‘Olarom’, that helmet? You take a breath, and ask a loaded question. "Interesting helmet, who are you?”

You speak with confidence, direct and straightforward. There is no hasty breath to reinforce your thoughts.

But the woman seems stalwart, not thrown off guard but instead acknowledging of your observations. “Fear not, I did not interrogate any of your kin in search for understanding of the culture.” She takes a few steps back, her posture relaxed and voice as still as a forgotten pond. She walks around to the bar and takes a bottle by its neck, the bartender offers no resistance in the meantime.

“But I know you aren’t afraid, Mando. You’re curious, and have every right to be. Instead of using a middleman, I came personally.” Next, a pair of steel shots - freshly wiped and cleaned as far as your visor tells you - come to the table, delivered by the barman himself, sweat pouring down the side of his temple. He sets down the shots and returns to his station, just in time for the client with her bottle coming into view.

“Correllian Whisky, some eighty years before the Clone Wars. But I’m sure it’s at best half that.” She twists off the lid which lands on its side, bounding and falling on it’s top, edges face up. With both hands, she pours a small trickling pool of hazy orange liquor into both shots glasses, glowing as if it would melt through your durasteel cuirass. Sliding one your way on the table, she takes hold of her own and raises it to the height of her elbows.

“A taste before we get to business?”

As a precautionary measure you scan the liquid, 38% **** unlikely to be so much as sixty years, and a quick olfactory diagnosis tells you that the chances it carries so much as trace amounts of poison are minimal.