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[Poniatowski]

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Poniatowski sat upon the alabaster steps of the shrine, his vision fixed on the sword lying across his legs. It was a fine blade, lightweight, strong, and seemingly empowered to find the target its wielder sought. Now its luster was largely obscured by the telltale signs of combat. Pon broke his gaze from the blade to glance at the mangled heap of the dead creature lying twenty feet from the shrine. The memory of what had transpired between he and the creature, which to Pon looked like a cross between a man and a spider, was a haze. The simple truth was, however, that Pon remained alive and the creature was dead. Summoning the energy to continue with what he was about, Pon rose from steps and began to ascend toward the altar.

Nothing special marked the tome sitting on the altar. It appeared to Pon to be nothing more than a large book. A look of frustration crossed his face; he had been expecting something grander. How could this simple book contain the answers he sought? He, however, had no choice in the matter. There was but one path forward. Pon gently laid the sword down upon the ground next to the altar. His hands hovering over the cover, Pon took a deep breath before he gently opened the cover. As the first page became visible, Poniatowski’s mind erupted in pandemonium.

He stood on the bank of a river. All around him screaming men threw themselves into the roiling waters, seeking the limited sanctuary that the opposite bank offered. The retreat of the army, already disorganized in the face of the advancing enemy forces, had turned into a full rout when the charges set on the sole bridge had been blown before all of the men had crossed. A few could be made up dragging themselves clear on the far side, but an equal number were clearly finding their watery graves.

Walking as best he could, clutching his torso where a stray musket ball had torn into him, he worked his way slowly into the chill waters. He had no choice. He could not permit the enemy the prize of his capture. He struggled against the current as best he could, making it far enough out that there was no choice but to keep going. Delirium and panic set in as he realized he would never reach the other side. The swift waters slowly worked his already sapped strength down, seemingly aware that this was a fight they would win. He finally conceded to their power and slipped beneath the surface. Prince Josef Anton Poniatowski was dead.

Poniatowski sat in a darkened space, the wraith of the King before him as it had been in the cavern. The wraith spoke, “The Codex has shown you the Truth Poniatowski. You, my friend, cannot return home. There, you are dead. In Sosaria, by some twist of fate, you are alive. Sosaria is your home now.” Tears streamed down Pon’s face as he understood the Truth of the wraith’s words.

The wraith continued, “Do not let your heart be filled with fear and regret. Your life has purpose. I need you to serve me, to serve the Virtues and deliver my kingdom from the depths it has fallen into. Lead the Order you have formed in my name in this most noble of pursuits. Follow the Virtues and be my Voice in the realm until my return. Follow this path and find the renewed purpose you seek. Wake and lead”

The vision abruptly ended and Poniatowski found himself standing at the battlements of his tower, facing the vista of the valley weaving southward. A contented smile reflexively crossed Pon’s face at the sight. He was home. The smile waned as he considered all he had experienced. He now had a renewed purpose, if only he had the Courage to accept it. Pon motioned a solemn salute, swearing himself fully to the cause of the Virtues and Lord British’s restoration. This land, home, would be healed of its ills. Turning from the battlement Poniatowski walked decisively across the roof speaking softly to himself, “So it begins…”