"Dear Afonja," the boot's owner grinned, drawing his foot away surreptitiously with no outward signs of displeasure, "Is there something in the universe you don't hate?"
"Lady zombies," guessed a nearby crewmember, giving a wide metal-toothed grin.
"Get your lazy ass back before the mast, Toli, before I make use of it," ordered the captain, nothing in his tone to suggest he even slightly meant it, but nothing in his face or body language to suggest he didn't.
The old man's wrinkled lack of lips pursed as if he'd just had a syringe full of lemon juice squirted directly into the tissue of his tongue, and he glared at the captain with angry, smoldering black eyes, refusing to answer.
Still smiling placidly, the captain lifted his lightly-furred chin into the air, peering out across his busy if somewhat unsavory deckhands with apparent pleasure. (Plenty of them had their shirts off.)
The sides of the ship were mostly transparent, because while the ship was definitely a fast piece of work (she had been a specially commissioned pirate-hunter before he stole her), the Metamorph Nobility were infamous for their attention to aesthetics. Why travel the ether and not have it available to view at every angle? All the supports and beams were heavily decorated and gilded, though the crew had defaced some of the cherubs with a bit of charcoal. All in the interest of good fun of course, and done under heavy influence of drink. Easily forgivable--especially since they were so amusing. He watched sharply as they docked at Marlin, but all went soundly, and soon they were filing out onto the piers to enjoy a week or so of losing all the money they'd just stolen as frivolously as possible.
A particularly lewd idea caught his fancy, and he gave a slight chuckle--rewarded by another dark look from the necromancer, who decided the mirth levels were too high and scurried off to make someone wish they hadn't been born. Captain Blink of the Black Hole knew that the necromancer's infirmity had just saved him from becoming a zombie, but it was hard to remember when the old fart was half his height, dirtier than even the filthiest crew member, and shaky as a flag in a skyquake.
He was glad the necromancer had left, though. The old bugger was so pessimistic that bad things happened in a radius around him in response to his persistent despondency. And Blink had such a perfect idea for how to spend his evening, he would hate for the sour-faced spellcaster to ruin things.
He strutted off, waving to the downcast pair that had drawn the short straws and had to stay behind to protect the ship--a Soviet and a Capitalist, so no conversation or gaming for those two--and headed off to find the kind of bar that had a floor as slippery with blood as it was with spilt ale.