The ship swarmed like a hive; soldiers of all stripes maneuvering around each other in haste. Like a flight of bees, they moved with purpose and order, despite a sense of chaos and tension. Most people now on their feet, getting into rank and file, checking over equipment, fiddling nervously. 

Still sitting, moving with the slowness of someone who either didn't care or was sure of the result, a woman nearly all in white prepared for her part. 

She didn't like to switch from her air tank to her battle-mask any earlier than she needed to. It wasn't as comfortable, but what about battle ever is? Once her device was discarded and set aside, and her new way of breathing in place, she flexed her hands. A pale turquoise light shone around her legs, forming from thin air. First seeming like vapor, then gaining an edge and mass like hardened glass, a set of greaves clad her. She shifted her weight onto the pommel of her sword, and hoisted herself up. 

Taking a moment to settle back onto her bones, Loretta Voltylun moved in measured steps towards her group. 

A lot of famous names and faces here. Though that is to be expected when partaking in the world's last lines of defence. 

The spectres, always the odd ones out. A grimly quiet bunch. She regarded them in passing with a clinical eye. 

While they aren't often met with much familiarity from the knights or battlemages, she felt some connection with them. Had her magic powers not awakened, she wonders if she'd be in their ranks instead. 

The battlemages; lesser in numbers than the knights, as always. Even here she feels a touch out of place. She stands beside another odd one out; more so than herself. Mr. Drunoda. A turncoat from a noble family. She wasn't much sure of his personality, nor her ability to trust him, but that was all the more reason to stay close in her eyes. She offered him nothing but a polite nod as she sunk into the group. His abilities might match well with hers, or against. So he'll be one to watch out for. 

Across were the knights. The ever proud and noble knights. She regarded them, shiny and sharp, mottled and blunted. Heroes all the way through. She hears one of her ilk call them boy-scouts, and lets the tiniest sliver of a smile form under her mask. An old standby, but always fun. 

Finally her eyes settle on THE knight. Roland Leonis. An old man in a young man's game; something worthy to respect and fear. 

She's had her run-ins with him before. She's decided she likes the man, though she can't place when. If any knights is going to tell her what to do, he'll have the easiest time of it. 

The air seems to vibrate with the energy inside and out the aircraft. Like the thumping of a drum, or a beating heart. Their turn is coming. 

Her turn is coming.