Onoma photos

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.