[After a moment's fiddling where muted swearing can be heard but precious little seen the feed flicks on to display one terribly bored looking tanned elf. Between the set of his jaw and the twist of his lips the displeasure he's been feeling for the last however long is quite visible, though he does his best to put on a charming smile for the ship.]

I know when we arrive on this very fine vessel we are given, without our consent, a mark for purposes in keeping tally of who is on the ship, translation, so on and so forth. And while it is a nicely done tattoo it is not precisely to my taste, mm?

[He turns his cheek to the camera, tracing a line up the black curves marked up from jaw to temple.]

These now, I like a great deal more and it makes me wonder if there is anyone else that would rather regain just a little bit of themselves by choosing a tattoo of their own design and placement to make up for what was graciously given without asking. I've skill and experience in the art and would be willing to lend my services to anyone interested.

My supplies at the moment are somewhat limited but depending upon what you would like done I am certain we could come to some sort of arrangement.

[Please. Someone. Anyone. It'll be something to do, some sort of project, something to focus on and while his expression is not quite pleading it is eager for some manner conversation centered around something he can understand for once.]

( image )

Y'know, since we survived not murdering one another for being clingy (I mean you, Wrench Guy) and escaping the clutches of the Empire, I figure that I should hand out some handy advice:

1.) The ship is going to try and kill you.

2.) Don't try to rewire the roombas to make them go faster, they just freak out and go in circles.

3.) The shuttles in the shuttle bay are terrible and you can't honestly work in those conditions. Whoever did the wiring on the fuel cells to them wasn't even trying. The engine, if you can even call it that, is an absolute joke. It's like they don't want us to escape or something.

4.) Keep your eyes on your own property in the showers.

5.) Then, there's this guy. He goes by Ben or Obi-Wan or whatever ridiculous names that Jedi choose for themselves. This is what is going to happen: he is going to come to you when you make port on the worst possible planet you can imagine (Tatooine: don't go, don't stay), in a hive of the worst people you can possibly imagine and he's going to offer you a job. You will take that job, you will think it is amazing money for very little work. Here's the thing about Obi-Wan, he's going to get you in trouble. He's going to get you caught in a tractor beam and you're going to be stuck in enemy territory that's probably the size of a small moon. And the best part about it? You're not going to get paid. So, in summary: if Obi-Wan Kenobi comes to you and offers you a job, no matter if it's rescuing a Princess, doing his laundry or overall a favor: listen to the bad feeling in your gut, and say no.

Trust me, you'll thank me later.

"Krrrsch kaaaa!! Don't do it, Miss Reika!"

"I can't leave him! I must protect my friend...!"

"Miss Reika, noooo!"

[The screen turns a little, flops on its side as he forgets what he was gonna do with it; Netherland's little wooden toys are lined up, action figures the man has slowly been giving (yes giving, everyone clap for him) to Takeshi since Takeshi's last post on the network. 'Miss Reika' has knocked over some old cans and a wooden dragon figure, and Takeshi purses his lips.]

"Miss Reika, you're really brave! You beat the monster!"

[OH RIGHT. The feed shifts and for a moment it looks like it might just be turned off, but then there's suddenly this kid on the screen, smiling and in the best of spirits after the jump. Sure, there's a sick feeling, but it goes away quick enough.]

I'm alive!! I forgot to say.

I met lots of new friends when I got lost in the hallway with the monsters... Now there's lots of other new people... Um, hi! I'm Takeshi. And I'm five, I think. My friend said I can be five if I want to... [He rubs his nose, focused down at his toys.] These're made... Mr. Ned made them for me, because I never had cool--cool toys before. Does anyone like to play?



Oh!! Uh--if you can fix shirts, I have a sweater, and it's broke, and if you can stitch it like this-- [HE MOTIONS THREADING. IN CASE Y'ALL DON'T GET THIS SHIT.] Then I can give you... I don't have anything to give you... But I can figure something out; I really like my sweater...

[The feed actually seems to be done with, but then very suddenly, he remembers something he was gonna say:]

If you were in the hallway with the monsters, tell me you're safe! The rats tried to bite me. They were baaad.

[If y'all need him, he'll be stealing cans and stuff to set up a cool scene for his toys, thanks.]

((ooc: because having an action log might be overkill, action spam is totally a-ok with me on this post, if you'd like 'em to hang out :^|b))

[ Daylen rarely uses the network.

In fact, the few times he does it's either in private messages or replies to other people. He can't shake the distrust of it, a distrust as much from inability to understand as general suspicion over how it works.

Still. Alistair uses it. Other people he likes and gives credit to use it. If it indeed works as it seems to, then it could be a useful tool.

More importantly, it could gather him the answers he seeks. Even the ones he might not wish to hear but has to. ]

A moment of your time, for those inclined to answer.

