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Description
        Hannibal stared, morbid, grey eyes glazed, at his death.  The ocean fog swathed it's shores, shrouding the encroaching harbour.  He, of course, was unaware that this land would be the death of him.  He knew only what he had come to do.  He came to spread word of his creed.  A crusade, of sorts, to gather followers.  He couldn't imagine it being particularly hard.  The Cycle certainly wasn't a hard concept to grasp.  Any savage in a tree believed something similar.
Nonetheless, Hannibal had chosen this sleepy town to start his journey for a reason.  He had been informed that the town had been having a menagerie of problems, all of which the young, ambitious Hannibal planned to fix.  He would be the savior.  A humble saint, asking only for their faith, and who wouldn't give it?
                                               * * *
        The boat was moored and the docks were dead.  Hannibal had packed lightly for this trip.  He carried only his ceremonial scythe, a tome of rites, and a small pack of essentials as he ventured into the town.  The harbour was nearly deserted.  The only shapes he could make out through the costal miasma were fleeting.  Frightened eyes watched from shuttered windows.    Perhaps things were worse than he had heard.  No matter, he would continue as planned.
        At the edge of the harbour, a path stretched forth across the dusky moorland, goading one's eyes to the wooden battlements of Larrington, Hannibal's destination.
The gates were open when he arrived, but not abandoned.  Torches lined the walls, illuminating the patrols atop them.  They were trusting to simply let a stranger in.  This boded well for his purposes.  In the center of the town which, though sparsely so, was more populated than the harbour, there was a hall, grand in comparison to the rest of the town.  The town hall.
        Inside there were pews, like the church he had been raised in, lining the bulk of the space, all angled toward a simple podium atop a dais.  A dusty monstrosity of a book rested on the podium, presumably a book of law.  Perhaps eventually, a copy of his own tome would rest in its place.  Behind the dais a staircase, nestled into the corner, led up to a series of offices, the last of which belonging to the mayor, whose name was engraved on a plaque above the door.  This plaque gave Hannibal pause.  Not for it's ornate flourishes of a skilled artisan or the fine materials of which it was composed, but for the name.  Larry.  Mayor Larry . . . of Larrington.  He sighed, shaking his head, the town had existed far too long for any of the founders to yet live.  He did his research.  It was built by humans and housed humans.  There were no Immortals or Sylvanfolk to speak of in its written history.  This left only that he was named after the town.  Or perhaps that he was raised and groomed to perform the duty of Mayor.  Hannibal expected the prior.
        Back straightened and chin raised, he strode to the door, his scythe clacking on the wooden floor every couple of steps.  He threw the door open as gently as he could, his robes flowing over his steel breastplate.  His eyes methodically scanned the room.  Directly before him was a large desk, paper strewn across its surface, with a plum, balding man in poorly maintained clothes of otherwise noble merit, adorned with precious metal buttons and cufflinks.  The man, who had previously been pouring over his paperwork, started, tipping his ink reservoir across whatever document he had been working on and nearly falling out of his seat.
        "Who in the Nine Hells are you?" the Mayor asked, the words sputtering from his lips as his eyes squinted at Hannibal.
        He began to roll his eyes at the ridiculous nature of the scene, but stopped.  He had to maintain the image of a hero to these people.  A hero in black, maybe, but a hero nonetheless.  "I am Hannibal, a Priest of the Cycle.  I have come to provide what aid I can."
        His face was red as a Pomegranate and he was clearly unimpressed.  His beady eyes narrowed on the priest.  "And what makes you think you can barge into my office without announcing yourself first?"  He rubbed his bristled chin for a moment.  "Though," his face lightened in color, "we have been bombarded with unfortunate circumstances over the last few months.  The disappearances, the raids on our caravan, an-"
        "Who's been raiding the caravans here?"
If it weren't for the boiled lobster tone of his skin, the Mayor's glare would have been quite intimidating.  "The Sylvan.  Those damn Elves used to protect our shipments from the beasts of the forest, now they take them."  He paused for a moment.  "In fact, I'd like you're aid in this matter.  If, that is, you think you can handle it."
        Hannibal hadn't noticed it before, but there was a bit of a slur to the man's voice . . . and he swayed when he wasn't supporting himself with both hands, and when he swayed, there was the sound of bottled liquor sloshing about.  He smiled "Of course, your Lordship."
        "Check with the tavern . . . barkeep . . ."  He shook himself back to relative awareness.  "Tell him I sent you.  He'll give you free lodgings for the night."
