The hot swap and hot wash between the IKS Slivin and Vor’nak went off without a hitch. Kerak had chosen to take Sergeants Krek and Brork with him back to Caligar to help mount the ‘Guard’ at Ty’Gokor. The stalwart Master-at-Arms, Krek, would be the Watch Commander of the Eternal Fire, as he had been deployed on the frontlines for most of the last two years. Brork would serve as his Aide-de-camp, mostly so Kerak wouldn’t have to worry about his Aunt’s son screwing up anything too important.

Meanwhile, Bamet, Ka’hor, Plej and the rest of the Slivin’s small crew took up their postings and reported aboard the House Flagship.

A couple days after the Slivin had left on her journey back to their House’s seat of power deep in the core of the Empire’s heartlands, Plej had found himself invited to the Captain table in a corner table of the Vor’cha class vessels large recreation hall/bar.

“So, Sergeant. Tell me, why are you here? At your age, in your station within our House, no order, favour or request could have forced you to accept the transfer to the Vor’nak. You have been a servant, steward and mess attendant for old Kerak and his family nearly as long as I’ve been alive, why are you not accompanying him back to Caligar?” The grizzled Captain Y’garn inquired as he drank from his mug.

Plej smiled before answering, “In fact I have been in the service of HoD Kerak since the mid 2340s, several years longer than you have been alive. But to answer your query, I agreed to this reassignment specifically to remain in a position to serve and support your new Second Officer, at the request of Kerak himself. I felt it would have been a stain on my honour to refuse, considering the loyalty, dignity and respect with which he has treated me for all these decades. He did not have to promote me to the rank of ‘bu, but nonetheless he did, and if he felt that I would be able to aid his niece at this stage of her career, then I shall gladly oblige.”

“Dutiful to the last eh, good ole Plej?” Colonel Prax said, the leader of the ship’s ground forces and an uncle of Jutarg on his mothers side.

Y’garn stared at the old man through squinted eyes for a few seconds before nodding in approval at Plej, “You honor me with your honesty Sergeant. Kerak told me as much before the Slivin departed, though I was curious if you would admit that supporting Jutarg’s heir apparent was to be your main priority here.”

“My priorities will always be the ship, our House and Empire.”

“Bah! In that order too, yes yes, I didn’t ask for a recital of the House motto Sergeant. It’s no matter, luckily for you and her, this ship should not have much need for a Steward of the officers mess outside of scheduled meal times, so you have my leave to serve as her aide when not attending to your duties. You will have two Orion mess attendants serving under you, they already know the ship’s routine, you will simply need to oversee them.” Y’garn said. He had commanded the ship through an iron fist for nearly twelve years, and though there were some onboard who had served on her for even longer, he was more wise and politically astute than most gave him credit for.

“Understood Captain. That is very generous of you. I did not mean to offend…”

“If you had offended me I would’ve opened your throat old man. Don’t mistake my acceptance of the aristocratic ways of our House with generosity. This is still a warship, and you will be treated the same as any other member of the crew. You will no doubt find the Sergeant’s Barracks to be quite a lively abode, I’m sure.”

“I didn’t realize that our House was so hard up for crew that we were promoting servants from Castle Caligar to Sergeants and posting them to the flagship.” A more then half drunk Bekk, one of the ship’s armourers, exclaimed from the neighboring table.

Y’garn just slowly sucked some food from in between his teeth and turned to see how Plej would respond.

“Well now you know. Enjoy your drink, Bekk.” The old white-haired Klingon replied.

“I don’t take orders from mess attendant lap dogs!” The armourer leapt up and hurled his nearly empty mug of bloodwine at Plej.

“You also don’t want to be embarrassed by one, so I will forgive your insult, this time.” Plej stood and began to wipe the purple liquid off of his tunic.

“What did you just say to me?” The armourer  outweighed Plej by a good hundred pounds and had a 6 inch height advantage.

One of the Klingons associates reached out and grabbed his arm, “Leave him be Bah’ar, he’s at the Captains table for a reason.”

Bah’ar tore himself free and rushed at Plej shoving him hard into a bulkhead.

Y’garn saw Bamet rise from her seat across the room and begin to approach the scene, when she locked eyes with him, he slowly shook his back and forth once. She stopped her approach but kept watching along with several others.

As Plej winced in pain from the blow Bah’ar threw a looping right hand that the sergeant was able to partially deflect as he stumbled away from the walls next to the Captains table and out into the open entrance of the rec hall.

