Tl;dr: Screw accurate calendars, let's celebrate anyway

[faithfulwisdom]

Who: Finrod Felagund
Broadcast: fleetwide
Action: Bishop
When: backdated a few days, let's say the 26th.

[Congratulations, Drift Fleet. You are being treated to a little tune of Finrod's own composition. Because some days, you just feel like announcing things in verse, apparently.]

When the night is at its longest, we gather ‘round the fire
Drink is shared and tales are told as the flames grow ev’r higher.

The custom comes to naught without a sun to mark the days,
But merry voices hold shadows of many kinds at bay.

Our journey is no garden path; we do not walk with ease.
Any reason for song and drink is one that must be seized.

[Okay, okay. He'll put down the harp and address the camera a bit more serious. Only a bit, though- there's nothing truly serious about any of this.]

In other words, my friends, Turuhalmë, an annual celebration of my people is, I think, here. It’s impossible to truly know, since I have no notion of how my calendar lines up with any other used here. Regardless, I think the occasion worth marking. According to tradition, we should gather around a fire, tell tales, and make merry long into the night.

However, as I am not precisely enthused about the idea of making a return to the planet and our ships are not equipped with hearths, I will settle for the making merry and telling of tales. You are all welcome to join me; I am on the Bishop for the moment, though if the group should grow large, we may have to relocate.

[ooc: With apologies to Tolkien and poets everywhere. It's been a long time since I've done anything that's not freeverse]

(no subject)

[imahologram]

Who: Leia Organa & you (yes, you)
Action: The Marsiva. Up, down, and all around.
When: December 28th

[To suggest Leia is annoyed with her presence on the Marsiva is to commit gross understatement. After years of struggle, the Rebel Alliance has fatally crippled the Empire, and the Republic of old is within their grasp--and here she is, trapped in an enormous holo-serial untold light years away.

She could scream. She really could.

Her first thought, once she's aware of the communications network, is to seek information that way. Without more knowledge of this place and the 'Atroma' keeping them captive, however, it seems unwise to call quite that much attention to her initial inquiries if she can help it. Atroma (the Atroma?) is supposedly recording their every move, but she's not about to make it any easier for it (them?) to sort through hours of footage to find the interesting bits. Irritation is no excuse for carelessness.

So she swallows back her frustration for the moment and talks to the people she meets on deck. Smalltalk--how are you, have you been here long, so on and so forth. And sprinkled in occasionally, the big question:]

What do you think of the Fleet?