When he was enroute to the Valkyrie he had to occupy his mind. He would relax, reading history of the namesake of the vessel on his PADD. He wondered what kind of organization Starfleet would have become if Earth was dominated of the Vikings of old. To be honest, he knew very little of human history before this assignment. Despite being in the multicultural melting pot which was the Federation of Planets, his mind was locked into the culture he was mostly raised in. His father would talk of Spirituality, epic battles, and share the oral history of the Klingon’s. What Ovam found in his research is that the Klingons and the Human Viking tribes had a lot in common.

“We would have killed each other,” he murmured to himself thoughtfully.

He didn’t seem concerned about the other ensigns who overheard his musing, he was used to getting odd looks.

Then he arrived and he would be lying if he wasn’t in awe of the vessel. His father always told him that the UFP should never be underestimated. They preached being humanitarians and under the mask of soft power yet even Klingon history and military doctrine speaks of the reality that Starfleet is not an enemy to underestimate.

As he got a tour of the ship he was silent. This was abnormal for the Klingon. He often had a laugh that you can hear through the deck, he cared little for speaking quietly as well. All he could think of was getting a drink. The trip to get here was long, and it had been a few days since he felt the warmth in his belly that Synthehol or better real alcohol could provide. When the tour finally ended in Valhalla the Klingon was practically glowing. As they were dismissed, he marched over to the bar and sat down.

“I read about this drink that the ancient conquerors of earth used to drink, it is called Meade,” without a word from the bartender he produced a drinking horn and began to top it off.

The Klingon took a sip, he enjoyed it. It wasn’t as strong as bloodwine, he could see why people appreciated it. Without hesitating he finished the horn’s contents in two massive gulps.

The drink was dribbling down his bearded face.

“Keep it coming, my travel here was long, and I am very thirsty,” he barked loudly.

He lost track of the number of horns he drank. In a way he was a little disappointed, he knew that it was Synthehol by how the buzz was very mild. The comforting warmth in his belly was still there. Sliding off the seat he made his way to his quarters. As he walked, he felt like he had purpose. He wondered if the Valhalla on the ship would have been suitable to the warriors who died in battle in the past. Were the spirits of the warriors on this ship with them? He would like to think so, a ship named after something of Norse myth needed to shepherd them safely.