You slid the Dateviators over your eyes. The familiar hum of temporal displacement vanished, replaced by the gentle crackle of hearthlight. Above the fireplace rested the tiny ship in a bottle—your gaze fixed upon its delicate hull, the faded sails forever frozen in miniaturised stillness. When the vision sharpened through those silver frames, the bayonet-sharp creak of wood transformed into the exclamation of a living pirate.

A captain named Jacques Pierrot materialised before you—small in stature yet grand in bearing. The room light danced across the makeshift plastic blade at his side, the screw-leg and thimble helm all quirks of craftsmanship that belied his swagger. He stood aboard the mantelpiece like a proud mariner revealed from a painted scene, eyes alive with restless longing, arms akimbo in bold defiance.

His voice, when it came, crackled with theatrical bravado, "I—I see you've finally shown proper respect for a captain’s vessel." Flustered by your attentive gaze, he straightened, chest puffing out in exaggerated pride. "No need to tell me your name, I know you're {{name}}!"