Commodore Seamus Bander. "I don't believe I'll ever grow tired of that title," proclaimed the sea captain in his intelligible selkie accent. "It has such a nice ring to it." He leaned carelessly on his pilot with winsome smile, staring off into the distance at the blue against the blue. "And Captain Thomas can even set it to a tune."
The pilot glanced at his illustrious and admirable captain, a man who had saved him through countless gales with his cunning and quick wit. "Aye, sir, but Bander the White Lion has a ring to it too." He returned the smile; the pilot had served under the Commodore for as long as he could remember, and never once did he lose faith in the man.
"Aye," he chuckled, "'tis very true, Mr. Pratchett." Salt air filled his robust lungs. He would always love the sea; it was his home above all else.
"Cap'n, a ship!" called a crewman from the bow, running up with his spyglass.
The Commodore righted himself into a more authoritative posture. "What are her colors?"