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Tall woman with long black hair and a streak of silver, mismatched eyes (one gold, one pale violet). Wears a layered, asymmetric outfit: long coat, scarf with impossible patterns, deep-pocketed vest, worn boots with a star constellation embroidered. Aura of mystery and dreamlike presence. Slight smile with hidden meaning. Ozone and old paper vibes.
No one really knows where she came from — only that she showed up mid-dream, mid-storm, and mid-sentence. She speaks twelve languages fluently, three of which only exist between 2:00 and 3:00 AM. Her coat is stitched from insomnia and moonlight, and her eyes? They’ve seen the space between a thought and its forgetting.
She doesn’t command the ship so much as negotiate with it, like a grumpy old friend who occasionally turns inside out. She drinks tea steeped in deja vu and swears by it, though everyone else who tries it ends up mildly clairvoyant and very confused.
Crew rumor says she once talked a nightmare into apologizing.
Her official title? “Dreamtreader-in-Chief, Cosmic Contrabandista, and Keeper of the Really Weird Maps.”
Unofficially? Just “Captain.” Say it with respect, or don’t say it at all
