"Halt!" The guard by the gate held out a hand. "We need to inspect your bag."
The troubadour grimaced. "I'm just a simple minstrel wishing to partake in the festival."
"No exemptions," the guard said. "We need to check every person before we let them inside."
The two men continued arguing, not seeming to care about Poppy strolling past the watch gate with a hammer twice her size on her shoulder bouncing to the rhythm of her steps. It helped that she was the height of their thighs, even better that the glamour every yordle possessed made humans less aware of her presence.
It's not like she had skipped the line. She had waited like the rest, under the noon sun with her back straight and without complaint, collecting sweat under her armor and occasionally brushing away a horse behind her. Glamour didn't work as well on animals, especially hungry or frightened ones and this horse had decided that Poppy's white pigtails were snacks.
As she reached the end of the gate, another guard stepped in front. She looked up to see a glazed expression on the man.
The effect of glamour varied between humans. Some didn't notice her at all while others seemed to vaguely see her but not register the differences, like her pointed ears or blue fur. As long as Poppy didn't remove her spell or ask a human to look directly at her, the risk of trouble would be low.
"You're good," the guard said and waved her forward.
She had entered the town with elated steps, eager to meet the Slayer when her heels ground to a halt on the main road.
Uwendale was crowded. Leggings and skirts filled her vision together with stalls and tents. Smells of spice and herbs clung to the air together with butter and grilled meat. Then all the noise hit her. There were strums and beats of instruments. Vendors bellowed out prices and goods. Laughter and gasps buzzed together with smattering applause. The different sounds flooded Poppy's pointed ears like river currents and she felt like she was drowning.
A tall lamp post stood next to a stall and she climbed up the metal pole, with hammer and all, pulling herself above the lantern top. She took deep breaths, focusing on the savory scents of meat pies wafting up from a stall, and slowly the discord dwindled and the tightness around her chest lessened.
Ever since the mage rebellion, an overload of noise made her freeze up.
She'd been marching through the hinterlands for almost a month and stayed over in villages and towns without any problems but Uwendale was on another level, almost as loud as the Great City.
"Come on now," Poppy muttered to herself. "I can do this."
She took advantage of her new perspective to look for the Slayer. The anonymous hunter had been last sighted here in Uwendale and with all the festivity, he might still be around. In the last village, she had seen a statue of him based on a single eyewitness. Her heart had almost jumped out of excitement. The flowing hair, the rippling muscles, the heavy plates. He was the hero of Demacia she'd been trying to find all this time.
But finding the hero in this crowded festival was like trying to spot a specific fish in a shoal.
A blue banner flapped northwest, past the town hall and the open market. Squinting her eyes, she saw the mark of a winged sword in front of a shield, Demacia's symbol. It might be the town's barracks. They would probably know about the Slayer, but she was hesitant. She'd heard about the rangers of Uwendale, famed for their perceptiveness and animal companions. She wasn't in the mood to stress-test her glamour.
On the opposite side of the town, white smoke slithered out from bulky buildings. Poppy recognized the color of burning coal and by the amount rising up against the sky, it might be from a smith's forge. A hero needed to tune their equipment so the local smiths might have some clues.
She glanced down from the top of the lamp post, looking at the crowd-filled path. The jangle and shrills sounded more threatening than the wyverns she'd stumbled upon near the mountains. At least she could hit the flying lizards with her hammer and shield against the talons with her buckler. Inching down the pole, the noises increased and she felt her arms clamp harder and harder around the lamp post.
If she waited a bit, her ears would adapt to the volumes of Uwendale but the hero might have left by then to do whatever heroes did.
Poppy plucked the red scarf around her neck and tied it like a bandana, folding over her ears. The sounds became muffled and she descended back to leg-level.
The noises were manageable but the sea of legs was another matter. The humans didn't notice her and she found herself bumping into shins or elbowing a pair of knees. She was forced out of the paved road, stepping on the fields with tents and seated crowds. People in white cloaks tended the ill. A man had a puppet show for children. Big men dared others to arm wrestle.
Something jerked her hair and she looked behind.
It was a child about the same height as her. A dark wooden mask covered his face. The snout made Poppy think of a dog or wolf, but the ears above the mask were long and resembled more of horns.
"Lamb," the child said.
Humans' eyesight worsened with time. As they got older, some even had to wear glasses that enlarged things. But the eyesights of the young could sometimes be frighteningly sharp and cut through the glamour of yordles. Thankfully, few listened to the whims of the young.
Poppy yanked her hair free and looked around, confirming that no one was watching them.
"No," she said to the boy, "I'm a yordle." She then made a shooing motion before continuing her march.
The masked child followed.
