Linguistic Narrative

Posted on Mon Apr 6th, 2026 @ 3:47pm by Tavrek Harland & Commander Rylen Lyo

1,871 words; about a 9 minute read

Mission: Prologue
Location: Lounge, USS Guinevere
Timeline: Early 2389

The lounge held the kind of quiet he preferred. Not empty, but softened. Between shifts, voices thinned into a low hum, footsteps spread wide, and the air seemed to rest. Tavrek Harland had timed his arrival for that. He did not avoid company, but he chose the shape of it. Here, at this hour, the edges of interaction were clear.

He had replicated tea, not kas’for-ila, not tonight. Instead a blend of liquorice root, orange peel, mandarin and hibiscus. It carried no memory, no anchoring ritual, and perhaps that was the point. He did not need grounding this evening, only a measure of quiet to sit inside.

Tavrek’s long frame settled easily into the chair, spine straight without stiffness. His build was lean, disciplined, not wasted, but perfectly normal for someone with Vulcan blood in them. Grey-green eyes reflected the viewport, intent and reserved, and a few strands of black hair had slipped from their neat line to fall towards his temples, where the first silver showed.

Warp light shimmered across the glass. He watched it, and beneath the silence let himself feel the pulse of movement: exploration. Not his chosen path, yet his work had grown in its shadow. Languages, cadences, words carried between stars. Each new system another chance to trace meaning where it threatened to fracture. That was enough.

The doors to the lounge swished open loudly; Rylen Lyo, the newly assigned Executive Officer entered with a flourish, followed closely behind by a smaller statured Kriosian dressed in a velvety purple tunic bearing the sigil of House Lyo. Rylen chose a table near the window, an ideal place to observe others. The two of spoke in hushed tones, speaking a language almost never heard outside of the Sovereign Dynasty’s Hall of Governance. The younger man nodded crisply, then disappeared behind the bar to get Rylen his drink. Although not himself a High Lord, Rylen was accustomed to comfort and luxury…one of the reasons he had retained Darvvin as a servant for much of his career in Starfleet.

Darvvin brought Lyo his coffee, setting the large mug on the table with an audible thump. After over twenty years of service, Darvvin knew exactly how Rylen took his coffee; the precise temperature, the exact amount of creamer, the amount of sugar down to the milligram. Rylen had no need to sample the drink; he knew it would be correct, as it always was. He exchanged a few more phrases in Apex Kriosian with Darvvin, then excused him for the night.

Tavrek tilted his head a little at hearing the language, lips parting as he tried to identify it. His knew it looked obvious what he was doing, but there was little point in hiding it. His eyes went over the two men, until the one who had served the drink moved away. Tavrek took the opportunity to watch the man sitting at the table, his mind turning over the sounds the language had made. It tugged at some memory, but seemed distinct enough for him to know he didn't understand it outright. No. But he got confirmation, certainly more confirmation, as he watched the seated man. The spots looked Trill but that was not the language of the Trill and both men had spoken with a fluency that spoke of upbringing, not anything else. And if the man was not Trill...it left Kriosian.

“Very few outside of the Dynasty Court have ever heard Apex spoken,” said Lyo playfully, just loud enough for Tavrek to hear. Lyo spoke standard with a distinctive lilt; some had compared it to the Terran nation of South Africa. “Most don’t even know it exists. You look intrigued, friend.”

"Some of the root words and cadences sound familiar," Tavrek said and stood, taking his cup. He walked over to the other man, meeting his eyes. "But I have not done any in-depth study of the Kriosian languages. I'm Tavrek Harland," he introduced himself, a small smile on his lips as he watched Lyo.

“Rylen Lyo,” said the XO, gesturing toward himself dramatically. He pronounced his last name as Lee-OH, emphasis on the second syllable. “I was very recently reassigned here as Executive Officer. Please, feel free to sit if you are comfortable. I would hate to have to admire you from afar.”

"Ah, I had heard rumours but it isn't exactly like they send out bulletins for people like me to read. I am a civilian," Tavrek said and took a seat, watching him closely. "Although I do understand the hierarchy of a Starfleet vessel...I try and avoid it." He raised an eyebrow and sipped his tea, but there had been an underlying flash of warmth in him.

“Nonsense. Everyone should know how important I am,” said Lyo in a tone that was both serious and playful simultaneously. He was, after all, known for his immense bankroll and seemingly infinite ego. “Are you hungry? I could as Darvvin to return and bring you something…?”

"No, but thank you," Tavrek said with a small shake of his head. "I am sure should I wish to eat, I can get something myself." He said it lightly, a hint of humour in his tone even if his features were far more still. "I do not often see people on Starfleet ships with servants...regardless of rank."

