Kor
"The goblins huh?" Kor thought as he followed the little feral imp up to the quarters. The Magi might have been more up his alley, but Kor was a soldier after all. Fighting was his trade. Finding an unused room, Kor began his preparations for the next day. With fluid grace he unsheathed his scimitar and began a weaving patterned dance. At first he moved at a snails pace, cutting, slashing, slicing through the air. Slowly, slowly he sped up, until he was whirling around the room in a flash of steel and skin. The dance stopped abruptly with the scimitar thrust through the heart of an imaginary foe.
Having toweled off the considerable amount of sweat he had worked up, Kor began started the second part of his nightly ritual. With a critical eye he went over his blade with oil and a whetstone, leaving it sharp and gleaming. Every night he worked his body so, and what was the blade but an extension of his arm? It would not do for one to fail the other. Finally he inspected his bow, stringing and testing it to ensure it was still supple. A crack in the wood now, even a tiny fracture could spell disaster during a fight. Eventually satisfied, he un-strung it, put the waxed strings in a pouch and went to his bed.
Lying down he closed his eyes and waited for sleep to take him. When it didn't, he, remembering who he was sharing the castle with and, with a bit of effort, pulled a wardrobe in front of the door, forming a study barricade. A dagger went under his pillow. Only then was sleep forthcoming.