Maybe we should just drink on it...

[Julius Sedaire]

​

Location: Mad Strill Cantina - Keldabe, Mandalore​

"Back in my day lad, that many ale barely got you noticed!"

There was a wave of uproarious laughter as the grinning face of Ijaat, former proprietor and still majority owner, of the popular Protector and Mandalorian bar slapped an ailing man several years his elder on the shoulder, rocking him teasingly. Empty mugs of ale, pyramids of shotglasses, and other drinking vessels littered the table, and a towering plate of the remnants of some sort of poultry wings dipped in fiery hot peppers from the Northern wastes of Manda'yaim.

A drinking contest had been declared, to see if Ijaat was really still 'mando'karla' after his rebirth, by some young cocksure members of the Protectors with a slight case of a grudge and hero worship. And in true fashion to his storied past, the grey eyed man had won resoundingly, and he ordered a round for the onlookers with a teasing sweep of his hand, the murder tooth longcoat he had taken to wearing draped over the chair he leaned back in now.

Smiling to be sure, but still a holster-rig just under the arm pit, housing a verpine shatter-pistol, and a sturdy looking sword leaned on the wall-side next to it, gleaming in a worshyr wood scabbard carved with runes that glowed faintly. The Force users part made some nervous, but they accepted him as their old comrade and commander still. Mostly. Even if he was dressed in worn fatigues and a coat rather than armor and a hundred small instruments of death.

Standing up, he strode over to a nearby transparisteel case with a row of armor. A banner for Clan Akun, his more immediate family, hung superimposed with a banner with the symbol of the True Mandalorians and Clan Mereel. A set of battered journeyman protector armor, a well oiled blaster carbine and other pieces hung there, along with a picture of Ijaat in his first body, and the man who looked nothing like him, but was a father all the same. A moment, that's all he needed here. Just to remember.

[member="Lyanie Quez"]

Spoiler

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ISmgOrhELXs

 

[Lyanie Quez]

Wasn't often she set foot on Manda'yaim, but it was more often now than it had been in the days when Dantooine was still home and on the fringes of the territory of the united clans. The territory had become so much smaller, and for a time it seemed that the days of the Mando'ade were numbered. It was a joyous thing, then, when one of her very own clan brothers seized the post of Mand'alor, bringing a renaissance in his wake.

It was a good time to be Vizsla, and an even greater time to be Mando, but nothing was as great in this very moment than her desire for a drink, a quest that lead her to the Mad Strill - a cantina with a reputation for having the representation of the off-duty Mandalorian spirit down to the letter.... or at least, as much as she could see and hear, when she ambled, not walked, but ambled in, gussied up not in armour, but a jumper conducive to sticking her hands, head, or even half her body into the guts of a ship.

Thumbs hooked into pockets below where the jumper was tied off at the waist, leaving little else beyond an undershirt over her torso, and she made her way over to the bar, catching [member="Ijaat Mereel"] and the banner of Mereel in her glance; it caused her brows to pique in brief, until she caught the 'tender's attention instead, and got an ale out of 'em by the time it was done with. Turning away, she looked to the vod and his banner again, this time on purpose, and took a slow draw from her pint, watching him before finding herself a seat, a perch, whatever - and settling in, not giving one lick of a frak if she was left alone or not.

The tattoo on her back that had been there since her thirteenth year, a symbol that just peeked above the back edge of the wifebeater, definitely wasn't a match to any of the ones in the room, and to top it all off, she definitely wasn't a regular. If she knew her history of the clans well enough...

"Ayup."

...there he comes. Predictable.

[member="Ijaat Mereel"]

 

[Julius Sedaire]

There wasn't anger writ on his face, or much of anything. An unusual calm had settled over him the moment he sensed the odd presence and sighted her. His gun was back with his jacket, but with his new lease on life he was never really truly unarmed. Flexing his fists, he gave the monument to his father another look and then signaled the bartender with a certain sign. This, despite what others may think, was in particular what he had hoped for. Mereel and Vizlsa were two families far too often at each others throats. With the ascension of one of their own to being Sole Ruler, they had the upper hand in many eyes. Distant relatives flocked, their ranks swelled, and Mereel remained a small family. Negligible, particularly after Concord Dawn.

A heavy thud as a fine bottle was dropped... Whyrens Reserve, the label read proudly... Batch Number NN182... It was an ancient vintage... [member="Arrbi Betna"] had given him a case for a project a while back. And so, he figured now was a fine time to break open one of the bottles. Rather than some display of bravado by biting off the cork or some such, he pulled it out softly, letting the liquor breathe. The young, fresh face eyed the woman for a moment, noting not unpleasing features. And a strength in eye and set of jaw. She was a vod, and not some foreign trophy, to be sure. A curt nod, almost a bow of the head, showed eyes wearied well beyond the smooth skin of the face.

Without asking, he poured a glass for him, two fingers with three cubes of ice and flipped a napkin over it. A moment, and he poured the same for her. The pour was just the common pour as he had been taught a lifetime ago. The napkin was a Corellian thing, so he was told. It signaled you wanted a way to know if your drink was tampered with. That you didn't trust the other fully, and doing theirs too was an acknowledgement they didn't trust you. A sort of 'We are not friends, or even allies, and this is ok'. For a Corellian custom, it was oddly Mando, and Ijaat had noted several other cultures including several very similar gestures and ideals. To cement it, he reached out and drew his blaster to him with the Force, and slapped it between the glasses, handle facing her.

There was a feud that threatened the very existence of their people once... And it still brewed here and now even... But Ijaat would do his best to end it now.

[member="Lyanie Quez"]