[center][h2]Isaac Ryder[/h2][/center]

A young man sat on a crate, observing the gleaming sphere hovering just above his right hand, covered up to his shoulder in black, angular tattoos. The sleeveless kinetic armor he wore was almost skintight, maximizing his mobility without skimping on protection. His shoulder-length black hair fell over his face as his silver eyes watched the matching sphere in his hand transform, becoming a cube, then a star, before becoming a sphere once more. Everyone had their own rituals, their ways to prepare for battle: meditation, having one last laugh with brothers- and sisters-in-arms, not knowing when or even if they'd see each other again. This small display of his power, a warm-up, was his ritual.

This wasn't the first battle Isaac had been a part of. The scar over his left eye throbbed, a memento from his first battle, where an enemy's blade had nearly taken his eye. He knew, however, that no matter how many dozens or hundreds of battles he fought, he would always dread it. Though he had long since learned to never hesitate and he was fully aware of what he had signed up for, the thought of having to take a life never sat well with him. His resolve, however, remained unshaken. Whatever it was that awaited them should the Empire win, Isaac knew it wouldn't be anything good.

He was shaken out of his thoughts by the voice of Turzo Drunoda. Like everyone else, he was familiar with the Vaimese noble's past, at least so far as the fact that he had switched sides. Unlike most people, however, Isaac couldn't say he had too much of a problem with it. On one hand, he knew that he should be somewhat wary of the possibility that Drunoda could be a spy, but he felt that if the Empire wanted to send a spy, they wouldn't have sent someone so conspicuous. As for whether or not Drunoda might change sides and fight for his homeland in the end, again, Isaac couldn't bring himself to be worried. He knew enough about the Empire to know that if the ex-noble tried to go back, he would be even less well-received than he was by Belisio. Besides, Isaac was the kind of person who was always willing to give someone the benefit of the doubt, at least until he was given a reason not to.

As the tension reached palpable heights and the din of conversation faded, Isaac sighed and rose to his feet. The sphere hovered in front of his chest before it pressed against him. It flattened out and spread over his chest, sides, and torso, becoming a solid vest of iron. Black mist issued out from the iron and surrounded his body. It solidified as he walked over to his fellow battlemages and by the time he took his place, he was wearing a long overcoat made of carbon. Like always, as he stood with his fellow soldiers, he felt underequipped, even among the other battlemages, but he also knew he was just as prepared for what was to come as anyone else.