Allan
Zealot, Marauder, Mandalorian
Be a Wall-flower, Allan. And not just any Wall-Flower, but THE Wall-Flower.
Diz and Barc had abandoned him for beautiful women wearing fancy dresses.
Bunch of Chakaar's.
It was a Royal Ball, and the only person he'd ever considered dancing with was dead. How absurd. Whomever Barc had arranged a job for the trio under seemingly enjoyed Mandalorians or at least their work ethic. That, fine wine, and dancing.
The tall and well-built armored warrior did what most like him would have done. He pretended to not be there and would hope others would do the same. Although in this area, it likely wasn't. Time and time again, he had to entertain somebody who came to the back and asked him about his armor, the scalp on his belt, or his cudgel. Quite a few thought he was an officer of the law, with it hanging there on his hip.
"My word good gent, you're a big bugger!" some elderly man in a suit stated. "Bet you fetched a nice price," Allan twitched. He sought calm, and could not find it beneath all of that ice-cold metal.
"Mmh," he grunted out, in a fashion deemed rude. The gentleman canted his head and shouted out, "No slave shall treat me as such! You will respond to me as Si-," Allan had crossed the room, gripped the man by the throat, and hoisted him into a wall. There was also a DT-29 blaster pistol pressed into his goiter.
"I'll be calling nobody sir here, less they're paying me, bloke," a gurgle was his answer, followed by an attempted apology. Allan released him, holstered his hand-cannon, and went back to his wall. The pestering did not stop, and several compliments were made on his hasty answer to a mouthy man.
He was in for a long day it seemed.
Diz and Barc had abandoned him for beautiful women wearing fancy dresses.
Bunch of Chakaar's.
It was a Royal Ball, and the only person he'd ever considered dancing with was dead. How absurd. Whomever Barc had arranged a job for the trio under seemingly enjoyed Mandalorians or at least their work ethic. That, fine wine, and dancing.
The tall and well-built armored warrior did what most like him would have done. He pretended to not be there and would hope others would do the same. Although in this area, it likely wasn't. Time and time again, he had to entertain somebody who came to the back and asked him about his armor, the scalp on his belt, or his cudgel. Quite a few thought he was an officer of the law, with it hanging there on his hip.
"My word good gent, you're a big bugger!" some elderly man in a suit stated. "Bet you fetched a nice price," Allan twitched. He sought calm, and could not find it beneath all of that ice-cold metal.
"Mmh," he grunted out, in a fashion deemed rude. The gentleman canted his head and shouted out, "No slave shall treat me as such! You will respond to me as Si-," Allan had crossed the room, gripped the man by the throat, and hoisted him into a wall. There was also a DT-29 blaster pistol pressed into his goiter.
"I'll be calling nobody sir here, less they're paying me, bloke," a gurgle was his answer, followed by an attempted apology. Allan released him, holstered his hand-cannon, and went back to his wall. The pestering did not stop, and several compliments were made on his hasty answer to a mouthy man.
He was in for a long day it seemed.