"Oh, how marvelous," Newt proclaims, listening to Eowyn explain the culture of her home. It seems so right, that the horses themselves should get to choose their own companions; they deserve as much agency as any other living creature, or so Newt has always believed. "That is incredible and wonderful, that the horses get a say in the matter, if you don't mind me saying so."

"And what a fitting name," he says, observing the white on Bleod's forehead.

He glances back down at his Niffler, smiling at how content he seems, for once. "No, I've never been able to find one fitting enough, really," he explains, glancing up at Eowyn again. "I'm usually too busy chasing him about to try and come up with one."