As the lumbering drunk charged him again Plej swiftly ducked out of the man’s way and kicked one of his shins as he passed, causing him to stumble awkwardly into a stanchion.

“You impudent runt!” Bah’ar roared and he lunged at Plej again, throwing a haymaker right hand punch.

“Someone should have told Bah’ar that Plej is actually a 12th dan Mok’bara Master and 2-time IFC middleweight champion in the 2350s, hehehehe.” Prax laughed sarcastically.

This time Plej rolled away from the punch, hooked one of his arms under Bah’ars left, used the attackers own momentum and hip tossed him right into an open set of tables and chairs where he landed in a heap, one leg tangled in the metal rungs of one of the chairs legs.

The room erupted in laughter and raucous cheering, as it turned out, Bekk Bah’ar was not very well liked aboard the Vor’nak. He was soon bundled up by some shift mates who carried him off.

Y’garn chuckled softly as Plej returned to his seat next to him at the corner booth, “Or, perhaps you’ll fit right in in the Sergeants Barracks, bahaha.”

The Vor’naks First Officer, Commander Drozak, who had sat quietly across from Plej in the other corner of the booth and been drinking quite heavily for a few hours hollered to Bamet, “Don’t worry Princess, your man servant appears to be uninjured.”

The room quieted down again noticeably as many realized the brawling might not be over, just yet.

“What did you just call me?”

“Aww, does the heir to our House not recognize a friendly joke among fellow warriors?” Drozak taunted.

“I haven’t seen you be anything other than drunk since I came aboard, call me that again, and I’ll cut your tongue out.” Bamet hollered back as she took a few steps closer. Out of the corner of her eye she could see a small grin appear on Captain Y’garn’s lips.

Drozak rose from his seat and stepped towards Bamet, “I’d like to see you try.”

Bamet immediately pulled her dahk’tag from its sheath and violently stabbed it into the nearest table in front of her. The blade pierced through the ⅛ inch duranium tabletop and stood upright as she left it there and took a few steps back, holding her hands out to the side.

Both Prax and Plej swiftly moved to get out of the booth but Y’garn grabbed them both sternly by their forearms and said, “Let it happen. They are both warriors.”

Drozak laughed as he sauntered over towards the table and jerked the knife loose, reached for his own and tossed Bamet’s back to her.

“Sir, that’s the future leader of the House!” Plej pleaded.

“Not if Drozak kills her, she’s not. But even as drunk as he is I don’t think he’s that stupid.”

Halfway across the room, a tall warrior who had been watching the whole incident turned and yelled to those on the other side of the large drinking hall, “Holy shit! Jutarg’s daughter just challenged the XO to a deathmatch and he accepted!”

As Bamet and Drozak circled each other, blades in hand, several warriors began clearing tables and chairs out of the way while dozens of warriors came rushing over to watch the fight. Included in the onlookers were four off duty Jem’Hadar soldiers who all seemed to revel at the spectacle on display.

After several lunges that Bamet parried Drozak swung his blade in a 12 to 6 overhand motion.

What Drozak and most others in the room were unaware of, was that Bamet was extremely proficient with bladed weapons, and the only reason she hadn’t been named a Master of Blades is because she was not yet 30 years old. She had been training with the exact weapon that she used the hilt of to catch Drozak attack, since she was 5 years old.

She used the serrations of her blade and hilt and angular pressure to briefly hold against the larger man before flicking his blade free and headbutting him right in the cheek with the point of her cranial ridges as he stumbled forward. Though he was momentarily blinded in one eye Drozak wildly tried to stab at his red haired opponent. Bamet caught his forearm with her free hand and spun around, sharply stabbing her dagger into Drozaks side, burying the blade to the hilt and piercing clean through his liver a few other organs.

Drozak plunged to his knees and dropped his blade, “I need a dri…” were his last words before he fell flat on his face, motionless and most assuredly dead.

Several Klingons who knew of Bamet’s prowess with anything sharp had been able to clean up in the various impromptu betting pools that had popped up during the start of the fight. Plej and Prax quickly jumped out of the booth to congratulate her and also protect her from any immediate retribution in case the First Officer had any close friends or family aboard.

Meanwhile Y’garn chuckled softly and remained seated in the middle of his corner booth. It appeared he wouldn’t have to worry about the rumors that Drozak was planning to assassinate him anymore after all. He would much rather mentor his friend’s daughter in how to be a leader then have to look over his shoulder every day. Filling the XO with resentment and jealousy of Bamet and feeding him several bottles of Bloodwine had worked out quite well for the savvy Captain of the Vor’nak.