Robin is apparently an asshole - a slang term used to describe an irritating person.
Miriel adjusts the rim of her glasses as she walks down the corridor of Arena Ferox's designated area for the Eastern Champions. She runs through the general facts of the tactician she's supposed to fetch, formulating a plan of neutral confrontation.
A tactician who fights on the frontlines, with a dagger and magic that Miriel is still unfamiliar with, but she's already deduced its inner workings to be stronger than a Nosferatu with significantly less range.
He has been with the Shepherds for only two weeks and is quite frankly universally disliked by every member. An impressive record, if anything.
He has white hair, strange purple eyes, a coat with Plegian symbols that can date back to early Grimleal texts and quite strangely enough - he suffers from amnesia.
She pauses in front of his room, hand raised to knock as she quickly pools together all of the data that she requires. A polite manner of approach is most favorable and not allow his insults to anger her are key skills imperative to this mission.
She knocks once sharply, the sound echoing down the empty hall as she waits patiently for any sign of response.
None.
She knocks twice this time, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. The only reason she's been sent to pick Robin up is because of how odd it is. The man is usually seen in the very early hours in the morning and will never miss breakfast - mostly because its the only meal he'll probably get in the day. It's arguably the only thing positive that Miriel can judge within him - that he's punctual.
The smug Lissa wrapped up in Robin's freshly-dried coat at the dining area also suggests that the man wasn't seen in his usual morning walk.
Testing the door and finding it unlocked to her surprise, Miriel quickly peeks to her sides, ensuring that nobody's following her before stepping inside, letting the door shut gently.
There are papers everywhere. The desk is completely masked beneath thick books, rolled maps and papers with Robin's signature scribbled writings. Quills and empty ink pots lie unattended on the ground and her ankles sink into the mound of papers like a snowdrift.
A candle that dangles precariously between two wedged books gives her enough evidence that the man's spent a long time awake; it's burned everything. Even the melted wax that dripped onto the plate below.
There's aa half-full mug of tea - cold, Miriel brushes her fingers against the rim. No wetness, which means that it hasn't been touched in hours.
Halfway across the room, between the small study and the bedroom, there lies a damp shirt and pair of trousers, soaking the scribbled papers beneath. A hacking cough from the next room tells Miriel everything that she needs to know about the whereabouts of Robin.
The idiot's caught a cold.
Hanging the disregarded clothes on the doorknob, Miriel gingerly picks up the soaked papers that were hidden below. Smudged ink is everywhere and she can only make out at least tiny bits of what's been written. A plan of attack and defense from their current position, in case Flavia decides to betray them - underneath is a contingency plan to have the royal family escape on horseback should the first plan fail, underneath that is how the Shepherds can distract the Feroxian army with their mages and archers and underneath that is a plan for keeping each and every Shepherd alive in time for Ylissean reinforcements.
All for a potential scenario that has an abysmally small chance of happening.
Miriel would chuckle, but the amount of detail that their tactician puts in is disturbing, there are no faults whatsoever but even Miriel thinks that these border on the line of obsession. She gets another rare glimpse into his character, looking through each pairing, position, ambush and spell to use in specific situations.
A particularly brutal series of coughs ricochet through the small room before being accompanied by a low groan. Miriel sighs, setting the sheets down onto the desk beside her. Robin seems to appear as less of an 'asshole' and more of an 'idiot', so to say.
They had even been offered warm towels and a fresh change of clothes after they had returned last night with medicinal teas to stave away any potential illness - the tournament is the day after tomorrow, hence why Flavia attempts to keep her fighters in top condition.
Miriel remembers seeing Robin in his soaked clothing as they dismounted, he had given them all a once-over, reminded Lissa to wash his coat before disappearing into his room; shrugging off any offers to help at all.
She knocks onto the door of his bedroom twice, this time he does respond albeit with a sharp edge.
"What is it?" She can hear him stifle a cough and attempt to force his husky voice to sound healthy. "I'm busy with work, so leave if you're here for some mundane reason or if you're Lissa."
"Work? I assumed that the study was next door." Miriel ignores any protest that forms in the man's throat as she steps in. The bedroom is a stark contrast to the study, there's not a single bit of mess inside and everything is still the way that Flavia had intended it to be. "How do you fare, Robin?"
