The Commodore, who was unlike the ruffians surrounding him by the fact that he wasn't a pirate, thumped his cane on the wooden floor, severely startling several patches of dust.<br/>"My good sir! As the navigator, it is of paramount importance that I be in full possession of all my many complex navigatoring things. Else this ship will be sailing in circles under the management of the zombie hordes out on deck. And we wouldn't want that, would we?"<br/>(The Commodore certainly knew that<span style="font-style: italic">he</span>didn't. One horde of drooling, blank-eyed savages a lifetime was plenty, as far as he was concerned.)<br/>He stomped down with a boot for emphasis, but only succeeded in murdering a small rodent that the cat had been watching. It was not pleased.<br/>Sensing that these pirates were far from accomodating, he snatched up a random piece of paper triumphantly.<br/>"A-ha! Just what I needed! I will now leave you to your..."<br/>He squinted at the woman.<br/>"Captaining? Well, good luck with that."<br/>On his way out, he cast a jaunty wink at the man with the cat, who he was fairly sure was the new Boatswain. Unless he was Senior Boatswain. Or whatever he was. Not the captain, and probably not the real navigator. Maybe the real navigator was the woman on the chair, though if that was how navigators were treated on the ship, then perhaps another vessel might be in order.<br/><br/>And once he'd carefully closed the door, he lifted up his stick and legged it into the depths of the ship. What was wrong with these people?