At that, Hannibal nodded, turning on his heel to leave.  He heard a large swig and a thud before closing the door behind him.  With the condition that this area was in, they needed to a new authority.  He could even convert the town hall into a church.  Whatever gods the citizenry worshipped now obviously weren't very effective patrons.  Perhaps they would be more apt to convert to a religion that didn't have a patron deity, yet.
                                          * * *
        The tavern owner didn't, in fact, provide free lodgings for the night.  As a matter of fact, Hannibal was confident that he was over paid, considering the quality facilities.  He slept uncomfortably, paid for some porridge, and set to the town.  He couldn't very well charge out into the wilderness looking for a village whose location he didn't know.  He needed to ask around, maybe find a map.  Yes.  A map would be most useful.  As he questioned the townsfolk, more and more of them seemed hesitant to tell him anything.  He did manage to get a map, and a door in the face, from the local enchantress.  Beyond that, he only got whispered rumors about some mysterious man that had been appearing off and on for the last few months.  By his records, since around the time things started to go downhill for the town.  Nearly all of the reports were the same.  A cloaked figure that, as one eloquent simpleton stated, "Gave you a feelin' like a punch in the gut."  What that meant, Hannibal truly didn't know, but it certainly sounded like some form of malign arcana.
        He would have to investigate this figure later.  He had his map and would be able to reach his destination by nightfall.  That was, until he felt a swift punch to his gut, but with no fist.  After the initial shock, the feeling settled into an unsettling ache in his stomach.  He whipped about, searching for the source of this unnerving aura, a cloaked figure.  He found it, holding a merchant by the collar, toting a brutally crafted crossbow.  Hannibal started toward him, his stride swift but deliberate.  The figure, of course, noticed the similarly clad foreigner marching in his direction and dropped the merchant and made for a nearby alley.  Hannibal followed at a steady pace only to find that the man had escaped . . . into one of three walls.  He glowered, turning to and fro, looking for some explanation for this disappearance.  A hollow, muffled sound came from under his foot as he searched.  Looking down, he found that he was standing on a wooden manhole.  Of course.  He had gone to the sewers.
        With a sigh, he removed the cover to descend into the sewage, which smelled strangely of rose incense and torch smoke.

Description
        Hannibal stared, morbid, grey eyes glazed, at his death.  The ocean fog swathed it's shores, shrouding the encroaching harbour.  He, of course, was unaware that this land would be the death of him.  He knew only what he had come to do.  He came to spread word of his creed.  A crusade, of sorts, to gather followers.  He couldn't imagine it being particularly hard.  The Cycle certainly wasn't a hard concept to grasp.  Any savage in a tree believed something similar.
Nonetheless, Hannibal had chosen this sleepy town to start his journey for a reason.  He had been informed that the town had been having a menagerie of problems, all of which the young, ambitious Hannibal planned to fix.  He would be the savior.  A humble saint, asking only for their faith, and who wouldn't give it?
                                               * * *
        The boat was moored and the docks were dead.  Hannibal had packed lightly for this trip.  He carried only his ceremonial scythe, a tome of rites, and a small pack of essentials as he ventured into the town.  The harbour was nearly deserted.  The only shapes he could make out through the costal miasma were fleeting.  Frightened eyes watched from shuttered windows.    Perhaps things were worse than he had heard.  No matter, he would continue as planned.
        At the edge of the harbour, a path stretched forth across the dusky moorland, goading one's eyes to the wooden battlements of Larrington, Hannibal's destination.
The gates were open when he arrived, but not abandoned.  Torches lined the walls, illuminating the patrols atop them.  They were trusting to simply let a stranger in.  This boded well for his purposes.  In the center of the town which, though sparsely so, was more populated than the harbour, there was a hall, grand in comparison to the rest of the town.  The town hall.
        Inside there were pews, like the church he had been raised in, lining the bulk of the space, all angled toward a simple podium atop a dais.  A dusty monstrosity of a book rested on the podium, presumably a book of law.  Perhaps eventually, a copy of his own tome would rest in its place.  Behind the dais a staircase, nestled into the corner, led up to a series of offices, the last of which belonging to the mayor, whose name was engraved on a plaque above the door.  This plaque gave Hannibal pause.  Not for it's ornate flourishes of a skilled artisan or the fine materials of which it was composed, but for the name.  Larry.  Mayor Larry . . . of Larrington.  He sighed, shaking his head, the town had existed far too long for any of the founders to yet live.  He did his research.  It was built by humans and housed humans.  There were no Immortals or Sylvanfolk to speak of in its written history.  This left only that he was named after the town.  Or perhaps that he was raised and groomed to perform the duty of Mayor.  Hannibal expected the prior.
