible magical potential."

"I don't appreciate the mean comments," Ricken-Ewan grumbled, "But I do appreciate that you think I have such potential."

"Yes," Robin stated, voice struggling to stay neutral. "That is exactly what I think about you."

Ricken-Ewan gave a content hum. "If that's the case, I can't wait for you to pull me off the bench more!"

"Yes," Robin stated, voice struggling to stay neutral. Again. "That is something that will definitely happen." Maribelle-Clair opened her mouth, most likely to call him out, but the genius tactician had a genius tactic which was to talk very loudly without letting anyone else say anything. If he had to attribute his success and leadership capabilities, it would be to that tactic. He should probably name it something. Babble hypothesis. Yeah, that was good. Gods, he was smart. Anyway, cutting off Maribelle-Clair — "And we're in the home-stretch!"

"Thank Naga," Sully-Malice mumbled under her breath.

With his excellent hearing that had yet to suffer tinnitus from all the lightning spells he shot, Robin caught the remark. "Not Naga, my dear comrade!" he grinned. "Instead, it was Ashunera! Or Ashera. Or Yune. Er… whatever, it was Tellius! If Magvel was the land of incest, then Tellius was the land of racism. Just, like, rampant racism. Ashunera split into Ashera and Yune and then some really powerful fighters beat Yune because she was acting pretty sus' and they put her in a medallion, and Ashera was like 'hey, no wars for one thousand years and I'll let her out.' But they got to, like, eight hundred and then the whole racism thing… well, you get where I'm going —"

Vaike-Bartre leaned in close to Gaius-Matthew. "I've got no idea where he's going," he admitted.

Gaius-Matthew's eyes widened. "Wait, you're still listening?"

"—and with the power of friendship, the singular not-racist guy beat Ashera and saved the world. And, uh, the point there is that there were beorcs and laguz, but the beorcs called themselves humans and the laguz sub-humans. And, uh, the point to that is to talk about Lethe. She was a laguz — which means she could turn into a cat. Or she was a cat… or, uh — and that's pretty similar to Panne! So Panne is Lethe."

Panne-Lethe crossed her arms. "Is that it, man-spawn? I was altered based only on my race?"

"No!" Robin cried, frantically waving his arms around. "Lethe was, like, the best ever. She was powerful and really respected and wise beyond her years. Just like you!"

She gave one terse nod, with a slight tug at her lips.

Wiping the sweat from his forehead, the white-haired young man sighed. Thank Naga… er, Ashera — wait no, thank Ashunera that he didn't make that comment about moving up on the food-chain going from a rabbit to a cat. But with the threat of death gone, he continued.

"Green hair! Early twenties! Forgettable! Polite! Associated with food! Has a sibling! Who am I describing?"

"Oh, oh! I know!" Nowi-Fae cried out, waving her hand in the air. "Stahl!"

Robin pointed at Nowi-Fae with a smile. "Yes! I'm talking about Stahl, and also Oscar, now Stahl-Oscar, who was part of the anti-racism crew. And that's what he did!"

Stahl-Oscar frowned. "Wait, that's it? That's—"

"And then! Farmer Donnel! Tell me if this strikes a familiar chord: a cheerful farmer who finds his livelihood threatened joins up with the war effort in order to prevent the loss of his fields and protect his family," Robin said, exaggerating his tale with wide flourishes of his arms and clutching his hand to his chest.

"Ya tellin' my whole story right there, Robin!"

"Exactly! And just as exactly as that is the tale of Brom, who was exactly in that exact same predicament! He found himself jailed by the enemy, but was saved by the hero. Then he joined up with the hero and became a farmer-fighter, ain't it crazy?"

"What in tarnation? I reckon there ain't a fella that I'm more alike! Here's hopin' he's just as good with cabbages as me!" Donnel-Brom declared, slapping his fist to his chest.

"Ugh," Chrom-Marth groaned. "Not cabbages. We're still in the red thanks to that mysterious cabbage incident."

"What a great segue!" Robin proclaimed, reaching out to pat Chrom-Marth on the back before realising that he was still standing on the table. Instead, he reached out and gave a solid pat to Frederick, who gave a stone-faced stare in return. "Because," he said, ignoring Frederick's look, "A cabbage is a vegetable. And vegetables are something that rich and smart people eat, and there's no one richer or smarter — probably — than our very own Virion!"

