Allan
Zealot, Marauder, Mandalorian
Diz awkwardly stared at the wooden table they'd procured at their faithful brute, Allan.
"By-the-force, you fat bastard! Watch your fingers or you'll eat them too!"
Allan stared back as he finished off the cut-and-cooked starch he'd ordered.
"Fuck you, Diz. I do to food what you do to alcohol. Minus the ugly women and poor life choices,"
Barc started laughing, before laying his head into his arms to smother the sound as he stayed out of a brewing argument. The thin-waist having waitress skirted back over, and Allan waved her off.
"Don't you at least want a drink to wash down those fries with, Cutie? We have that Narcoleth you boys like so much,"
At that beloved word, all three of the Concordian's at the table stopped and turned towards her. In an almost comical way, all three of them offered, "Narcoleth?!" and then fumbled for their credits. The woman would head back and a procure a bottle, unopened and aged for the three warriors. And a piece of scrip with a comm frequency wrote on it for Allan.
And thus began a traditional drinking game from their home town that involved knives, the wooden tray that the bar brought forward, a lout of shouting and beating on tables, and most importantly three absolutely shitfaced Mandalorians.
On Concord Dawn, this'd be common. On Onderon? Maybe so.
Regardless, it was truthfully a culture revealing moment that defined brotherhood.
And an insane love for Alcohol.