It wasn't often that Raol Leveren indulged himself in the regular drinking festivities. He preferred to sit back and let Filip or Balder or Rictor have their fun while he made sure they didn't do anything that might make its way back to the Feldwebel. The informal arrangement worked out just fine for Raol. The other Blades were rather entertaining and Raol didn't like the idea that he might do something embarrassing while out of it.
But it was his 30th birthday, a major milestone in the life of any man. Raol already knew that his friends wouldn't accept his usual begging off. Honestly, he really didn't want to avoid celebrating this birthday. So he offered himself up to the rest of the group and told them he'd do go along with anything.
Anything consisted of a lot of Kerwonian ale.
Their group might be rapidly approaching the age of thirty (or hitting it headlong tonight, in Raol’s case), but they still had their moments. This weekend had meant Rictor indulging in boyish mischievousness that he hadn’t since squirehood – he and some of the other Blades found themselves ducking their Feldwebel’s notice during Bierfest like truant students avoiding a schoolmistress, hoping she wouldn’t find reason to drag them in by their ears, all dark and glowering with disappointment.
But they’d successfully survived until evening. So the drinks ran freely, as did the game of billiards on the other side of the bar. It looked like Filip was currently thrashing Derrick; the usually quiet knight was doing a victory parade around the room, arms waving jubilantly. Rictor had found his way to his Vizekorporal’s side, delivering a full tankard of beer to the older knight (and if there was any bitterness about the three years between them, Ric had learned to pretend it wasn’t there).
“Thirty,” Rictor proclaimed, which perhaps sounded more profound and sagely in his head. The constant supply of Kerwonian ale was definitely having its effect. “So how does it feel?”
Resting against the bar to keep himself upright, Raol chuckled at the revelry that was going on around the pool table. It felt good to set aside his responsibilities to the church for one night. Being a Blade was fulfilling--emotionally and spiritually--but there were times like this when he really missed his carefree teenage years.
"Thank you. Not too different from being twenty-nine if we're being honest," Raol chortled and stood up to accept Rictor's gift. It might have more accurately been a gift to everyone else. With every drink, the Vizekorporal got more and more gregarious and pleasant to be around. "I'm officially old now! At least my parents can't nag me about getting married like others I've seen..."
“Yeah, it’s not like they hand you a crown and formative fucking life experiences the moment you wake up thir—” And then the topic of marriage arose, and Rictor spluttered slightly into his cups. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms in front of him and shaking his head in bemusement.
“You’d think,” Ric said. “Even with the cross on your shoulder, persistent mothers can find a way to nag. Yours doesn’t?”
"Yours does?" Raol raised an eyebrow. He shouldn't really be surprised, given the inclination of nobles to worry about lineage and keeping a name and bloodline going. Strapping young males were the best way of doing that. Rictor's situation was a little more complicated though. "Even though you're a Blade?"
“Sometimes.” The Korporal’s gaze slipped down to the half-empty tankard in front of him. “Not as much as if I weren’t, obviously – it went way, way down after I enlisted. Faram’s the best of shields, but she sometimes still finds the time to ask. Sorta like this is just some teenaged phase I’m going through. Which it isn’t.”
He shrugged, splaying his hands as if to indicate what the fuck can you do? The Cassuls typically went into knighthood, not necessarily holy knighthood; choosing the path of the Blades had been a hop outside the normal beaten path, an alternate route to strength and honour and valour. One paved with faith.