Onoma the alien warrior poet has brown mottled skin and a tail. The armor laced over the body and tail is made from recycled milk bottle plastic, but I hope will become embellished in time. It is meant to be removable and to fit over whatever garments Onoma wears (or perhaps under them as will be determined).
Here are the journal pages.
And here is the transcript of Onoma's story in easier to read format:
Ganymede’s Epihelion 4407
In the outer quadrant nova dust cloud.
Mineral Transport and Salvage ship,
Stone Traveler
Security Officer’s Personal Log:
My first days on this ship have been quiet. Captain Di Seca has tasked me with examining the backgrounds of the new grunts, as he calls the workers on his crew. Their files are nothing unexpected. Of course I also have opened his file. There is nothing unusual there either, as far as I can tell.
The Captain was acceptant of the strange brevity of my own record. I cannot tell him any more than is written – my sudden awakening amongst the detritus of what must have been a great battle, salvaged in the wreckage of the Flagship of Perone, no uniform, no insignia of any kind, no memory and evidently no-one to miss me.
Yet I have a sense of destiny, and the instinctive skills of a warrior that I have no recollection of learning - but that the moves are in my muscles, the clarity of strategy in any situation burns in my mind, and then there is my physique. I have learnt that my race is that of the legendary Dragons of Estavan IV.
There is little written of these ancient and courtly people, other than fragments of their poetry and such complex musical compositions as they have allowed to travel into the populated universe over the last several centuries. The way to Estavan IV is lost.
So I search for clues to my presence in the fleet of the Perone, part of a trade war, with the abilities and skills of a mercenary - and amnesia. I demonstrably know enough to let me be hired on as an officer in this industrial merchant vessel that has the longest and furthest flung pattern of any ship other than the explorer/colony mega ships that will move beyond the galaxy rim. For those one must have family units. They are worlds unto themselves.
I search the galaxy for others of my kind, for what might be my home. I search within for that elusive poetical sensibility that has been touted as the hallmark of my people. To that end, I plan to write poems, and perhaps release the secrets of my own life from behind my eyes. I’m stuck with Galactic standard dialect, for unless I hear otherwise, this is the only language my amnesia has left me. I can only read translations of my native poetry.
As for the music, well the musicians I have met express eloquent admiration of the technical dexterity and complex ideation of non-harmonic multi-scale songlines – but I find I’m drawn to an old Earth (Sol 3) musical tradition called “Blues”.
First Poem
For though I am alone
What is left but Unity?
If I am the last of my kind
So then I am my own beginning.
The screen is wiped clean.
The whole universe is now my home.
Onoma's frill was cut from felt, sewn on, 
Onoma's eyes are made from two green beads
The teeny tendrills are peacock feathers and the hair is made from yarn and fibers
Top of head.
Tiny bottle filled with even tinier stars, 
Just when it seemed life on the ship had settled into a pattern, something strange caught my attention. The crew had been permitted leave on Ingnatious 4 and Captain Di Seca sent me along to monitor their interaction with the locals. Everything was routine at first, but I definitely felt different under Ignatious' red sun. As the rays struck the scales on my frill, a feeling of invigoration filled my body. This sensation grew with every moment of exposure. I began to find it difficult to focus on my security task, looking instead for excuses to linger in the sunlight. 
After several days of planetside diversions, leave was over and the crew prepared to return to the Stone Traveler. I was not the only one reluctant to reenter the black cold of space, crewman Clovis kept us waiting at the launch site. As he finally boarded the shuttle, I noticed an unfamiliar smell. While reprimanding Clovis, two things became clear. One, my senses were clearly heightened after absorbing so many red sun rays, and two, the smell was coming from Clovis. An inspection of his person and away bag turned up nothing conclusive. When I next encountered Clovis on the main ship, the smell no longer lingered on him. I would not catch sent of it again until reporting to the captain's office. There was no mistaking the weird, acrid odor, but Captain Di Seca told me I was imagining things and to leave it alone. My curiosity was peaked. What was that smell? Why did no one else detect it? Was the captain intentionally concealing something from his own security officer? And why was I so altered after exposure to the red sun? Did my native planet orbit a red sun? Could this be a clue to help me find my way home?
(I included a poem from a favorite sci-fi author.) 
She fell asleep, and dreamed.
In her dreams, she was soaring high above the earth.
Oh! She had wings! She could feel the wind ruffling her hair. But, wait - it seems that there are feathers!
"Can it be? I have such keen eyesight!" She exclaimed.
I painted Lady S's body with gesso and covered her head with paper clay to form her face and textured the hair to make it more feather like. I added paper clay feet as well. Her hair was painted brown and gold and she was given blue eyes and kohl eye-makeup in the style of the Egyptian masks. She has a beak-like mouth to suggest a birdlike visage and she has a necklace with the winged god's charm. Her wings are not attached currently, as there would be no way to clothe her.
