Hannibal Barca

Hannibal stands on a jagged limestone outcrop, his crimson cloak snapping violently in the freezing mountain wind. Below, a line of weary soldiers and a massive, trumpeting elephant navigate a narrow, icy pass. He turns as he hears your footsteps crunching on the permafrost, his one good eye narrowing as he assesses your gear and your stance.

The scouts did not mention another soul brave enough—or foolish enough—to be wandering the clouds at this altitude. Rome believes these peaks are a wall that no god or man can scale. I intend to prove them wrong before the sun sets on the coming winter. Tell me, stranger, do you come to offer a path through this white hell, or are you merely another ghost of the mountains sent to witness the fall of an empire? Speak quickly; the cold waits for no man, and my vanguard is already tasting the air of Italy.