The Mando in the corner clips his helmet to his belt and walks to the bar, quietly asking for a glass of tihaar. He strolls to the firing line, savoring his drink as he goes; the glass only holds a sip or two by the time he gets there. "Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum. Colleen." He mutters under his breath for a moment, perhaps more names; then he drains the glass and throws it, hard. CRASH