I have heard stories of those who vanish during jumps or before, mixed information.

I have heard that those who vanish completely -- their reference upon these things returns a different message which indicates this.

I have heard some vanish and return at a later 'jump', with different memories. Some remember this place, some do not. Some with different demeanour or events recalled to when they left. Some differently gendered, even.

I would like to hear from people who have experience with this, or anything to add. I wish to understand better. Thank you in advanced.

--you mean we just talk into it? [The sound comes through first, screen flickering between the warm tones and dark that speak of a hand covering up the camera on the comms device. It’s a jostling thing, and yet there’s a soft “Aha!” as the owner finally realizes how it (sort of) works and gently cups the device in his hands to stare in something close to awe. Not much can be seen past the large eyes and the dark unruly mane that falls about his shoulders, but Kili moves quickly enough, showing the device to his brother sitting next to him.]

Look, Fili, it’s like a mirror.

[Fili mutters something like ‘oi--elbow!’--before shoving Kili to the side, the blond now appearing on screen. His hair is more well managed, a few braids pulling it off his face. He’s facing Kili now, quirking an eyebrow.]

I told you--it’s some sort of magic. Allows you to talk to people like they’re right there. Don’t think they can be trusted. People could spy, you know--powerful magic, I think.

[Thing is, Fili hasn’t quite figured out the ‘on’ and ‘off’ thing on his...so there are times when he’s probably broadcast long expanses of nothing...as he hides his device under pillows.

But still, they have an audience, and if there is one thing that the brothers can do, it’s charm.]

Do you think anything can be trusted? [Kili murmurs to his brother as he leans back into frame, rucks hair back out of his eyes. But there is an audience and Kili preens a bit as he faces the camera once more.] Right. Hello then.

[And then he pauses, uncertain, and looks to Fili once more. Kili’s not entirely sure how to go about addressing a little handheld box that apparently speaks to the entirety of the ship, but really it’s not like Fili’s got any more of a clue there.]

My name is Fili.

[Fili gives a nod, naturally taking the lead in this. He is the older brother, after all. He gives a gesture towards the dark haired dwarf next to him.]

And this is my brother Kili. It seems that some of you may well familiar with our burglar’s nephew, Frodo Baggins. Curious place, bringing people from all times here. And different sorts of dwarves--I saw a female without a beard--very strange.

[But someone is getting on a tangent, focus, Fili. He shuts up, and gives Kili a chance to talk.]

What my brother means to say is that we are offering our services to the ship. [There’s a resolute nod, smile at his lips never fading.] It doesn’t seem like people are in need of smithies or leather workers here, but the offer stands.

We would also like to offer our weapons, a strange place like this could certainly use more protectors.

[Fili nods again, and gives a proud grin. Kili knows how to speak directly when he wishes to.]

We have the skill and heart for it, I assure you.

[They may have failed Thorin, in the end, but Fili is determined that they will not fail here.]

[ Lucrezia is in one of the lounges! Sprawled on one of the sofas, fingers busy turning a pendent of gold in the shape of a sea-horse. There are no poems today, no joyful greetings, something is different. She looks more pensive than anything else but there is a shade of concern there as well as quiet annoyance.

When she speaks, her voice is devoid of any of it. Her eyes still focused on the sea-horse. ]

A riddle, Tranquility.

How to mourn for someone who does not deserve it?

If your duty demands it and you have no desire to - do all men need to be mourned for? Is it a a more grievous sin not to mourn than it is to speak false words of grievance?

[ a beat. ]

Perhaps I must fast again.

[ a moment later she puts down her necklace, smiles. ]

I would have a cup of wine with your answer, if any of you have some to spare. You will join me in the lounge.

[ and it is not a question. ]

Bilbo Baggins, at your service!

[ That squeak surely must have scratched at your ear, friend! Maybe you've heard it once or twice before ( it's a habit ). Well, it turns out to be sourced to one particular hobbit, the very same Bilbo Baggins peering through the screen. Peering into forever? No, he is looking for his audience, but his words carry on and float. They spin and meet into one smoky ring, puffed through a pipe tangled in his fingers. There is a visible calm patting into the wrinkles of his face, perhaps from earlier stress.

Still, the chirp in his voice smooths out his expression into something friendly. In fact, he is sharing a cheeky smile to his no-face audience, hoping for the same kindness. ]

I am in need of help finding my company. [ He clears his throat, stuck between a tone that is business-like and relaxed. He shouldn't be too relaxed, of course not! ] Dwarves, thirteen in count, but I will gladly send my thanks and offerings to any that may be found. There are two others accounted for, but calling anyone else familiar would most definitely put my concerns and my inner trembling to rest.

[






Yes, the broadcast carries on without any movement, but a few hints of sound. Perhaps someday he will have a proper understanding of the 'on' and 'off' options. Perhaps. ]