        Back straightened and chin raised, he strode to the door, his scythe clacking on the wooden floor every couple of steps.  He threw the door open as gently as he could, his robes flowing over his steel breastplate.  His eyes methodically scanned the room.  Directly before him was a large desk, paper strewn across its surface, with a plum, balding man in poorly maintained clothes of otherwise noble merit, adorned with precious metal buttons and cufflinks.  The man, who had previously been pouring over his paperwork, started, tipping his ink reservoir across whatever document he had been working on and nearly falling out of his seat.
        "Who in the Nine Hells are you?" the Mayor asked, the words sputtering from his lips as his eyes squinted at Hannibal.
        He began to roll his eyes at the ridiculous nature of the scene, but stopped.  He had to maintain the image of a hero to these people.  A hero in black, maybe, but a hero nonetheless.  "I am Hannibal, a Priest of the Cycle.  I have come to provide what aid I can."
        His face was red as a Pomegranate and he was clearly unimpressed.  His beady eyes narrowed on the priest.  "And what makes you think you can barge into my office without announcing yourself first?"  He rubbed his bristled chin for a moment.  "Though," his face lightened in color, "we have been bombarded with unfortunate circumstances over the last few months.  The disappearances, the raids on our caravan, an-"
        "Who's been raiding the caravans here?"
If it weren't for the boiled lobster tone of his skin, the Mayor's glare would have been quite intimidating.  "The Sylvan.  Those damn Elves used to protect our shipments from the beasts of the forest, now they take them."  He paused for a moment.  "In fact, I'd like you're aid in this matter.  If, that is, you think you can handle it."
        Hannibal hadn't noticed it before, but there was a bit of a slur to the man's voice . . . and he swayed when he wasn't supporting himself with both hands, and when he swayed, there was the sound of bottled liquor sloshing about.  He smiled "Of course, your Lordship."
        "Check with the tavern . . . barkeep . . ."  He shook himself back to relative awareness.  "Tell him I sent you.  He'll give you free lodgings for the night."
At that, Hannibal nodded, turning on his heel to leave.  He heard a large swig and a thud before closing the door behind him.  With the condition that this area was in, they needed to a new authority.  He could even convert the town hall into a church.  Whatever gods the citizenry worshipped now obviously weren't very effective patrons.  Perhaps they would be more apt to convert to a religion that didn't have a patron deity, yet.
                                          * * *
        The tavern owner didn't, in fact, provide free lodgings for the night.  As a matter of fact, Hannibal was confident that he was over paid, considering the quality facilities.  He slept uncomfortably, paid for some porridge, and set to the town.  He couldn't very well charge out into the wilderness looking for a village whose location he didn't know.  He needed to ask around, maybe find a map.  Yes.  A map would be most useful.  As he questioned the townsfolk, more and more of them seemed hesitant to tell him anything.  He did manage to get a map, and a door in the face, from the local enchantress.  Beyond that, he only got whispered rumors about some mysterious man that had been appearing off and on for the last few months.  By his records, since around the time things started to go downhill for the town.  Nearly all of the reports were the same.  A cloaked figure that, as one eloquent simpleton stated, "Gave you a feelin' like a punch in the gut."  What that meant, Hannibal truly didn't know, but it certainly sounded like some form of malign arcana.
        He would have to investigate this figure later.  He had his map and would be able to reach his destination by nightfall.  That was, until he felt a swift punch to his gut, but with no fist.  After the initial shock, the feeling settled into an unsettling ache in his stomach.  He whipped about, searching for the source of this unnerving aura, a cloaked figure.  He found it, holding a merchant by the collar, toting a brutally crafted crossbow.  Hannibal started toward him, his stride swift but deliberate.  The figure, of course, noticed the similarly clad foreigner marching in his direction and dropped the merchant and made for a nearby alley.  Hannibal followed at a steady pace only to find that the man had escaped . . . into one of three walls.  He glowered, turning to and fro, looking for some explanation for this disappearance.  A hollow, muffled sound came from under his foot as he searched.  Looking down, he found that he was standing on a wooden manhole.  Of course.  He had gone to the sewers.
        With a sigh, he removed the cover to descend into the sewage, which smelled strangely of rose incense and torch smoke.