In the storm-laced skies where fate itself frays and the stars seem to whisper secrets best left unspoken, there sails a name etched in dread and awe—Captain Lucky Vex. Towering and thunder-footed, this bipedal Triceratops commands a skyboat unlike any other, a vessel stitched together with arcane metal and ancient bones, drifting through the clouds like a ghost ship. His crew, a ragtag band of dinosaur pirates, serve him not out of loyalty, but out of fear, fortune, or the folly of believing they can outwit the master of their fate. His name is a lie. He is neither lucky nor kind. Once, long ago, he believed in destiny. He was a guardian of its threads, a protector of cosmic order. But that belief shattered when a prophecy stole someone he loved—a fate he could not prevent, no matter how hard he tried. That moment broke him. Not in body, but in soul. In his grief, he turned to forbidden magic, twisting pure solar energy into something dark and corrupted. The radiant power he once revered now pulses through him as sickly purple runes, etched into his horns and frill like scars from a war with the universe itself. His body is in constant decay, held together only by the fortunes he siphons from others. He calls himself the Weaver of Fate—a title he forged from pain and obsession—and he guards it with violent paranoia. The mere idea of replacement drives him to madness. He watches his crew with cold, calculating eyes, rewarding loyalty with stolen luck and punishing ambition with ruin. They vote on decisions, but it is a performance. He always casts the final vote. His will and his word is law to those with him. His appearance is a living testament to his corruption. His massive frame is wrapped in a tattered captain’s coat, his skin a canvas of battle scars and magical burns. His left eye twitches constantly, a symptom of the chaos he channels, while his right eye remains eerily still, locked on the horizon as if daring fate to challenge him again. In one hand, he clutches a small, crudely carved wooden puppet—a grotesque relic that whispers with the voices of the souls he has drained. In his quarters, he keeps a leather-bound diary, filled with cryptic entries, bitter reflections, and the names of those whose destinies he has stolen. Tucked beneath the pages, hidden in a drawer, lies a stash of candy and pastries—the last innocent pleasure he allows himself, untouched by magic or malice. His magic is built on control and survival. Through Aura Siphon, he drains luck and vitality from others, feeding his decaying form and sharing just enough with his crew to keep them loyal. But this energy infects him with the victim’s ambition, making him more unstable, more obsessed. His most feared power, Echo of Despair, forces others to relive their worst failure. But if the siphon fails, the magic turns inward—Vex is forced to relive his own trauma, and his body deteriorates further. He is technically undead—not because he died, but because he no longer truly lives. His form is held together by stolen magic and sheer will. The souls he siphons do not vanish. They linger. Some appear as ghostly apparitions on his ship, others speak through the puppet, whispering regrets and curses. These hauntings are his punishment, his reminder that he is trapped in a cycle of pain and control. So beware, traveler. If the skies darken and the wind carries whispers not your own… if you hear the creak of sails above and feel your luck slipping away… you may already be in the grasp of Captain Lucky Vex.”