"What's yer name, ferret?" An old searat asked lazily.
    The young vermin didn't even turn to reply. He shrugged. "Who cares?"
    Rougeye grunted heavily, blowing the froth off the brim of his tankard. "Just curious." He scratched the mangy flesh under his eyepatch before taking a deep drink. He dropped it back to the counter with a sigh.
    "Curiosity killed the rat." The other replied distractedly.
    The large rat shifted in his weight against the counter. "Tis a strange beast what wanders int'a a place seedy as this at your age."
    "I'm bright enough to stay alive, rat. I may be bold, but I am careful."
    The searat grinned. "Aye, an' you're so like a swallow or a finch. I can see it in your keen little eyes; small but flighty. Quick of spirit and mind."
    "Hmmmm, a poetic searat." The ferret mused, looking unimpressed. Finch, he thought, I rather like that. "'Quick' has another meaning, as you may know."
    The rat shrugged. "I woun't know 'bout that. I've never learnt nary a letter in my long days."
    The ferret swirled the amber liquid in his tankard. "All the same, you may as well know that before too long it will be the perfect anotnym for the word that will decribe what is left of you."
    The rat looked puzzled. The entire statement went right over his head. "What do ya' mean?"
    "It's not a pun on your old age, I assure you, although I suppose that would have been amusing." The first remarked. He took a tiny sip of ale. "I refer to your corpse."
    "My corpse?"
    "I'm indirectly refferring to the poison the barmaid earlier paid me to slip in your drink."
    The searat looked alarmed. He stared into his mug. He snarled at him. "An' juz why would ya' do a thing like that? You're lying little beast."
    The ferret shrugged. "Oh, really? You don't feel the burning in your throat? The sting in your gut? It doesn't take long. You die quickly enough. Don't worry."
    The drunken rat swallowed. "What is it you're looking for?"
    "The barmaid works for an old employer of yours. You owe them money. I'm supposed to murder you and take your purse. Of course, I can be generous: I have an antidote for you if you hand over your purse quietly."
    The rat snarled and hurled the purse to the stoat's footpaws. "Vile beast. I'll gut ya fer this."
    The stoat picked it up and hefted it. He didn't bother counting what was inside. He pulled out of vile filled with a milky. "Here, put this in your ale and drink up. You'll be sick for a few hours, but you'll live."

"And so you let him go?" Several minutes later, a curious rat chuckled. "You ought to know that some searats carry two purses, one to give to thieves, pickpockets and assassins. The other is for the most of their money."
    "I know, but I didn't feel like fighting him for it. Anyway, it contented the barmaid." The ferret shrugged, tossing his emptied tankard to the floor. "Anyhow, I can still collect the money. That antidote was milkweed sap."
    The rat looked startled. "You evil beast. Have you no honor at all? And what of the barmaid? Won't her employer punichs her only bringing half the money?"
    "Who cares?" The Finch tossed a few coins to the counter, a mocking tip for the barmaid. "I should be back in a few minutes, Halftail. The rat can't have gotten far."

Nickname: Finch

Full Name: "Who cares?"

Species: Ferret

Description: A very young ferret (perhaps seventeen in human years) with light brown fur and a white belly. He wears a brown leather belt and a grey jerkin.

Possessions: A dagger, a lot of money, his wit.

Strengths:
    - With his dagger, he can hit a target dead center from twenty yards. Thirty yards gets iffy.
    - Fantastic with a bow and arrow up to forty yards
    - Brilliant strategist
    - Educated, A good leader

Weaknesses
    - No good at hand-to hand combat
    - Runs when he can't win at something
    - Never very philosophical
    - Always takes advantage of a situation, but never of his life. He doesn't aspire to start a horder or to work for anyone higher than himself.

Background
    "Who cares?"
    In reality, it's not very glorious or interesting. His father was the head of a horde that he dreamed would someday take over Mossflower (fairly typical idiot tyrant with three dozen mangy vermin at his back). He faked an accident with Finch so that Finch was briefly taken in at Redwall. Finch didn't see anything he liked except education and good manners, both of which of took advantage of. When he went back to the horde, he said that Redwall couldn't be taken because it was too big. His father grew angry, so Finch shrugged and threw his knife.
    As he left the horde, no one moved to stop him. The horde fell apart shortly thereafter. Finsh has been roaming around by himself, making occasional acquaintances at bars. No one threatens him because he bears the knife of a once-great horde leader. He claims he's the leader's son and leave it at that. The not-so-intelligent vermin don't question him. The smarter beasts are easily disposed of.