Guess Who's Coming To Dinner - Part IV

Posted on Thu Nov 20th, 2025 @ 9:35pm by Captain Robert Burke & Commander Vincent 'Vin' Salvatore & Lieutenant Marques Hunt & Lieutenant Juno Jones & Lieutenant Kyra sh'Herhrisst & Lieutenant Nelar & Lieutenant Ryssa Dari & Lieutenant JG Maël "Gideon" Beauregard & Lieutenant JG Gianna De Luca & Ensign Shanice Winters

2,547 words; about a 13 minute read

Mission: EPISODE 1: SHAKEDOWN
Location: Great Hall
Timeline: MD036

::ON::

About time, Burke thought irritably as the the Klingon straightened and flourished a baton. Calling out in guttural, grinding English, 'The Imperial Seneschal bids our ... guests of honour, be welcome and enter the feasting chamber. As honoured warriors in the struggle for Qo'noS it is right we accord you place at our high table.'

Burke couldn't work out whether or not the Klingon was struggling with the sentiment or the words such were the pauses in his speech. Advancing, Burke replied. 'On behalf of the Starship Hecate and her ... warriors, I, Captain Burke accept the high honour accorded by the Klingon Empire. Lead on.'

As the Away Team assembled around him, arrayed in all their finery, Burke stepped through the doors. Immediately he was slapped by a wall of sound, Klingons roaring, targs baying and some godawful Klingon opera being sung from a corner of the room. Smoking braziers were dotted amidst the tables they were led through to the dais at the, causing Burke to cough and his eyes to water as they walked between them.

Here or there, some Klingons would look up and glower at the Starfleet crew as they passed. Most seemed to be more intent on their gagh and bloodwine than to notice the Starfleeters they were honouring. Burke approached the dais, head held high as he skirted a giant cauldron bubbling with bloodwine. The Imperial Seneschal looked down upon them, stood to one side of an empty chair. Where Azetbur should be, Burke noted sourly. We're not so honoured after all.

'Captain Burke. Senior Officers of the USS Hecate,' Ko'Vag bellowed, leaning on his staff of office, an ornate, gnarled staff that was worn from centuries of hands and use, 'I greet you in the name of the High Chancellor, Azetbur, and bid you be welcome.' He gestured to the tables parallel to him. 'Be welcome, join us in the feasting. Where once we were enemies now we are ... allies. Let us be the first feast amongst fellow warriors.'

Stepping forward once more, Burke nodded, and put a fist to his heart. 'The words of the Chancellor are wise, and she sees much beyond her years. We would gladly join such auspicious company, and feast to our heart's content.' As he was led to his seat, Burke watched to see his crew seated on the high dais, a Klingon to either side of them. For conversation, hopefully.

Lieutenant Kyra sh'Herhrisst, the Hecate's new security chief felt the shift in atmosphere the moment they were seated, and her antennae quivered rigidly in alertness. The Klingons had arranged the Hecate crew in alternating order—Starfleet, Klingon, Starfleet, Klingon—an odd choice for what was supposed to be a gesture of alliance. It was clever, though. Isolate the visitors, box them in. Subtle intimidation masquerading as hospitality.

Kyra’s instincts, honed in countless shadow-operations along the border, prickled to full alert - whether it was warranted or not. Her antennae angled forward slightly, reading the faintest tremors of breath and movement around her. Between the heat of the braziers and the heat of Klingon eyes, the air itself seemed to hum with perceived threat.

To her left sat the grizzled male warrior—Kargath, Son of Tumek — known among his peers as Kargath the Unbroken. The data she was able to obtain on him (any half-conscious chief would have gotten some intel on those known attending)...A veteran of the Khitomer campaigns, his name carried the kind of weight that silenced tables when spoken. A mountain of scar tissue and muscle, his face carved with age and battle. His beard was thick and coarse, streaked with gray, and his armor bore the dulled sheen of long service. The ridges on his brow were asymmetric, one half clearly mended from a blade wound. When he breathed, Kyra caught the faint tang of mek’leth oil and targ fat. He gave a low chuckle under his breath, as though he could hear the calculations running in her head.

To her right...even better—Lady Ma'Reth, daughter of House K’marak. Amazonian in stature, she all but loomed in not only size but fierceness. Her physique was carved like a statue of bronze and fury and the inky black hair was bound high and braided with metal rings; each braid ended in a fang, some humanoid, some not. Her ridges were high and regal, flaring in a way that marked pure, ancient blood. However what made her really scary was how many blades Kyra had identified and those were the ones she was meant to see...

“Well met, warriors,” she said, her voice bright with the biting confidence that came naturally to her people. “Kyra sh’Thalen, Chief of Security. Try not to mistake me for the salad course.”