She watches him pull up his covers - thank Naga, because he's most likely not dressed - and mutter 'Naga damn you, Miriel' under his breath. She almost calls him out on the comment just as another series of painful coughs wrack the tactician.
"You're ill." She states as if she's conversing with a toddler.
"And you're annoying, so?" Robin grumbles, not even bothering to fix his bedhead as he suppresses a sneeze. He sits up, propping himself against the velvet pillow - which gives Miriel quite a pleasant sight of the male upper body if she blocks out his face and voice in mind's eye.
Miriel sighs in mild annoyance. Does he realize that the tournament is the day after? What good is he to the Shepherds if their tactician falls ill before the battle?
"Need I remind you that our battle in the tournament is the day after tomorrow? Chrom still needs a full analysis of enemy fighters and a drafted list of who's to fight." Robin scowls, he shuffles in the bed before producing a small stack of papers from beneath his pillow. Even Miriel is surprised at the man's tenacity, there's a full sheet of potential fighters - the equipment they require, their current status, the partners they work best with… Everything.
"Is that all?" He huffs, burying himself back into the thick folds as Miriel glances over the information, "If so, then piss off. Tell Chrom to go fuc- that I'll be ready for the tournament."
"What about the analysis of enemy fighters-"
"Study. The first sheets on the desk on the left side facing the door. The last two pages-" He suppresses a sneeze and pulls the covers up further. "-The last two pages are on the ground by the tea, next to the trade book that's open on page 32." He gestures to the door. "Shoo."
She leaves the man to his rest, but a small part of her brain - a moral standpoint, one that she has nurtured carefully over years - states that she probably - probably can't leave him there.
Miriel dedicates the next hour to neatly stacking all of his papers on the desk in alphabetical order, empties the cold mug to brew herbal tea and dries his clothes with a spare fire tome. She then ensures after each meal that the tactician at least has something to eat.
Much to everyone's befuddlement (and disappointment), Robin recovers by the morning of the tournament, snatching the coat that Lissa has worn for the past two days like a trophy. Miriel finds him seated in the study, sipping at a steaming mug of tea while scribbling down new notes.
Strangely enough, just after breakfast as Chrom announces who will be fighting, she finds a neat pile of books at the foot of her room's door, a generous mix of fiction and non-fiction - all that she's never even seen before. She swears there's even a book on Valmese tradition inside next to a study on Ylissean architecture.
Miriel concludes that Robin is an asshole, but attaches a mild tone of endearment to the insult.
Robin is an admirable man, Virion gives the tactician props. He just an infamous streak of being an asshole.
He spies the tactician stalking off to his room after breakfast, several books in his arms, It's a wonderful plan that he's made, using soldiers comfortable with each other to ensure that every fight they have is a one-on-one.
Virion does what Virion does best, socialize.
"Robin! How about a game of che-"
"Go away."
46 - 0, he watches Robin deposit the books by the entrance to a door, brush his roes before continuing a brisk walk towards the training fields, no doubt to prepare for the battle in a few hours. Virion decides that following him is a good way to spend his afternoon.
Only a handful of Shepherds were chosen to fight, so the rest merely have a free week in Ferox. He had considered spending the day in the marketplace to find a gift for dear Cherche, but then again; whatever he'd send would get chomped on by Minerva.
"Brilliant day, isn't it?" He's promptly ignored by Robin, who's begun performing rudimentary swipes with his dagger, occasionally mixing up his attacks with a grab with his right hand. "You've recovered from your cold, I presume?"
"Render." Of course, Render does nothing to an inanimate object, as it has no life to take. Robin retracts his hand, obviously satisfied with his work.
"The scenery in Ferox truly is one to behold - there's something… Romantic about a good snow climb, enjoying a meal atop a mountain… Getting hot and frisky within an abandoned hut after a surprise snowstorm hits…" Virion gestures to the Shepherd's tactician overdramatically.
"Not to mention that Feroxian women are quite exquisite. A distaste for noble etiquette in a continent, beautiful muscles and skin-" Virion sighs in content, Robin performs a complex parry on an invisible blade, sidesteps the dummy, performs a leg sweep and pins it in a headlock, his hand greedily taking ahold of its face.