Seeing no other option, she made a dash for it.
Her feet stomped through the grass fields of performers. She slinked behind stalls and ducked under carpets for sale. The boy became a dot in the distance.
Turning a sharp corner, she found herself charging through a crossroad of legs. Even through her muffled ears, the shrieks and gasps sounded loud.
"Sorry," Poppy apologized automatically as she toppled giants twice and thrice her size. "Really sorry."
She skidded to a halt after the crossroad, hiding behind a corner of a building. The masked child tottered over the pile of knocked-down people when a voice called out.
"Nollaig."
A man walked up to the child. Gray hair framed a hidden face. He was also wearing a mask, a white round one with small ears on the sides and two short horns on the top.
"Snuck away from Tabitha's stall, didn't you?" the man asked, grabbing the child by their armpits and lifting them up on his shoulders. "You should help out your grandmother, she's not as spry as she's used to."
He helped up the other people on the ground while pitching sales for tonics and remedies at the wake-tender's stall before leaving. The child waved at Poppy.
"Gives me the creeps"
The voice had come from above Poppy. Two men peered at the commotion while staying hidden behind the building's corner, unaware of the yordle by their kneecaps.
"You think he did it?" the one to the left asked. "Tabitha's assistance?"
"He's new in town, isn't he?" The other said, a one-eyed man with scars across his cheek. "And he must be guilty of something. Why else would he hide his face?"
"You know that's not enough to convince the mayor or the warden."
"Then let's ask him a couple of questions."
"The warden's already done that."
One-eye thumbed a dagger on his belt. "Let's ask more nicely this time."
Poppy watched the two guards step out of the corner and follow the masked pair.
Uwendale was like the Great City. On the surface, it looked ordinary but underneath the soil, seeds of unrest had been sown. When the king died, Poppy had believed that Demacia's military would imbue the citizens with a sense of safety. That their swords would defeat the fear and their shields protect the people. But the swords had only divided the citizens and the shields hid the blood. The prince was hurt and he was lashing out like a wounded animal. Only the hero of Demacia could save the nation and it was up to Poppy to find him.
The sound of Uwendale no longer drummed against Poppy's ears. She let her ears point freely and retied her scarf back on her neck. While listening to a couple talking about buying a charm blessed by the Winged Protector, the scent of smoke tickled her nose.
A few blocks away, a chimney poked out of a rooftop filled with ventilation slits. The walls were made out of bricks and stone and the door was ajar with a wooden sign that said 'Open'.
It had been a smith's shop after all.
Inside, rows of weapon racks stood along the walls and welcomed Poppy. Blades gleamed with sharpness, crossbows looked polished, and she had to nod approvingly to a few warhammers.
In the middle, a man worked a glowing rod against an anvil. He wore a heavy leather apron over bare arms and gloved hands. His face was smudged with soot and his dark beard had singes of smoke trailing out of the bristles. Sweat ran down his brow, most likely from the furnace roaring on the side behind him.
"Excuse me," Poppy said.
The man stopped his work and looked around with a puzzled expression.
Poppy stepped closer and the man looked at her. She froze when she saw the eyes of the man. They weren't glazed.
Her feet trotted backward. She had expected a child or two to be unaffected by her glamour, not a human adult. Her brain told her to flee rather. She didn't want another incident like the one in the Great City. But she needed to find where the Slayer was.
"Stop!" she shouted, digging her heels to the ground. She pointed the hammerhead directly at the gut of the man. "I don't want to hurt you. I just have some questions."
"Beautiful," the man said softly, staring at her hammer.
The glamour was still working, the smith had simply been captivated by her weapon.
Poppy relaxed her stance.
"It's Orlon's hammer," she said proudly, "A legendary weapon intended for the hero of Demacia."
"I can replace the leather on the hilt," the smith said, "Polish the metal parts and add a lacquer on the brass. Three silver and it'll take two days. Double the price if you want it faster."
"Oh." Poppy wasn't sure what to think of the smith's judgment. She'd been holding on to the hammer for almost a thousand years and had no trouble thumping enemies with it. If anything, it was Poppy who lacked the skills to wield the weapon properly.
"No thanks," she said.
The smith switched his attention from the hammer to Poppy, or rather, her gear. The familiar glaze shrouded his eyes as he circled her with a thoughtful expression.
Poppy became aware of all the maintenance she hadn't done. She forgot to polish her breastplate this morning. She hadn't pounded out the dents on her buckler after fighting those wyverns. The bracers on her forearms and poleyns around her kneecaps were filled with scratches from wolf attacks. The tassets around her thighs dangled loosely due to cuts from bandits. She hadn't even plucked out the arrow stuck on her shoulder guard.