Ma'Reth bared her pointed teeth - especially sharpened and whitened for this most grand of occasions, and spat on the floor between herself and the Andorian. Settling back in her seat, she let the ringlets of her hair fall heavily on her shoulder pads as she laughed deep in her throat. 'You'll be fine - Andorian has always been too stringy for my tastes.'

Kyra did not flinch. Her antennae angled just so, the smallest forward cant — a warrior’s gesture, not aggression but readiness. The corners of her mouth tugged upward with razor-edged humor.

“Too stringy?” She clicked her tongue once, lightly. “That’s only if you overcook us. A competent hunter would know that.”

A low growl escaped Ma'reth's throat, before she howled a laugh to the rafters. Then she pounded on the table. 'A flagon of bloodwine for myself and the Starfleeter!' she bellowed, before turning and leaning in close to Kyra, 'I hope your blade is as sharp as your wit, Andorian. You are of their 'warrior' division, are you not?'

Kyra turned her head just enough to meet Ma’Reth’s gaze sidelong — unafraid, unbowed — the flick of her antennae telegraphing amusement rather than threat.

“I am,” she replied, voice low and even. “I serve as Chief of Security aboard the Hecate,” she continued, tone smooth as ice over deep water. “So if tonight ends with bloodshed, I’ll be the one cleaning you off the floor. One way or another.”

A faint smile crept in then — a predator’s smile — wry, sharp, inviting escalation or respect, depending on Ma’Reth’s appetite. The antennae angled forward again.

“Shall we drink, Lady Ma'Reth?” Kyra finished brightly, happy to either finally get the first round into her, or blow this whole gathering to shreds.

Ma'Reth turned in her seat and barked a Klingon phrase. A Klingon male, stood against the wall, bared his teeth, but nodded his head in supplication. He made his way to one of the many steaming cauldrons blood wine and grabbed two flagons and dropped them into the warm, thick liquid. Making his way around the tables, he presented the flagons to Ma'Reth, who nodded and smiled toothily as the flagons were slopped down in front of her, liquid staining the discoloured wood of the table-top.

'The finest bloodwine in the Empire, from the High Chancellor's cellars,' Ma'Reth crowed at Kyra, grasping firmly at a flagon's handle and hoisiting it high. 'Take a sip, Andorian, and see if it doesn't offend your fine Federation sensibilities.'

Kyra leaned forward, antennae tilting subtly toward Ma’Reth as she reached for the other flagon. She raised it in kind.

“Offend me?” she said lightly, her voice carrying just enough to cut through the low growl of Klingon laughter and the clatter of cutlery. “You’ll have to try harder than that.”

With a deft tilt of her wrist, Kyra drank—deeply. The bloodwine scorched her throat, the burn trailing down like liquid fire, rich and metallic, laced with something primal and ancient. It hit her bloodstream like an electric pulse. The Andorian’s eyes narrowed briefly—not in discomfort, but in appraisal. A challenge measured, absorbed, and returned in kind. Ha! The bastards were right- She thought silently, This really is a 'warrior's drink'!

Kyra exhaled once, slow and satisfied, and then lowered the flagon with deliberate grace, the heavy thud of it striking the table like punctuation. “Well,” she said, her lips curving in a dangerous half-smile, “I think I’m getting used to your idea of refinement.”

Ma'Reth's roared laughter echoed across the hall, adding to the general din of the feast. She held her flagon up to the Andorian, evidently delighted with her reaction to the bloodwine. 'We will make proper warriors of you yet, Starfleet!' Draining her flagon in one, long pull, Ma'Reth wiped her mouth with the back of her free hand. Slamming the flagon on to the table-top with a heavy thud, she roared again, 'another!'

Kyra felt the burn of the first flagon settle low and warm, the edges of her thoughts starting to soften just enough to make her grin. The bloodwine was hitting faster than she’d expected — rich, heady, alive — and somewhere between the second swallow and Ma’Reth’s booming laugh, she realized she was probably in over her head.

Again.

Her antennae gave a faint, tipsy sway as she leaned back in her chair, feeling the pleasant hum under her skin. She knew better — she always knew better — but the fire in her veins and the roar of Klingon laughter around her made it far too easy to forget.

So she raised her flagon again, the faintest smirk curling at her lips. If she was going down, she’d at least enjoy the ride.

"Why the hell, not!" Kyra added.

Taking a seat, Marques Hunt was very certain that every Klingon around the dinner table was carrying a very sharp weapon at the table. This automatically left the senior staff at a disadvantage. Next to him was Lady Sulra daughter of the House of A'Field.