"Render."
"Oh, the woes of being here for only a fleeting moment… I wonder what it would feel like to be pinned by such a strong woman…?" Virion smirks as Robin finally pauses his exercise, an irritated expression on his face.
Virion realizes his mistake a moment too late.
"I think it'd feel-" Robin's a blur, a flawless activation of Pass. Virion doesn't even see the kick until it's already in motion. "-something like this."
Virion takes the kick, grunting in pain as he rolls back into the dirt. Okay, maybe direct assault was something he didn't expect but should've. He gasps for breath, clutching at his stomach as he grins up to Robin. Finally, a reaction.
"Stand, three seconds," Robin states simply, falling into a closed stance, ready to lash out should the moment arise. "Three, two, one-"
Virion gets up on time, manages a chortle before rolling away from the brutal haymaker Roin sends his way. In a match of pure agility, he easily has the upper hand with the skill to match his speed.
Skill with a bow, to be precise.
He doesn't see the overhead kick until he feels the sharp pain in his stomach. He lashes out instinctively, catching Robin off guard as he stumbles back.
Good. Virion does adore a good spar with Robin - it's strange to think that he'd be resorting to such crude combat tactics. Heck, he hasn't even sparred with Cherche in all of their time spent together.
He doesn't know why, but a good fistfight with the other man is the perfect way for the two to bond, not over a chessboard under evening twilight. He can even see Lissa and Chrom watching them with wide eyes by the entrance to the fields.
Not wasting his chance, he presses the advantage, tripping up the man before slamming an elbow in his stomach. His efforts are rewarded with a strangled curse and a sloppy fist to the jaw.
Robin activates Pass again, this time darting out of Virion's range before sheathing the dagger he's drawn. Virion blinks, Robin hadn't had the weapon out when fighting him, so where…?
Ah. He chuckles grimly, fingering the broken drawstring on his bow. The bastard. Nevertheless, he is undeterred by the loss of his weapon, this time charging into the man, feeling Acrobat kick in; he leaps over the man - much to his surprise… Probably - and throws out the strongest punch he can do.
It's essentially checkmate.
Roin performs an incredible parry, completely stopping Virion's fist by sidestepping and locking his arm in between his left arm while his right-hand lands directly on Virion's cheek.
Virion knows that he's dead, that Robin merely needs to mutter the incantation before he's reduced to a pile of ash.
"I give, you win this time." He shakes his head to the tactician, wincing as he flexes his arm. "I didn't realize you'd go for the bow." The score's still 46:0, something that normally would deter him - strangely enough, it acts as a motivator.
He had started their spars anyway, with his condition being Robin play him in a game of Chess while the tactician instead chose him to do a certain task for him; usually fetching sweet treats from the Ylissean bakery, strangely enough.
"Of course, it'd be hard to approach if you started a ranged fight - anything beyond two meters can and will result in my defeat," Robin states, gesturing to the quiver of arrows hanging by Virion's waist. "I would go for the quiver, but this is a spar - no need to damage equipment."
The duke gives him an incredulous look, showing him the damaged bow. "No need to damage the equipment?"
He swears he almost sees a smile flicker on the emotionless face.
"That's easily replaceable."
Frederick has decided; with an entirely objective opinion, with no personal thoughts attached to it in any manner: That Robin is an asshole.
"Ladies and Gentlemen! May I present to you, this year's Khan Tournament!" He's starting to get irritated with their tactician, who has yet to issue orders. Instead, the man sits cross-legged on the coarse dirt, waving sarcastically to their opponents. The female announcer's begun announcing the participants' names, bellowing them out to the screaming crowd.
"The Vaike!" Said man seems to adore the fame, raising his arms in approval of the roaring sound. "Miriel!" She scowls up to them, tapping her fingers against her Elwind tome impatiently,
"Robin." Frederick finally snaps down to the seated tactician. "Would you kindly stand up and take this seriously? Your current image reflects extremely poorly on that of milord Chrom's."
"Kellam!-" The announcer pauses, obviously confused as to why she can't find the said man. "Oh well… Frederick!" He can see the rest of the Shepherds beside Flavia, all cheering and whooping wildly alongside the crowd save Maribelle. Naga, even Lissa's singing badly alongside the song that the younger men below are screaming.
