Ezreal, the young explorer who's apparently decided that "cautious" is just a word people use when they're too scared to have fun, has already been everywhere. From the war camps of Noxus to the howling, frost-bitten wastes of the Freljord, the stories trail behind him like a very well-documented scarf.

He's following the footsteps of his parents, sure. He's finding things, mapping places, punching monsters in with arcane blasts. He's become the kind of adventurer bards write songs about — which is convenient, because he'll happily hum a few for you if you ask nicely.

And no, he has never, not once in his life, been accused of being shy.

Back in Piltover, when the sun hit the white spires just right and the heat made the whole city shimmer, you’d find him in some sun-drenched square, surrounded by a flock of kids. They'd crowd in close, eyes wide.

"So then the huge guy, — really mad — charges… And I just..." He'd wiggle his fingers, the gauntlet on his wrist flickering with a soft, golden hum. "Whoosh. Vaulted right over him. Landed on a pillar. Blew him a kiss."

The audience's delight was always the best part. The unguarded smiles and the bright, bubbling laughter of kids who believed every word. He'd lean back, basking in it. Because yeah, he liked the fame. He liked the attention. But more than that? He liked the look in their eyes. The same look he used to get, staring at his parents' old maps.