"Ah, your words warm my heart, dear Robin," the man replied.

"And if there's anyone more befitting for Virion to become, then I have no clue, because Bastian the Count of Fayre is just as fancy, cunning, rich, and intelligent as our dear friend Virion. He helped the Princess of Crimea through some war or something, just like how Virion helped us." At the blank looks he received, Robin huffed. "It's a stretch, I know; gimme a break." Shaking his head, he continued, "The only difference, of course, is that Virion isn't a noble, despite my imaginings. That would be absurd if he was revealed to be some Duke of another country. And also, Bastian wasn't a raging, perverted womaniser." Robin chose to ignore Virion-Bastian's outraged cry in response.

"Perhaps you find my romances detestable and futile, but, you know, when I was young, hoo boy…" Virion-Bastian said.

"Can it, Ruffles," Sully-Malice snarked.

"Last but not least!" Robin began.

Every single head in the crowd shot up. Clearly they finally understood just how important the information Robin had been sharing was. A little late in the game, he mused, but not unappreciated.

"In Tellius lore, there existed two individuals. Devdan and Danved, both of whom fought in two separate, notable campaigns. They never ran into each other, but they looked and acted exactly the same. Both of them were comical individuals who spoke funny and in third-person. Many historians considered them both to be examples of comic relief because of their eccentricities; 'tis an unfortunate role that is sometimes delegated to a member of an army. In our case, Gregor has changed into them. One of them. I don't know which one."

Frederick nudged Robin. "They were widely considered to be the same individual," he said in a low whisper.

Ignoring Frederick because he was right but that wasn't fun, he continued, "So instead of Devdan or Danved, our eccentric, third-person talking comic relief Gregor will be referred to as Gregor-Nadved!"

"Gregor-Nadved is not pleased at change. New body does not have handsome Gregor smile, but Gregor-Nadved is happy to be fun laugh man," the mercenary said with a grin.

"Well you don't have to worry too long, Gregor-Nadved, because I've figured it out!" Robin proclaimed.

The area was immediately filled with loud shouts and complaints. "What?" Chrom-Marth yelled. "You figured it out and still went on that whole 'history' lesson?"

Robin could sense Frederick approaching him from behind, hands reaching out to his neck, so he jumped off the table into the crowd. It wasn't a much better alternative, he decided, as Cordelia-Catria grabbed him by the collar.

"Are you incapable of taking anything seriously?" she hotly questioned.

Olivia-Silvia huffed. "For a tactician, you sure have been quite rude and inconsiderate."

"Look, I said I was sorry for the breasts thing." He wasn't sure which of the two he was apologising to, but he supposed it worked out better that way.

Before Cordelia-Catria and Sully-Malice could cuff him for that comment, Miriel-Lute approached, book in hand. "Perhaps," she began, "We should search for our resident dark mage? Naturally, as the odd-one-out, she is the prime suspect."

"Quite right, Miriel," Maribelle-Clair said. "This whole ordeal was a waste of time."

"Wait!" Robin shouted. "I said I figured it out! Let me explain, please. It really was necessary."

Coming to his rescue (surprisingly), Chrom-Marth placed a hand on Robin's shoulder. Gods, Robin loved the shoulder-patting rule of the Shepherds. "Alright, friend. I trusted you with the entire war; the least I can do is hear your reasoning behind the damn seminar."

Rolling his shoulders, Robin stretched his arms out and twirled around. "A waste of time, you say? I said the whole explanation was for me, of course, and you all humoured me. But that was a lie!"

Gasps erupted from the crowd. And then there were glances around at trying to determine who else was so caught up in the moment that they would also gasp. It was quite a silly thing to do, to gasp. Overly dramatic and unnecessary.

"In reality," the tactician said as he pointed past the group of Shepherds, "My history lesson, full of its insults and unfair comparisons, was to lure in our true culprit!"

All eyes turned to focus on where he pointed. In front of them — currently in front of them, although once behind them, because direction is relative — was a mysterious figure in a cloak. Next to that figure was Tharja, in a glowing blue tunic, gagged (with a cloth, jeez) and handcuffed.

Chrom-Marth turned to Frederick with furrowed brows. "How could you possibly not notice their presence this entire time?" he questioned.

Frederick flushed. "I-I'm ashamed to say that I had stopped truly paying attention sometime in the middle of Elibe, Milord."