If Orlon was alive, he would've been so disappointed by her lack of diligence.
"I'm a weaponsmith," the man said, "You'll have to go to Una three blocks down for the armor but it might cost a bit. Probably fifteen silver for everything."
Poppy flinched. She wanted to fix all the faults immediately but her purse was light. "I don't have that much."
"Are you a mercenary?" the man asked. "Uwendale is short on guards since all the rangers were sent south-west to Greenfang. The warden is looking for able-bodies."
"I'm able," Poppy said quickly, "and I have a body."
The smith smiled. "Mealla will be happy to hear that. The pay is decent too. Twenty silver per week."
Poppy pumped her fist. Not only were there no rangers in Uwendale, she had a chance to earn some money. She'll use it to fix all her faults. Looking at her hammer, the main quest resurfaced into her mind.
"Do you know where the Slayer is?" she asked. "Has he visited you?"
"I don't know." The smith tilted his head. "I only know that he has a battle hammer, and I've had a few customers with those."
"He's around seven foot tall," Poppy said eagerly, "A chiseled jaw. Wears plate armor. His hair is tied in two knots, like this." She waved one of her pigtails.
The smith focused on the yordle's hair for an instant before softening into a blank expression. His brow twisted in confusion, as he took another look at the yordle's pigtail, then continued to her face, staring into her purple eyes. A moment later, the man dropped to the ground unconscious.
Poppy swore. This always happens when she accidentally asks humans to look at her. The glamour convinced their mind that there was nothing, while the human's eyes insisted that there was. Their minds would spin round and round by the mixed information until the human, like a dog chasing its own tail, flopped out of exhaustion.
There was a table and a chair opposite of the forge, a workshop of some sort with pliers and oils. She carried the large human and propped him on the chair, adjusting so that his head rested on his arms on the table.
She looked at the roaring forge in the corner and the glowering rod of iron the smith had previously worked on. It might just take a moment for the weaponsmith to wake up, it might also be hours. The smell of iron, coal and leather made her feel even more guilty.
A barrel of water stood next to the furnace and a pair of extra gloves hung by the anvil. Poppy put on the gloves and grabbed the heated metal rod, quenching it in the barrel, and leaned it against the anvil. Routines and experience took over.
Behind a door, she found three other rooms. One seemed to be a storage with barrels of sand, coal and water. There she found a short spade and a stool to stand on as she returned to the main room, shoveling the hot coal from the furnace into the slack tub. When she had finished scrubbing the forge clean of ash with an iron brush, she returned to check on the weaponsmith. He was still unconscious.
"A fire left alone is dangerous so I cleaned things up," Poppy said. "Hope you don't mind. I'm really sorry."
Before she left the store, she flipped the sign to 'Closed'.
The roads were still packed but Poppy wasn't too bothered by it. She walked by the edge, brushing past knees and shoes, while her thoughts clung to the weaponsmith. He had been helpful, giving an estimate on the price of repairing Poppy's armor and the wage for being a recruit. He had also complimented Orlon's hammer, calling it beautiful. There had only been one smith previously who had said the same thing. The rest had called the legendary weapon crude.
It didn't take long to find the blue banner of the barracks. There was a line of people standing outside the building, allured by the wage. Poppy placed herself last, behind another lamp post and one of the largest men she had ever seen. The man was draped in foreign robes of purple with a tail of fine hair sticking out from a hooded cloak. He had his back to her, his hands busy with something.
A sudden movement from behind shoved Poppy to the ground. A smelly mercenary had joined the line, stumbling over her and bumping onto the back of the giant man.
A half-peeled egg fell to the ground.
Poppy ground her teeth. She wanted to swing her hammer at the drunkard but she'd caused enough trouble already. She picked herself up when the purple-robed man turned around. Six lights peeked out from the hood.
The towering man grabbed the lamp post and swung.
The drunk flew several feet across the paved road.
Screams erupted in Uwendale.
The sound of metal rang out as guards and mercenaries drew their weapons, surrounding the purple man, who was brandishing the lamp post like a staff.
The foreigner moved like a firefly. Poppy couldn't see the man's arms or legs, only able to catch the afterlights of the swings and thrusts of the lit-up street lamp turned weapon.
She heard, rather than saw the downward swing. It was a sharp inhale and she raised her buckler instinctively. The force vibrated through her body, sending one of her knees crashing to the ground. Her shield-arm felt numb but she had managed to stop the attack.
Around her, humans groaned and whimpered.
The purple warrior stared at her. She wanted to say that he had a curious expression but it was hard to confirm underneath his visor.
"You one of those yordles?" he asked.