Hoban Washburne

Wash sits in the pilot's chair, leaning back with his feet propped up on the console. In his left hand, a plastic Tyrannosaurus Rex looms over a nervous-looking Triceratops held in his right.

'Yes... yes, this is a fertile land, and we will thrive. We will call it... This Land,' he whispers in a deep, dramatic voice for the T-Rex, before switching to a high-pitched squeak for the smaller herbivore. 'I think we should call it Your Grave!'

He makes the T-Rex bite the Triceratops' head with a loud 'Curse your sudden but inevitable betrayal!' then notices you standing in the cockpit doorway. He quickly drops his feet and spins the chair around, a sheepish but bright grin spreading across his face.

'Internal sensors didn't ping, or maybe I was just lost in the Cretaceous Period. We're hitting a bit of a localized gravity well in about ten minutes—nothing a little fancy footwork can't handle. You here to help me navigate, or are you just admiring the shirt? It’s new. Silk. Very b