Sighing, Chrom-Marth shook his head. "I can't say I blame you." He turned back to the mysterious figure, who very kindly waited for them to have that brief interaction — very polite, and Robin was even able to have an idle chat with Kellam-Arden while everyone enjoyed the banter.

After waiting once more for everyone's attention, the figure flung off their cloak.

More gasps, again (ugh, seriously?) This time, it was followed by confusion. The figure appeared to be male, short and bald, with a full set of bright, white teeth. He was thin, with a pointed nose and a little bit of nostril hair peeking out. No one knew who he was, because he wasn't part of the Shepherds, and that made him entirely irrelevant.

"I've had just about enough of you bland losers!" the man decreed. "Allow me to reveal my true —"

Before the man could presumably share his plan and thought process, a blazing fast, blue figure ran in. Their sword was raised, ready for combat, as they stood next to Robin.

"Found you!" said the new figure to the nostril hair man.

They had blue hair and — oh wait, it was Marth. The female one, not the past Hero-King, or Chrom-Marth. The beautiful one that Robin was in love with, that also briefly made him question his sexuality until her mask broke. Although he could spend several days musing over his feelings towards the swordswoman and maybe even a hypothetical child (he liked the name 'Morgan') he decided to pay attention to what the nostril hair man was saying in response.

"You may have found me, woman, but you're far too late to stop my master plan!" cried the nostril hair man. "I will now reveal my intentions! All of you have —"

"Did you truly think you could get away with insulting the Shepherds by comparing them to ancient historical heroes?" female-Marth yelled. "Your idea of attempting to transform them is based on nothing but an arrogant, nostalgic, and idealised obsession of the past, as well as a refusal to recognise the individuality that each member brings to the table! None of these new 'recastings' are superior to the Shepherds. You cannot demean them by insisting that the heroes of the past are greater than them just because they were first!"

The nostril-hair man faltered. "Uh… wow, I didn't really even get to explain myself…"

"Explain yourself in the darkest dungeon of Ylisse!" Cordelia-Catria shouted, making her way towards the criminal. Wow, she sure was worked up over this whole ordeal. It definitely wasn't his fault, Robin decided, because he would never continually tease someone until they were overwhelmingly frustrated.

Surprising everyone, except Robin who wasn't paying attention, as he was debating whether or not to propose to female-Marth, (were flowers nice? Did people like flowers?) Chrom-Marth raised a hand to stop her. "Hold, Cordelia. Marth may have explained your plan, but as your Exalt I'd like to know why you've done this. Emmeryn would have treated you fairly, so I'll do the same."

Nostril-hair man jumped at the opportunity. "Yes, and I shall be happy to explain your failings!" He breathed deeply; most likely he was getting ready to exposit. Robin was vastly experienced with the act, but he liked it far less when it was someone else acting upon him.

Nostril-hair man — wait, no, Robin needed something more consistent. Nergal! Wait, no, that was taken… Nasal! That was good. — Nasal pointed at Chrom-Marth. "You! Nothing but a brain-dead jock with the personality of burnt toast!" His finger was shaking as he moved it towards Cordelia-Catria. "Wench! Your devotion to the blue-haired dud is excessive and wears a man thin; how one-dimensional can you be?!

"The dancer is a harlot, nothing more than a pretty face and a deceitful woman behind coquettish behaviour; the swordsman, a pale imitation of true chivalry marred by blatant misogyny; the sweets-obsessed thief; the verbose, dull mage; a big, muscular, stupid mutt, in the third-person, twice; the fucking lolicon dragon!" Nasal's finger had rocketed about, pointing aggressively into the crowd of fully armed soldiers. His breathing was heavy, and his lone nostril-hair swayed in the wind.

Robin was flipping through his dictionary (he always kept it handy, of course) trying to find out what in Naga's name a 'lolicon' was.

Chrom-Marth stared at Nasal, eyes dead. "You transformed us… because you think we're flawed?"

Nasal shook his head so quickly that Robin thought his neck would snap. It didn't (tragically) and the loser villain kept talking instead: "Flawed? No, no, no. You misunderstand. Flawed is Alm and Celica; two opposing ideologies stubborn in their own ways, but beautiful in their interaction. Flawed is Arvis, ambitious and manipulated, justifying his accursed means yet lamenting the mistakes. Flawed is not bad; flawed is perfection! But you lot — you good-for-nothings!