“Darvvin has served my House for over two decades,” said Lyo after taking a sip from his espresso. “Most of that time as my Steward. I compensate Starfleet for his lodging, as well as pay him a generous salary. He is, of course, free to depart any time he wishes. His House swore fealty to mine, and has seven generations of unbroken loyalty.”

"Ah...currency," Tavrek said with interest before he sipped his tea. He tilted his head to the side and studied him. "Both...monetary and social. Fascinating." And he wondered how Lyo had been at the Academy...Tavrek had never attended, but if it was anything like his old university he expected there would have been some looks. Potentially light teasing. At worst bullying, although he suspected that would not have landed with the man sitting opposite him. No, he seemed like the sort who would ignore, perhaps not even register, that sort of disapproval.

“My clan has both types in spades,” said Lyo coyly. He was not bragging, far from it; it was a simple fact. “Antiquated notions, I know. I grew up in a much more stratified society than most; social currency was the weapon of choice for countless power struggles in the halls of the Sovereign Dynasty.”

Tavrek studied him at the words, considering it for a moment. "Most civilisations still have social currency, even if they deny it. Even the Federation," he said, with a small smile. "Although the geopolitical climate of different planets may...change it." He lifted his tea to sip, his eyes on the other man. "Although I must admit, I am curious...a man with all that in him, serving as a First Officer on a simple Starfleet vessel?"

“It…umm, started as a way to piss off my Lord Father,” began Rylen. He crossed his left leg over the right, resting his folded hands on top of his right knee. “He was named Hand of the First Monarch shortly before I left Krios. At the time, it was expected that I would attend a University and return home to a government position. Instead, I chose to apply to Starfleet. And here I am, three decades later.”

Tavrek raised a single eyebrow at the words and the smile softened a little. He wasn't a counsellor...but it seemed an extreme reaction to anger a parent. "Three decades must mean you still...enjoy the adventure?" he asked, lightly. Curious, because the man sitting across from him straddled two cultures at once...the one he had been born into, and the one he had chosen. The duality was appealing to Tavrek.

“I must confess,” said Lyo in a playful tone, “the adventure is what always appealed to me. But thirty three years defending the Federation and its lofty egalitarian ideals has softened me…because, Gods help me, I actually believe in those ideals now. Although I’m still a little bit of an elitist.”

"Does that not war against the Federation ideals?" Tavrek asked, but there was a small, knowing look on his face. Because for all of the Federation ideals, ideals he too believed in...there was still elitism. There was still the core species. Yes, they were trying hard. The goal was a utopia and every day the Federation tried to do better than they did yesterday. But it did not mean that they hadn't made horrible mistakes. And it did not mean old grudges and hurt didn't colour the people living within it.

“You are correct,” said Lyo coyly. “It does war with Federation ideals. As does my upbringing as a member of one of the wealthiest families in known space. But like the Federation, I strive to do better. I need to do better.”

Tavrek raised an eyebrow, his hands curled around his mug, feeling the heat from it bleed into his palms. Yet there was a small smile on his lips. He wasn't sure if this was the man, or if he was watching a performance. It was still...rather entertaining. "You seem to be in a good place to do that, as a First Officer," he commented.

“That position will be noticeably better when I occupy the Captain’s chair,” said Lyo. “But tha will happen in time.”

"Patience is a virtue in some species," Tavrek commented as he watched him before he gave a small yet genuine smile.

“It is. And I am patient. That does not change the fact that occupying that chair is my destiny.” Rylen made an attempt to focus his empathic sensibilities on his companion. He sensed curiosity above anything else. But was that curiosity enough for them to connect on a different level?

Tavrek sat without shifting for a long moment. The word lingered. Not in the air, but somewhere behind his eyes, caught on thought. His fingers tightened slightly on the cup. Not tension. Just... containment. The warmth of the tea had begun to fade, but he welcomed it anyway, anchoring himself in the shape of it. “Destiny,” he said at last, quiet and unhurried. The word sat on his tongue like something ceremonial. His eyes wandered around the room, not aimlessly, but with intention, before returning to Lyo. He didn’t smile, but something in his expression softened with the trace of a thought not yet named. “I’ve never trusted it,” he finally said. “It forgives too much. Suggests that choice is irrelevant. That consequence is...expected.” He let that sit for a moment, the silence between them not awkward. Tavrek rarely left space by accident. Then, a small breath, not quite a sigh, escaped him. “But perhaps it feels different,” he added, "when what waits ahead is something you would choose anyway..."

OFF:

Tavrek Harlan
Translation Specialist
USS Guinevere

&

Commander Rylen Lyo
First Officer
USS Guinevere

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