Recently, I had a dream about being the mage for a squadron of knights. A unique experience, to be sure- after all, you’re not there to heal them. You’re no cleric, tending to their every need. You’re a weapon just the same, and under the right circumstances, you’re explosive. There’s a great deal of respect afforded by someone like that. On the other hand, you’re nowhere near as hardy as the knights. Once, you shielded all of them from a massive rockslide and the mere effort from that knocked you out for three days straight. They carried your limp body for the next ten miles til you reached camp. It becomes a symbiotic relationship, then- a glass cannon in a drawer full of rusty knives. You used to sleep separate from the pile of knights, but after you caught cold once, you were summarily moved. While you didn’t fall ill again, you did catch a stray elbow from two tussling and sported a nasty black eye for a period of time. After that, you were moved between the pile and the captain who always slept to one side. A pragmatic woman, she wasn’t going to let you freeze, so she kept you close, ensuring your safety along with your health. She wasn’t nice, but she was kind. She always made sure you were provided the proper spell components and never had to take watch. And, of course, that you were kept warm through the night. Once or twice, you even thought you caught her whispering something soft to you as you drifted off. And when the campaign strides into fairer lands with proper lodgings, still she insists you sleep by her side. After all, she can’t risk one of them roughing you up. She says this even as she kisses sweet bruises into your neck, marking you to keep the others away. You’re already protected, cared for, and she’ll make you cry out loud enough for everyone else to know it.