"You are one-dimensional! Lacking depth, predictable; you are nothing but imitations, not because you are 'recastings' but because you are uninspired, vapid marionettes, dancing to the beat of a broken drum played by an assortment of random, sickly hands." Nasal was out of breath at this point, and his bald head was feverishly sweaty with the heat.

The silence that followed was agonising, as each Shepherd glanced around at each other.

"Wow," Robin said. "I can't believe he called you guys losers."

The immense wind generated by the sudden head-turns towards Robin would have been considered on-par with an elwind. It was Nasal, quick as a whip, to make the first comment: "You! Nay, nay, I say you! There are two true criminals here; two criminals that stand above the rest, in their lacklustre, and you are among them!"

"Me?" Robin exclaimed. "What could I have possibly done wrong?" For some reason, the Shepherds began to shout at that (most likely in full support of his character, Robin presumed), but Nasal was on a roll and cut them off.

"That's it! That's precisely the issue! You make nary a mistake; you're well-liked, well-read, well-versed in tactics, and people listen and trust you implicitly! Nothing could be more disgusting than an individual claiming to be nuanced who lacks a weakness; you will be a forgotten man in history, tactician! Your name will be a mystery, blindly written in, and your gender and appearance a fairy-tale to all. You will be nothing but a blank slate for young children to project themselves on!"

It was quiet again. Aggressively quiet.

Female-Marth broke the silence. "Are… are you saying he's too perfect to be real?"

Robin opened his mouth, a brilliant shining smile on his face and stars in his eyes, before a dozen hands clamped over it. The eyes locked on Nasal were full of disappointment. Full of disparaging thoughts and shared belittlement. Just like sorcery school. "No," Nasal shouted, clutching at his chest. "His lack of flaws and charismatic facade is but a cover for his duplicitousness; he would seduce and lead astray anyone, even if it reeked of immorality. Should his best friend have a daughter, he would have his wicked way with her, no doubt in my mind!"

For some strange reason, this set female-Marth's face aflame. "W-what? What are you saying, you madman!? I would — I mean, Sir Robin wouldn't…"

This wasn't good, Robin concluded. Nasal was completely ruining his chances with female-Marth. He couldn't have female-Marth think he was pining after an imaginary child of Chrom's. "Halt! I've had enough of your disingenuous assertions," Robin said. Oh yeah, that sounded good. Put that in a script. "Chrom-Marth is my very best friend—"

Chrom-Marth sighed.

"— and I would never stoop so low as to do such a thing!"

Now, according to Make Her Fall for You in a Fortnight, the next step was to establish interest.

"For example!" Robin said, grandly gesturing towards female-Marth. "Marth! Truthfully, I'm already quite charmed by her; I couldn't possibly fall for Chrom-Marth's entirely hypothetical future daughter while my thoughts are full of another, no?"

Female-Marth reddened, and her cheeks lit up a healthy pink. "Please, Sir Robin! I'm flattered but… but… This is hardly the time!"

Robin let out a sheepish laugh. "Right, right," he said. He turned to offer an apologetic grin, but suddenly froze as his gaze locked onto her. "Wow," he mumbled. "Has anyone ever told you that your left eye —"

"The plan!" Female-Marth interrupted forcibly, rapidly turning away from Robin and approaching Nasal with Falchion raised. "Your plan! Keep talking. Why is Tharja in chains?"

Nasal eeped, but nodded his head regardless. Taking a moment to compose himself from the threat, he stood tall..ish. "As you can plainly see, I've captured the dark mage; I used a teleportation and anti-magic clothing rune to bring her to me — my reasoning is twofold. Firstly, she holds the means to dispel the transformations, so she is my hostage. Should you attempt to strike me down, I shall eliminate her and render your attempts to change back asunder!"

That garnered attention. The Shepherds tensed, but Chrom-Marth held up his hand once more, and they drew back slightly.

"You… most certainly should have led with that," Virion-Bastian murmured.

"She's being held hostage and her life is in danger! We have to do something," Ricken-Ewan cried out. He began to run forward, but multiple hands grabbed him by his cloak and pulled him back. Oh thank Naga, Robin thought, they were learning.

"Oh yes indeed, her life is in my hands! Be afraid, you feeble worms; though perhaps you should be thanking me instead. After all, intricately tied into the tactician's perfection is the most egregious abomination there is — Tharja, the worst individual amongst you all!"

