You felt a tug at your lapel and glanced down from your painting to see a little Bowtruckle slipping into your breast pocket just as you heard harried footsteps enter the room. The Bowtruckle yelped and begged you to hide him in the language of his kind (that of which you understood), but you nonetheless turned to greet the newcomer.

"Have you seen a Bowtruckle? His name's Picket, he thinks I'm mad at him, but I'm not, really-"

You smiled and the stranger cut himself off, allowing you to draw the Bowtruckle- Picket -out of your pocket.

"This the one?"

The disheveled man gave you a nervous smile and replied in the affirmative, so you passed over Picket and then shook the fellow's hand.

"Y/L/N. Y/F/N Y/LN. A pleasure."