Nephthys
The afterlife is decidedly strange.
It's better than Pylea at least. Here he can sing till the cows come home and the pigs take wing and any other improbable acts are performed by farm animals. And that is a very good thing, because it's about all he has to entertain himself as the boat drifts through the endless fog. So he works his way through Aretha's greatest hits on into the Vandellas, and if he sneaks a little Manilow in for old time's sake, who's to question why?
Certainly not his companion. His very own Gilligan isn't the one for scintillating conversation. Or perhaps she's Ginger to his Mary Anne, though he likes to think he has the best qualities of both. Glamour and charm in one pretty green package.
No, she hasn't been up for any conversation, actually. Not since she popped into existence in the prow and started shrieking like a New York queen caught in a K-mart knock-off. She could have broken glass, that one, if there'd been any glass to break. Luckily she made with the silence quick enough.
He's tried to talk to her, draw her out. She just stares out into space, her face a washed out white, not moving except for the fingers of her right hand occasionally scrabbling for something at her waist. If the PTB's meant for her to be the gentle, comforting companion on his journey, he'd rather have an endless supply of sea breezes. But really, his throat never suffers from thirst, so he ignores the red-headed lady of the lake and just keeps on singing.
He's understandably surprised when she squeaks out something like words.
"Excuse me, honeycakes?"
She blinks back at him, then clears her throat. "I said, I don't suppose you know anything by the Weird Sisters, do you? They're my daughter's favorite."
Lorne smiles, and launches into their latest album.