[1900] Holosuit 7 - In The Halls of the Mountain King
Word had reached Raksha of the haughty Admirals' dinner taking place at Vandorin's Bistro the evening of the third day of the conference.
It had reached her at the Downtime bar on the first day of her arrival, in amongst the shouting and singing and yelling of inebriated Starfleet officers.
She had realized then, even as the ale coursed through her veins as like her own blood, what a mixture of emotions she felt upon hearing this. That the Admiralty would separate itself from the crewmen whose livelihoods and indeed, their very lives themselves they had almost complete control over, filled Raksha with a sense of disdain. Disdain not just for the Admiralty themselves but for the Starfleet she served that very present day, the Starfleet whose uniform she wore.
The uniforms, the badges, and even the pips she and her fellow officers wore were very easily spat out of a replicator with but a few simple words and she began to feel that, to the Admiralty, she and her fellow captains and commanders were just as expendable.
She also felt there in that pub, laughing and sharing stories and drinking and singing with other intrepid Captains of future Starfleet vessels that were in fact people who at their hearts had ambitions and dreams to follow, their own set of stars to chart, that she had found her people.
She decided then and there that she would do something in the vein of that fun evening, something that would be a pleasant distraction for her stressed colleagues and would hopefully leave them with a fond memory to remember.
For the next two days, she kept a constant eye on cancelations and openings in the holosuites for a time of day, any day, that would work for what she had planned.
Through the fog of a small hangover she, at last, managed to secure a suite under her name, thanks to a Bolian couple who had canceled their romantic dinner due to a rather nasty and loud break-up spectacle that had taken place just two hours prior in the leisure plaza.
She had the event planned out already.
Before raids and voyages to distant lands in ancient Earth history, the Vikings of Scandinavia would gather at a great mead hall with a single, long table at which everyone sat as equals, and ate and drank and fought and sang until the rising sun came up.
So unhinged and free of all pretense and posture was this idea that it seemed almost too perfect.
With the suites reserved, the Commander send out a community-wide message to all Commanders and Captains in attendance at the conference via the community communications network.
"Osiris Initiative Conference - Day 3 - 1900. To all current and future Captains of Starfleet in attendance, you are invited to attend a historic recreation of an ancient Earth gathering of folk in Holosuite 7. The program is that of a Viking Meadhall. All attendees are encouraged to attend in appropriate garb. Starfleet uniforms are strictly prohibited."
The announcement had been made, and Chandra was all but committed to this rather bizarre event now. It was most unusual and not the least bit unconventional, but then perhaps that was what might make the event so memorable. A little fun, torn from the pages of human history.
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Raan had been on his way back to his room when the message came through to his padd. His brow furrowed as he read, and he moved to one side of the crowded corridor, leaning one large shoulder against the wall. A viking meadhall? What was that? He wasn't human, not anywhere close... how would he know what a viking or a meadhall was?
A small bit of research only sent his brow higher. Okay. This should be... interesting.
At 1905 that evening, he headed toward holosuite 7, in something that, for him, felt like fancy dress. He was wearing more leather than he'd ever wore before in one outfit, some of it studded, and some kind of fur across his shoulders. It was hot, and itchy. He'd probably have to ditch it somewhere, unless the holosuite was cold. There were supposed to have been weapons, but he'd opted out on those given that he had to walk to the event. He really didn't want to have a chat with security, especially given the event currently on.
He got a few odd looks in the turbolift, standing in the middle of a gaggle of ensigns. They slid him sideways glances and he was sure the pretty little one with the curly hair was suppressing a giggle. No one said anything to him. Given his size and general demeanour, it was rare anyone did.
He stood there, owning the outfit with an implacable expression on his face and wondering if he should growl under his breath to add to the effect. But mischief won out as the lift came to a halt, and just before he stepped out on his level, he slid the giggling ensign a side look and winked. Her laughter followed him out of the lift as the door closed and whisked it away.
Holosuite 7 wasn't hard to find and within minutes he stood at the door. Rolling his shoulders to settle the replicated dead animal across them, he triggered the door and stepped inside.
Captain Marcus Bancroft was a fastidious and reserved man. He never engaged in frivolity or small talk when it didn’t directly benefit his career, but he thought that he’d indulge just this once in an attempt to mingle with his compatriots. But when he walked into the holosuite and saw a long mead hall, fires, red meat off the bone, and all of the other trappings of a stereotypical Anglo-Saxon experience, he turned on his heel and left the room.
“No,” he said, as he found the nearest turbo lift. “Computer, find me somewhere to eat without all of the oddly-masculine narratives of success through combat.”
Jonas found the invitation to be fascinating. He did a quick search for Vikings with red hair. He found 'Erik the Red.' It was easy to get into character. He replicated his outfit.
