Log:Explorer's Guild: Happy Bleepin Harvest Day, from Muri

Happy Bleepin Harvest Day, from Muri

OOC Date: August 16, 2018
Location: Your data pad
Participants: Netep Muri, Explorer's Guild

(Vid message sent via datapad to Waldin and any other EG folks who think they correspond enough with Muri to have exchanged infos)

"Hello, Corr...friends..."

It's Netep Muri, leaning much too close into the vid recorder and lookin a hot mess. Like literally hot and sweaty. She's ditched her usual outerwear, from what's visible of her head and shoulders. Hair color of the day? Deep blue, almost black. Eyes? Icy opposite end of blue spectrum. Also, there's a faint haze of smoke. Her pupils look a bit funny. And in case there was any lingering doubt regarding her insobriety, a bottle is lifted into view for a little 'toast' and sip.

"I regret to inform you that I shan't be attending the festivities in person, due to a small...mmm...snaffoo? In my travel plans. However! In the spirit of Harvest Day I'll read you an excerpt from the /ancient/ manuscript I rescued from that dark and moldy murder basement in the library. Translation's coming along nicely in my spare time SO!"

She clears her throat twice.

"I thought maybe you'd have liked to have this, Waldin. Don't think it'll fetch as pretty a note as I'd hoped on the market, but feel it ought to go to a home where it will be cherished for the simple thing it is. An almanac!" Aw. Her smile's in danger of becoming real until she suddenly straightens up and shoves a crooked pair of glasses on her face and adjusts the the zoom of the recorder before picking up the book. Just like that, her voice changes to that of a scholar who takes their research most seriously.

"On the subject of Galt gourds. From Okatar VIII...presumably written by a Baragwin? I'm not sure why this edition was not in Basic." Some more intelligible muttering goes on for a moment or two then she refocuses on the task at hand.

"Harvest is ready when the gourd has reached 4-5 cm in girth at the base of the stem." A pause. "Mmmhmmmhm," she stiffles a chuckle and wags her brows with a sultry purr. "Sexy." Then back to being serious, "It is at this size the gourd may begin to split and rel--" *snarrt* "rel-lease" *snigger* "its seed. SeedssS."

She clears her throat again.

"If harvested too early, the premature gourd will remain green until shriveled and rotten."

Netep sucks in a breath between grimacing teeth and squints a little hazy-eyed at the viewer. "Nobody likes a shriveled gourd." Her lower lip protrudes into a pout and head cants to the side. "Stars above know I d--"

Both eyes suddenly get very wide indeed and lock onto something off vid, presumably beyond her comms console. Her face remains unflatteringly frozen in the middle of this incomplete sentence, mouth pinched in 'o' formation until a faint 'thunk' can be heard from source unseen. "Drek." Then her lips flatten out and stretch into a very, very pained smile while the vid feed gets rotated 'round the cockpit's interior to show a pissy Tusken Raider thumping their gaderffii stick with considerable force against the viewport. How are they that tall? Bantha, maybe.

"This're my /new/ friends," Netep elaborates, once more leering at the viewer, this time from a forward lean on elbow, chin propped in hand. "We've been havin' our own party, since ...mmm..." she makes a show of looking at her chronometer. "Yesterday, when my janked fuel cell ran out. Er. Continued to not have actual fuel," her finger bops through the air, as if to help her navigate the sentence. Yeah, she's so schwasty. "Maybe should have paid more attention to the crew allegedly servicing my ship when I went for a drunk - a dUnk - in that reservoir, so..." she sucks her teeth. "here we are... 'bout 52 klicks from nowhere, presumably near Arhnhout Pass. Fresh out of umph. I mean, the ship's outta umph. *IIII* have plenty of umph! One and a half months of rations and water, if sipped properly, which means I've a chance of waiting these crude'n'prude folk out!"

One hand reaches past visible range toward the viewport and one needn't imagine the rude gesture because the intent is written clearly on her face. Another frighteningly solid BONK of the stick and an actual firing of the weapon sees her flinching a little back into her own personal space. She sinks lower into the seat, view shifting to record her from above while the rest of her curls onto a cushion at an angle that does not look comfortable.

"I know what yer thinkin'...why not just crank the engines for one last little dry thrust and see what happens? Well, look'a that." She raises her data pad into view, on which is a played clip from some other camera source. Hazy forms of /small/ Tusken raiders are milling around beneath the cargo hold. "Brought the whole damn family. A proper camp out happenin' under there...grammy and grambabies and...just...yeah, I can't. I've a clever idea though to lower the cargo hatch, let one o'these warriors climb aboard, then seal'em up in there til he's half dead from thirst. All's left to do then is steal his clothes and take my forty-eight second head start up a dune before his mates realize I haven't got a clue what they're sayin' and beat me to death."

• Siiiiigh*

Muri's expression melts back into a blend of boredom and 'im not worried' worry for a prolonged stare at the viewer(s). Her eyes are glazed over and don't spare the beloved, ancient manuscript another glance before she tosses it over shoulder into some seat behind. "Okay, well. Happy harvest day." Some fingers snake up under her lenses to rub messily at her eyes and leave the frame askew. "Wish I were anywhere else. Away from here. Eatin' steak."

The message ends to the tune of a crinkly ration bar wrapper guiding some desiccated crumbles into her mouth. Poor Muri.

(OOC Note: Mostly I just wanted to make up some excuse for why Muri didn't make it to the event to cover for my RL obligation. BUT this can lead into another lil EG event to locate our nerdy, desert castaway and fend off the Sand People so she can go get a lil juice in her engine. Like when a debatably sober friend calls you in the middle of the night saying that they need u to make a gas run because they're stranded off exit whatever, stuck in a median, and staring down the menacing glares from a family of raccoons that's using their hood for a jungle gym or whatever. Right? Happens to everyone. Also, this was way to much spam to even fit inside the confines of a gboard post or datapad message, so it's up here instead.)