The last battle is fought and lost; the king who was and will be is king no longer. His heart broken, he turns away from his last battlefield; he looks back over his shoulder at the old world, and steps on board. His last few men stagger after him. From this voyage there is no returning.
Slowly, slowly, a sluggish breeze ruffles the dead water, fills the great sail. Slowly, slowly, the ship moves, striking out across the waves towards the far, unknown, shore.
The pennant streams in the gathering wind, a defiant streak of colour. The Prydwen sails again.