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Droq leaned across the table towards Worf, the edges of his grayed warrior's beard slopping in Dax's drink. Lowering his voice, he delivered the punch line, "The Romulan screamed, 'I did not know that cheese was food!'". The pause was subtle; the ensuing laughter was not. Dax was the first to notice the disapproving glances from Klingons at nearby tables, and soon caught the barkeep's condemning glare. It was hard to believe they were on Kronos, the Klingon homeworld. She quieted herself and placed a hand on Worf's knee, "Better take it easy. The proprietor seems to be getting annoyed." "Annoyed?", Worf boomed. He turned his head to glower at the bartender, and continued in a loud voice, "I haven't given anyone reason to be annoyed--yet!" Worf slapped the table, and the two Klingons took up their raucous refrain again. "Well, Worf, life must be treating you pretty well after all these years. I don't believe I've ever seen you more relaxed, peaceful -- even jovial!" Dax smirked, "Careful, Droq. Insults like that could lose you your beard." "Bah!" Droq interjected. "You asked how he resembles his father? It's in his laughter that Worf resembles his father the most." Droq had been a close friend of Worf's parents, and even traveled to the Klingon outpost, Khitomer, for Worf's B'raw Taq, the birthing celebration of the firstborn. Throughout his life, Worf had rarely heard from Droq, and even saw him less frequently. But he always appeared at pivotal times -- the times of honor when his own father would have been present were he still alive. It was Droq who first handed Worf a bat'leth, pronouncing his manhood. And Worf remembered the surprise he had felt, and also the pride, when he noticed Droq seated in the assembly at his Starfleet graduation. Like a surrogate parent, Droq always seemed to be present for Worf at important times -- but only at important times. And Droq had never requested a visit from Worf before. That thought sobered Worf, and he began to wonder again about Droq's invitation for him to come to Kronos "whenever it was convenient". Of course, such a request obligated Worf to visit without delay, demonstrating respect towards an esteemed elder and mentor. Worf and Dax arrived on the Klingon homeworld only hours earlier, and were startled at the deteriorated living conditions they found there. Rumor had it that decades of economic depression were taking their toll on Klingon society, but they were unprepared for the pervasive poverty they found. Right now, more troubling to Worf than economics, however, was why he was "summoned" there. "Droq-- Why is it that you've asked me to come to Kronos?" Droq looked down at the table, and sighed. When he raised his eyes to meet Worf's, he spoke quietly. "I guess we've done enough mirth-making for one night. I need to ask of you a favor, Worf." He paused and glanced at Dax, who stiffened defensively at his obvious disease towards her presence. She squinted her eyes. "I'm sure Kirzon would have found great humor in your asking favors of a younger Klingon." "Of course!", Droq relaxed, "I somehow can't get it through my thick skull that that garish rascal now holds counsel behind such -- engaging eyes. Please, Dax, no offense intended. The matters about which we must speak require, shall I say, a desperate sensitivity." He looked down at the table again, and this time did not raise his eyes as he spoke. "What do you know of the Civilist Movement?" Dax's countenance grew stern as she crossed her arms and sat back in her chair. Worf crushed the goblet in his hand. |
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