The Hall of Valor was impossible to miss. The cathedral-like structure on a grassy mound was made to dominate the skyline and the minds of all Demacians since its inception.
Poppy's footsteps echoed as she entered into the main complex, a massive dome that served as the final resting place for ordinary soldiers that displayed extraordinary courage, to exalted heroes of legend.
Among these were Iven the Sunderer, a Targonian who fought alongside he future founders of Demacia during the Rune Wars, claiming the lives of at least fifty mages on his own. Valkner the Wise, a master tactician who ensured the success of many campaigns during the golden age of conquest, and founder of the Dauntless Vanguard. Armand, known as the father of modern blacksmithing, who drafted the design of the very first retractable spear to aid in targeting the weak points of a dragon's head and neck, among other unique variations that have stood the test of time.
Each were given their own monument with statues depicting them in triumphant poses, with a little indented space at their feet for people to leave offerings like coins or flowers whether as a sign of reverence or in hopes that it would bring them good luck.
At the center of the dome, a giant column with a sculpted design of two knights standing with their backs to one another rose above the original throne of King Jarvan II, next to a glass display which contained the helmet worn by King Jarvan I, of a design that would go on to be worn by all the kings that would succeed him to the current day.
Poppy's chest swelled with an overwhelming sense of pride for her adopted homeland.
Demacia was built by heroes...ones just like him...
A caravan of one hundred or so Rune War refugees rumbled across the frost covered plains due East, as the sun was beginning to set.
Poppy was huddled up in a blanket inside one of the wagons – unaccustomed to the biting cold of Demacian winters.
Skirting the outside of the wagon was a man whose shabby appearance belied the true importance of his role in Runeterra's history – with scuffed, low grade armor that you would expect to see on a common soldier and hair as wild and unruly as the world he was born into – he had nonetheless made a name for himself with his great leadership and skill in battle, deftly wielding a hammer that was like a roughly carved slab of rock, affixed to a metal frame.
He was about to check the map, but stopped when he saw something moving on the horizon. A row of bodies, covered from head to toe in black hoods that billowed in the breeze.
"Mages!" The caravan's watchman bellowed.
Poppy's ears perked at the alarm. She had only heard about the cruelty of the mages from the others, but that was enough to make her blood run cold from their mere mention.
She peeked her head out of the wagon curtain, but the man was gone. "Orlon?"
A flung fireball crashed and exploded on the ground mere inches away from her, pelting the wagon with scattered debris and leaving behind a smoldering crater.
Another followed, then another, all landing dangerously close to the row of wagons, then the next one landed and caused its target to explode into flames amidst shrieks of pain and terror, and panicked whinnies of the wagon's horses.
Poppy was overcome by a sinking realization - we're sitting ducks. And there was no sign of the designated strongmen who hung around outside the wagons.
Just then, Orlon blazed past on a horse toward the row of mages, along with the other refugees that were in fighting shape on horseback, as Poppy and the others cheered on from the wagons.
Later when the caravan stopped for the night, Orlon could barely keep a straight face while he told her about what had happened, around a pot of cobbled vegetables stew boiling over a campfire.
"I bet they didn't expect us to come at them as fast as we did, so they had no idea how to react."
Poppy laughed. "All according to plan?"
"It was a gamble, I'll admit," he said, pausing to check on the stew. "Seemed like a better option than just sitting back while they rained hell down on us."
"Sounds right," she said, recalling the fireball that came so close to blowing off her head.
"Even though their battles have nothing to do with us, we're always the ones who pay the ultimate price." Orlon clenched his teeth, a hair's breadth from the tipping point of full-on anger. "And if we try to run, they still hunt us down like we should be content with an existence plagued by fear."
Poppy had nothing to say. She was a stranger in their world, still innocent to the brutalities of war.
"There were only five of them today, probably just scouts. It could have been ugly."
However, the good fortunes of the refugees didn't stop there.
The caravan would go on to reach its final destination the next morning – a patch of land that Orlon had previously chosen to establish a new settlement for those fleeing from the tyranny of the mages. They toiled the land, they hunted, they logged the woodlands, and they mined every cave under Orlon's leadership, until they started to flourish. Drills and army tactics that he played a large part in developing during this time to defend the settlement from its enemies would be the basis for what would later become the strongest army in all of Runeterra.
Poppy stood before the memorial to Orlon and felt a mixture of melancholy and amusement, the latter arising from seeing his likeness twisted into such an exaggerated, over-the-top pose. She knew him as little more than an honest, simple man with a good heart, always humble and never prone to needless posturing for the sake of looking tough.
She wondered, for a moment, if he would have sees any similar qualities in her today.
"Orlon the Unifier," a voice as gentle as a clear spring said.
Poppy turned and there was a man with striking features – thin, almond shaped eyes, chestnut tanned skin and dark hair neatly tied in a traditional Ionian fashion seldom seen in Demacia's heartland – dressed in regal, courtly attire. "A charismatic leader who rallied the destitute survivors of the Rune Wars together to form New Providence."
"He was also a good friend," Poppy interjected glumly, then snorted a laugh. "A man who could drink his belly full and still aim a bow."
The man's stoic expression shifted ever so slightly into incredulity. "You knew him?"
Poppy nodded.
"I may not look it, but I've been around the bend a couple times," she said, smiling meekly. "Sometimes I wonder where all that time went..."
The man bowed with grace.
"I am Xin Zhao, Seneschal of Demacia, here on behalf of King Jarvan III."
Poppy froze. She glanced around to be sure that there was no one else in the room. No guards, waiting to pounce on her as soon as he gave the command.
"Am I in trouble?" she asked, although she couldn't imagine what for.
Xin Zhao shook his head. "No...on the contrary, I have here a record of your accomplishments.
He opened up a scroll and showed her its contents – a long list of dates paired with brief notes detailing exploits like 'Odessa village is saved from rampaging raptors,' or 'a wyvern was slain at Jagged Tooth Rock,' or 'a hive of bandits was cleared,' going back several decades, all attributed to a small, unnamed warrior wielding a giant hammer.
"The list is quite long. Some call you the Iron Ambassador - you are like a legend among the people, a hero."
"I'm sorry," she said, anxiously fidgeting, "but you've got the wrong girl." She never thought of herself as a hero, just as someone who would occasionally lend a hand. Albeit, with the help of a really big hammer.
As she was walking away, however, Xin Zhao turned to her at the last second.
"King Jarvan has searched for you, or rather this hero for quite some time," he said, stopping her. "But I'm afraid...there isn't much time left."