Screw Robin, the Shepherds themselves are ruining the very image of Ylisse.
He considers having his steed kick Robin, but the warning look in Chrom's eyes tells him to quite simply don't. Robin remains sitting, absent-mindedly doodling in the ground. His dagger hasn't even been drawn.
"Robin!" The tactician doesn't even react, adding little swirls to his drawing. Frederick's lance arm twitches as he eyes the approaching champions. Muscular Feroxian soldiers of all genders, he even spots a foreign champion wielding a blade that seems to sing as it cuts through the air.
"And finally… The crown prince of Ylisse himself. CHROM!" An explosion of sound from the already-loud crowd seems to momentarily startle Robin, he stretches on the ground as the musicians by the Arena edge prepare their grand beginning.
The rules are simple; incapacitate your opponent, disarm them and force them to surrender or just kill.
"Robin. Move. Now." Chrom sighs, evidently irritated by Robin's lack of care. He gives a good one-eyed glare to the tactician, who responds with the finger. He's happy that he received such a detailed roster the night before - but they do need field tactics to beat Basilio's team.
"Robin." Frederick adjusts his position on his steed. He's quite frankly done with Robin's shenanigans. "Shall I have you arrested for a capital offense should milord lose Feroxian support due to your hands?" The white-haired man sends a scathing glance in his direction.
"How about I have you stick your pointy little lance up your-"
They really don't like each other.
"Robin." Miriel scolds, that seems to get him to listen, weirdly enough. He pulls himself up, straightens his posture and draws his weapon. Frederick manages to take a look at the idle drawing that the man's made before it's crushed by his foot. A near-perfect representation of Arena Ferox, with little dots on each side. Possibly signifying troops.
Frederick raises an eyebrow to Robin. Robin responds by sending an irritated glance. Frederick is reminded by the fact that no-one would miss Robin if he disappeared, so that thought brings him solace. Robin kicks a pebble in his general direction. Frederick is once again tempted to skewer him. Robin is an asshole. Frederick is merely a protector.
They can see the two Khans at the top, sitting in their podiums. Both of them holding onto each side of a colossal battering ram beside a bell, moments from sending the colossal signal to start the fight.
Robin instantly changes persona, throwing out orders at a lightning-fast pace - so fast that Frederick almost misses a couple.
"Miriel, accompany Kellam - he'll protect you while you go for the pair of lancers over there." Robin points to a duo in the distance. Miriel gives a single nod and (presumably) shifts over to Kellam's location, wherever he is. "Vaike is with Frederick, climb onto Frederick's steed and pressure that mage and swordmaster over there. If that mage gets through then everything's lost." He sends a single nod to Chrom, both of them instantly at each other's backs.
"So what do we do?"
Robin eyes the foreign swordmaster warily as Marth steps from the shadows, the false Falchion in his hands. The pair seem strangely distant, for a fighting duo. He's not surprised by the swordsman's appearance - he'd walked in on him changing by accident earlier in the men's room, much to the other man's strange discomfort.
"Fight Marth, I'll figure out the enemy's patterns soon enough." Robin's right-hand twitches in anticipation, while the strange mark on his left glows through his glove. He gives a single nod to the Shepherds, who instantly move forward, splitting into their pairs and taking their places.
Chrom flourishes his sword, Robin rolls up his coat's sleeves, Miriel cracks open her tome, Vaike grins threateningly and Frederick twirls his lance.
Kellam's probably doing Kellam things.
Flavia and Basilio lift the massive ram with their incredible strength, slamming the slab of wood into the equally-colossal bell. The sound almost makes the ground shake, drowning out any pretense of music that the orchestra below had started.
The tournament begins.
It's almost slothful as to how slow I'm progressing with From the Ashes. Ideas are cherrypicked, scrapped and re-picked. I'm now trying to keep a balance on the information given - to quite literally prevent information overload.
Nevertheless, the chapter's half-finished. I've merely taken to writing slightly longer chapters for it - perhaps around the 7k mark.
Other than that, I surprise myself with how easily I portray Robin to be an asshole.
It's quite fun, really.
I didn't give much thought to Robin's pairing. Perhaps I'll do a poll soon.