Itzhal tilted his head slowly towards Drego as the other Mandalorian began to tell his tale, a story that wasn't uncommon nor far from his own, as the former lawman listened intently. He didn't know much of the Alliance, apart from the general disgust that most people on the planet seemed to carry for them, although that wasn't much of a detractor. Mandalorians happened to dislike quite a lot of people, themselves included when the mood hit them. Until he'd dealt with a few of them, he'd reserve his judgment, though a couple of statements he'd heard about the Republic's successor didn't leave him with much hope for a favourable opinion. It didn't help that he would have liked to see the whole thing burn himself instead of watching the Republic's descendants try to create something out of the ashes.
Glass rattled against the bar as a drink landed aside Itzhal's hand, his helmet turned to face the newly dispensed drink. He hadn't even noticed it being poured, for all the bartender had remained in sight; a flicker of blue eyes to the corner of his HUD and back down brought up a recording that showed nothing out of the ordinary; the drink had been poured and untouched.
He took a moment to gauge Drego, the Mandalorian now lost in his story of past marks and the trials that had left them. It was a shame that he knew so little of the context, though most of it made sense. He wasn't quite so lost to be unable to pick up the clue that the Enclave was a former unification of Mandalorians. Whether it was clans or something more informal, he couldn't quite say. There were far too many unknowns and even more to add to the pile with every day that passed. The Protector's were obvious enough, at least.
In the pause that followed, Itzhal lifted two hands to his helmet and the seals that kept it in place. A soft hiss was the only hint that something more intricate was involved in the mechanics hidden beneath, as a twist and a lift-up removed the bucket. Even made of Beskar, the Morellian treated it with care as it was laid softly against the bar, within arms reach.
He didn't notice the glance sent his fixer's way.
The face revealed was pale, worn away by months underneath the helmet and little sunlight against their skin. His frown lines were thicker than what appeared to be normal, with a slight heaviness to the bags underneath his eyes. Still, he took the first sip of his Tihaar with only a pleased twist to his lips as the horrid liquid went down his throat.
It was a welcome distraction to the mention of Sith, a tale of boogeymen that had worn out in his time. Never outright gone, despite the claims made by some, the Darjetii had still been around. They'd just been a little more subtle about it and how the jetii'dral seemed to turn them insane over time. The mention that he was conversing with a Warmaster was somehow easier to deal with than the fact the former were still around; he'd expected it to all come tumbling down eventually. He would have to visit sometime. See the madhouse in person.
"I can't say I've ever faced something on that scale," Itzhal confessed without a thought for lies or attempts to brag. Children could scream with all the bluster they desired, but the reality was that his time had never faced such danger. The challenges of the past had faded, and the future had been hopeful. Neither of those statements were true anymore.
"Shot a Rancor once," He offered when all the other stories seemed so much more difficult to handle; how did he speak of the dead far gone when only he remained to cherish their memory? Did he remember the faults, or only what they would have wanted to be remembered?
It wasn't a question Itzhal had much of an answer to. Not yet, at least, but maybe this would be a trial,
"Started simple enough: we were part of a salvage crew and had been hired to locate a valuable storage box. The good news was everyone knew where it was; it just happened to be on a jungle planet with a recently crashed ship. The bad news was everyone knew. So, we find it after far too long mucking around in canyons and crevices before running into a Mantigrue that tried to take one of the Vod on a journey into the stratosphere."
He still remembered the idiot's face as he was pounced upon, thick claws unable to tear into his armour but more than strong enough to lift him up and into the air. It only felt right to drink to that.
"Eventually, one of us got the grand idea to use a guide, which somehow led to us watching a Chironian try to walk four-legged down a ravine as he negotiates permission to fly a spaceship for a couple of hours," He shook his head, unable to hide the humour that danced across his face as the memories sparked.
"He even got his way after he found the vessel for us. A couple of hours trying to fit four legs and a horse's backside into a cockpit while we're busy delving into the remains of a hyperspace scattershot, which would have been fine if, halfway through, we didn't start feeling the metal underneath us shake..."
He trailed off, judging how the story was being received and whether there was much point to continuing.