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FFM Day 3 — Two Hearts

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Edmé sighed as he threw down the blood soaked sack he’d used to transport the deer’s heart back to the butcher’s; for the fact the creature was a completely bloody mess when he’d found it and was almost unrecognisable as a deer — though he had assumed that was because it was half crushed by the weird metal thing that looked as if it had fallen from the sky; but that was impossible — the heart had still been beating fiercely. It was large too, and had earned Edmé a good price and he thought that after such a day a good skin of wine would help him unwind. It was already getting late and the tavern lights were on.

“Edmund, a skin, if you will!” He called over to the unnaturally chipper barman, he might have looked like a grizzly old bear, but was, by anyone who met him regarded as a teddybear. It had become, in fact, a running joke in the town that he hadn’t been born, but rather sewn by the fairest of all maidens who, upon completing the final stitch had been eaten by a dragon and with her dying breath had wished the man-bear into life. Edmé wondered, idly, what his creator-mother would think of him being a wine-drinking bar tender after such a mythical start in life.

“Comin’ right up,” He filled a flagon from the bloated pouch and set it down in front of his old friend, “Rough day?”
Edmé offered up a few small coins before drinking deeply of the warm, dark liquid, “You might say that; got some meat, but it was… well, pretty mangled up, not sure what creature’s heart I took,”

“H—” Edmund opened his mouth to respond but the door of the tavern suddenly flew open with such ferocity that they both froze, as did the few other patrons; the creature stood like a man but was covered in dirt and blood and held an enormous mass of shaggy hair upon his head,

“Who took my heart?” The creature boomed, his voice filling every square inch of the tavern, before he stomped further inside, right up to the bar, “Who took it?” Upon received no answer (other than the bug eyes of lowly humanoids around him) he lifted a table with a single hand and heaved it across the room, splintering it and several chairs in the process,

“Oi, OI!” Edmund snapped, his wits recovering, “I don’t care who’s wronged you, but you will not come and smash up my tavern!” He darted from behind the bar, only upon standing in front of the creature was it obvious that he was a good foot shorted than the other, but even so, Edmund was no coward and bravely threw a punch at the creature. It did little good as the thing barely reacted, instead, it took a step forwards and lifted Edmund up, clean off the ground by his vest,

 “You have an admirable spirit!” The creature still shouted, though his tone had changed a little. Edmé, unsure what to do faced with such a monster, smashed his glass of wine over the creatures head. This still achieved nothing. As the alcohol dripped down the creatures’s mangled, ridged forehead and down the dark skin of its face, it took a long, slow lick of its lips.

“What is this liquid?”

“…Wine,” Edmund offered, trying not to struggle at the uncomfortable position he was still held in; this did not go unnoticed and he was set back to his feet, causing him to stumble against the bar for balance.

“We Klingons have no concept of such drink…” The creature gazed at nothing, or maybe it was at everything as it appeared to have just found a very important solution to… something. “Ugn, ugn,” The creature grunted as he gestured for more, Edmund reached for the pouch to pour some out, though it was unceremoniously ripped from his hands and the creature took a long, deep draught.

“W-what is you name?” Edmund ventured, though it was a few moments longer before the Klingon lowered the pouch and dried his lips on the back of his thick leather sleeve,

“I am Q’artan, of the House Mordo,”

“Where are you from? The Middle East?” Edmé asked, timidly; Q’artan looked squarely at him, clearly unimpressed,

“I am from Q’onos, it is a world many light years from here, I knew you were a primitive people, but I did not expect to find such discoveries on your world,” His eyes slipped back down to the skin in his hands,

“You don’t have wine on your… Qo-noz?”

“No.”

“Forgive me if I misheard you, but didn't you come in here saying someone stole your… heart?” Edmund queried, his curiosity replacing his anger now sure that the… Q’artan thing would not start fighting again,

“Yes, some petaQ found me unconscious and stole one of my organs,”

“Then… should you be dead?”

“Dead? Ha ha ha ha! If the theft of one of my hearts was enough to kill me, I would not be able to call myself a Klingon warrior!” Q’artan laughed, it was rich and deep, “You will give me the recipe for this!”

“Wait a minute, if you’re from… whatever that planet is,” Edmé cut across, “Then how can we talk? How can we understand you?”

“They’re called translators, a rather useful device, if unpopular, in the Empire’s march to conquer the galaxy we need to open trade routes and learn of anomalies, for this we need to understand one another,” The Klingon explained succinctly, though it was falling on deaf ears as the blank, confused expressions of the two in front of him stared back. Q’artan pursed his lips in disapproval of the levels of intelligence of the dominant species on this planet. Still the ‘wine’ was good. Perhaps these creatures would make valuable kitchen slaves?