All of that, however, paled in comparison to what immediately caught his attention. There, on the wall separating the antechamber from the room Jacques had just entered to speak with the harbourmaster, hung a frame. Made of simple wood, worn and tattered, its paint flaking, the glass protecting what it contained cracked, showed Handy what was, for all the world, a photograph. Sepia-toned and faded with age, it showed a surly-looking bastard of a pony, mutton chops and a frazzled mane, jaded, cynical eyes staring out at him, a crooked smoking pipe jutting out one side of his mouth, held up a net in one hoof. A small ship could be seen in the background, clouds, and birds in the air. All in all, pretty unremarkable.