Once again, there was silence. Nowi-Fae raised her hand. "I think Tharja's pretty nice!"

Nasal let out a guttural scream. It was surely painful, and it sounded disgusting. "No! This woman is an extremist for your tactician; she chases him, obsesses over him, fetishises him! Her single-minded devotion to him is disproportionate, and she is transparently serving herself up as a reward; the only thing more blatant than her extreme behaviour is her bouncing bosom and immodest rear end!"

If there was silence before (a noticeable trend following Nasal's outbursts), then now it seemed as if the whole world froze. Mouths were gaping, eyebrows were rocketed upwards, looks were exchanged.

"Alright," Robin said, after a short pause. "I don't know what the fuck that was." He scratched his cheek. "Kellam-Arden, subdue the target."

Almost instantly, a figure materialised into existence behind Nasal, knocking him to the floor and capturing him. Simultaneously, Tharja sidestepped and withdrew next to Robin.

"I won a war, you idiot!" the tactician gloated, raspberrying the captured Nasal. In response, the fallen magician began to cry. Oh. Now it was somewhat awkward.

Gaius-Matthew slipped forward and uncuffed Tharja. No sooner had the cuffs fallen to the floor had she ripped the gag out of her mouth. The blue clothing she wore faded to black, and a giant ball of undulating dark magic sprung forth from her hand.

"I'm going to kill you now," she said.

"Wait!"

Everyone, with the exception of Nasal (who was still sobbing), groaned. Until they realised it was Chrom-Marth who called for it, and then they shushed, because he paid their salaries.

"This has been, without a doubt, the stupidest thing that has ever happened," he began. "But, while you've been verbally abusive and threatened us with a hostage, you have not caused serious damage. Release us from this curse, and we will negotiate your sentencing."

The group had to wait briefly for Nasal to stop crying, but after the tears stopped, the man spoke: "In truth, the curse is on a timer. By dusk, you will all be back to your original, inferior forms. My goal was to throw you into disarray and reform you into worthier individuals, but I see now that you're all too far gone to be redeemed. I would sooner die than succumb to your 'unerring' kindness."

A wave of relief washed over the Shepherds, and they all turned to each other to engage in their ritualistic shoulder-patting and congratulations. Tharja's dark magic still shone, but a look from Robin held her at bay.

Female-Marth drew everyone's attention with a bow. "I must not reveal too much, but I speak with the utmost confidence when I say this — you all, the Shepherds, are wonderful people, and you shall all go on to do great things."

The swordswoman raised her head and turned to leave. For a brief moment, she locked eyes with Robin and turned scarlet, a small smile gracing her features. Alright, Robin thought, definitely going with the flowers.

"So, uh," Vaike-Bartre said, "Are we done here, or…?"

The congratulations and celebrations ceased, and once again all eyes turned to Nasal. "We'll have him seized and face a trial for attempted sedition once we return," Robin said with a shrug. Probably. He was hoping not to have any major work when they got back to the capital. Maybe just retire and do nothing, and then ideally there would be no more wars ever.

"I do have one query left on my mind," Miriel-Lute said, drawing the group's attention. "Although the curse could be negated by a competent dark mage, I've detected that the source of the curse originated through some other means rather than through extensive casting. How exactly did you manage to accomplish such widespread transfiguration?"

"Oh that was easy," Nasal said. "I put a curse on the rhubarb-and-fiddlehead pie."

"Okay," Robin said. "Tharja, you can kill him."

Without further ado, an imposing phantom hand arose from the ground, dripping with inky black blood. It snatched up Nasal entirely, clenched hard, and then retracted back into the ground. Nothing was left behind.

No one spoke, but no one seemed too distraught either.

Eventually, Chrom-Marth spoke up. "Well that's that, I suppose," he said. "Let's continue our march home and forget about this entire mess."

"It feels like we all had a really great adventure today!" Nowi-Fae cheered.

Maribelle-Clair clicked her tongue. "Nowi, dear, I admire your optimism, but I hardly believe there was anything to gain from this ordeal."

Robin jumped up on the table, startling everyone, and also causing everyone to frown. "Hey, I think Nowi-Fae is right! I think we all learned a very valuable lesson today."

Frederick sighed, but indulged the tactician. "Very well, Robin. What was the lesson?"

"I think we all learnt that —"