Jonas stepped into the holosuite. "Ho there fellow Viking warriors, Let us eat, drink and be merry." He walked over to a table and picked up a mug full of mead and drank from it. He normally drank his alcohol cold, but the mead was warm and had a nice honey aftertaste.
Raksha sat amongst a few other junior command officers and a whole host of hologram warriors and shield maidens near the lower end of a long, wide wooden table seemingly crafted from a felled pine-tree. On either side of the table, there were long benches of a single cut of wood, each approximately 18 feet in length. The Norse fighters were laughing and drinking horns of ale and mead. One was attempting to throw axes at the wall with a moderate level of success, another had a rather bemused looking Vulcan who had donned a grey tunic for the event in a headlock and was attempting to intimidate him to little avail.
At the head of the table sat an imposing-looking man, with a great beard and long, curly hair which lay upon the vast fur collar of an ornate looking coat. As he laughed and spoke, it became evident that he suffered from a dental issue that had lead to one of his teeth having a blueish grey hue to it as it appeared to be decaying.
A medical officer who had recently transferred to command leaned over to Raksha to comment on the issue and how, had he simply brushed his teeth twice a day, he could've avoided such an undoubtedly uncomfortable and embarrassing experience.
Raksha merely chuckled before turning her gaze to the longhall's entrance, which now emanated with the artificial glow of the holosuite corridor's bulkhead lights on two successive occasions before closing again to reveal the cold, dark-blue sky of a Danish winter evening. The hall itself went back to being lit only by flickering torches on the wooden-slat walls, which danced and cast fluid shadows of the attendees amassed.
As the Commanders Mason and Flanigan entered, Raksha greeted them both with a loud cheer and a big wave.
Her thick black hair was now accentuated with a beautiful golden diadem with red jewels encrusted upon it, giving it an almost crown-like appearance.
She wore a long and simple looking blue dress of ancient design and held in her hand a dented tankard full of mead.
"A-ha!', she called, 'Evening gentlemen! I'm glad some of you could make it! How do you like my little history lesson?"
Jonas smiled, "It's a lot of fun. I could see our Klingon allies getting a real kick out of this holo." He looked around the hall. "There's an authentic air to this hall. I could feel myself leaving here to get on a longboat and go raid and pillage."
Dick modeled the Viking outfit he had thrown together for his daughter on the holo-comm. "What do you think, honey? Is it over-the-top?" Alyssa covered her face, "Dad, please stop. Yes, over the top." He fixed the skull cap he was wearing, which had two large horns coming out of either side. "Perfect." He said. "Remember, don't drink and drive!" Dick barked jokingly at his daughter. She couldn't help but roll her eyes before speaking, "Right, dad. You try not to make a fool of yourself, please for my sake." She smiled and shut down the holo-comm.
Sterling sighed. "Not that you'd need to worry about that." He said under his breath. Dick loved his daughter very much, but she chose to take her mother's name and not his. While he totally believed her love for him as genuine, it was something that he had to build, as he didn't get to be there for many of her childhood moments. Now that she was older and charting her own path - a path that leads her to follow in his footsteps - they have made sure to keep in regular contact.
Pulling down on his leather chestpiece and once more fixing his hat, he headed for the door, off to the holosuite.
When he arrived he stood at the precipice and took a quick look, left and right. Coast was clear. Dick slipped his right hand into his left breast pocket and pulled out a small flask, complete with Starfleet emblem, he unscrewed the top and took a quick swig before replacing it back securely out of view. This event was going to need the real stuff, not that synthahol crap.
Dick stepped forward and allowed the doors to part. "Bring me the finest ale, wench!" He yelled to no one in particular.
Rear Admiral Robert Dowd, Bravo Fleet Communications Officer
Captain Richard Sterling, Commanding Officer - USS Armstrong
Captain Charles Scotto, Commanding Officer - USS Devastator, TF93
Mason grinned, heading over at Rashka's greeting. He paused en-route to collect a tankard of mead from a serving girl. At least he wasn't the only one who had gone down the leather and fur route.
"It's interesting for sure," he said, looking around as he took a drink. Then he grimaced. "Warm," he managed to choke out as he swallowed. "What kind of barbarians serve their alcohol warm for krath's sake?"
Then he took another drink, just to be sure he didn't like it. Then another. Actually, he could probably get used to it.
At the yelling the command of the entering Captain, Raksha merely threw her arms up and cheered in a loud shouting of 'Whey!'
"Captain Sterling! Come, take a spot at the table and enjoy!" She shouted, before turning her head back to Jonas.
"I should've invited some of the Klingons really. As I understand it, quite a few of them are relatively fond of Earth's bloodier and more barbaric aspects of ancient history. I guess it helps instill a certain level of respect for us to know that we too were once warriors as they were." She noted before taking another swig of her synthaholic ale.