The door opened and what appeared was a large Klingon stepped into the room. Shanice stared at him as he smiled taking a seat right next to her. "Ensign, I am Doube son of the House of Juroles."

"Ensign Shanice Winters," she replied returning the smile with one of her own. It wasn't as if she wasn't aware of what was taking place around her. But the opportunity of being here was simply something that was worth the risk.

The flight control officer, looked over to the right upon hearing the House of Juroles. A name all too familiar to the people in his family. Doube was the eldest son of Juroles. Brutal warriors renowned for their tactics battle. Members of his own family had died by the hands of this house. Of course, the Hunt family had returned the favor countless times. There was actually a blood feud, which he quickly wondered how that would play out at this peaceful dinner. "Lady Sulra, I am Lieutenant Marques Hunt. My father is Commodore Malcom Hunt." When he said that last part, he made certain that Doube could hear him.

Hearing the name Hunt, Doube stared right at the Lieutenant. Everything in the Klingon told him to run over and cut his throat. Blood oath or not, his father gave the Chancellor his word that the Starfleet Officers would not be harmed at this dinner. Of course, his father had no idea that a Hunt would be present at this meal. But nonetheless, his father gave his word on behalf of their house. And Doube would not be the one to break that word.

Ryssa took a seat between two Klingons who studiously ignored her. So, to be polite, she gave each of them a bright, friendly smile, then looked around the table. This was going to be a long night.

Gideon had slid into a seat at the table between two women whose presence might have set most men blushing--or running.

The woman on his left was broad-shouldered, with a deep scar climbing from her collarbone diagonally to a mangled ear. Her long dark braids were oiled and tied back with bits of metal that clinked when she moved. To his right, the other Klingon was taller still, with high ridges and sharp eyes that gleaned amber in the fire-lit chamber. They spoke to each other briefly in Klingon--low, guttural phrases that Gideon was convinced he was the subject of.

He cleared his throat. "Quite the gatherin'," he said, aiming for lightness. "Name's Gideon--I'm the Operations Officer aboard the Hecate." He offered a friendly smile at the woman to his left but was met only with bared teeth.

She stared at him for a long moment and then remembered her oath. "Ursana, daughter of Lofrek, of the House of N'Trogh."

The woman to Gideon's right spoke in an almost baritone voice without even looking at him. "Kh'Vas, daughter of Ivketal, of the House of Kiszot."

Gideon swallowed hard, watching Ursana reach for a goblet, drinking deeply. "Warriors, then?"

Neither answered. Ursana belched softly. Kh'Vas tilted her head back and barked a laugh at something across the table that didn't involve him.

Nelar watched the other officers take their seats and interact with the Klingons with a detached stoicism. She sensed that a few of the Klingons may have been attempting to antagonize their guests either out of entertainment or animosity, she was unsure. Mostly she was assaulted by the loud wall of noise and strong odors coming from within the large banquet hall. The food itself was harsh enough on her Vulcan senses, earthy, sulphuric, mixed in with the rancid metallic smell of blood from raw meat laid out on the table. When mixed with the musky smells of the targs, and the offensive breath coming from the Klingons who knew no boundaries on personal space it was enough to make Nelar's stomach turn. Still, this was no time to show a reaction.

She cautiously took a seat next to the one who introduced herself as Kh'Vas, and said nothing initially.

Gideon shifted slightly in his seat, the leather of the chair squeaking under him, and tried again. "So... if ya'll ain't warriors, are you diplomats?"

Ursana's eyes darted toward him, sharp and unblinking. She said nothing at first, just turned the goblet in her hand. Then, slowly, she spoke. "Diplomacy? Honour is earned in battle, not seated around a table."

Kh'Vas grunted her agreement, a deep vibration from somewhere deep in her chest that Gideon could swear he felt in his own ribs. She reached for a pipius claw and bit into it with zeal, the juices spraying in all directions.

"So ya'll are warriors, then."

::OFF::

Captain Robert Burke
Commanding Officer
USS Hecate

Commander Vincent Salvatore
Executive & Chief Intelligence Officer
USS Hecate

Lieutenant Kyra sh'Herhrisst
Chief Security Officer
USS Hecate

Lieutenant Marquis Hunt
Chief Flight Control Officer
USS Hecate

Lieutenant Juno Jones
Chief Engineer
USS Hecate

Lieutenant Ryssa Dari
Chief Science Officer
USS Hecate

Lieutenant Nelar
Chief Medical Officer
USS Hecate

Lieutenant JG Gianna De Luca
Chief Counsellor
USS Hecate

Lieutenant JG Maël "Gideon" Beauregard
Chief Operations Officer
USS Hecate

 

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