He comes with his own environment, a burned sewing console drawer, shabby, narrow and dark, with burned antique book endpaper and text on the back wall, littered with match ends.
He is recalcitrant, has no compunction, suits himself, has low to no impulse control, and unfortunately enjoys robust health, so it won't do to ignore his demands or turn your back on him. Really, it's a good thing he is so small; perhaps that will restrict his range.
The white porcelain knob on his drawer appears to have been cracked in an event involving excessive heat, and so does its pedestal, which was once a ceramic light fixture.
He's quite comfortable with the damage; it's slight, and the drawer does seem to have some fuel value left.
His head, hands and legs are paper clay; he has a ruff of handmade antique lace, and he holds his last incendiary treat in his left hand. He can sit or stand and his arms are lightly poseable. His innards are recycled sawdust and his torso and arms are linen recycled from a man's shirt, dyed with natural dyes.
You can stand him in the display drawer along with the evidence, or seat him; he is free-standing, but be warned, that means he can escape.
And it's just no use trying to discipline him or teach him good manners.
He throws tantrums. Bad ones.
No good trying to warm his britches, either. He doesn't have any.
We're shopping around for a reform school that will take him. So far, no luck. You should see the smoldering ruins. Nothing left but the chimney stacks. Just awful.