Prestor the Toymaker

  • Nicknames: The Toymaker, Prest

    Full Name: Prestor Whitegrin

    Species: ferret

    Appearance: A short ferret, looking to be barely out of dibbun age (though he is certainly older), with a dark brown coat and large, golden eyes. He looks healthy, if a bit thin, and unlike many vermin, smiles with genuine warmth, revealing the brilliant white teeth he was named for. Though he does not bathe often (and smells accordingly), he somehow manages to look groomed enough to pass for a beast raised by woodlanders, not a vermin horde. He speaks quickly, gesturing this way and that, rarely staying in one place long enough for anyone to notice the details of his fur or claws, covered in small flakes of wood, metal, paint and wax.
    Prestor wears a simple brown shirt and nearly black pants, tied with a belt that has seen better seasons. A gray cloak, worn and patched in places, hangs from his shoulders, covering the pack on his back and obscuring the contents of his shoulder bag. He will often gnaw on the cloak’s ragged collar when upset or concentrating.
    A small golden bracelet encircles his right paw, plainly visible for anyone that looks closely.

    “I’m not pretty, like some woodlanders, but I try.”–on how well his fur is brushed.


    Prestor Whitegrin was born to an ordinary ferret family, on an ordinary evening, in an ordinary home (for Mossflower‘s vermin, anyway). Indeed, it could be said that Prestor did not have a magical bone in his body, and that his future was  foretold by no star. But, like most vermin, he was jealous of those who had more than him.
    Unlike most vermin, however, Prestor did something about it early on. Rather than fight other vermin, and thereby earn a place for himself among his kind, Prestor went directly to those whom he was taught from birth had what he desired. Maybe he reasoned that by working alone, he could get more loot…even he is no longer sure.
    One moonless night, he snuck into the hut of a mole, living alone near his family’s camp. He found books and loose pages of parchment, and on a low table, a set of tools and a half-finished chain of a bracelet. Somehow, perhaps through some magic that has so far avoided him, Prestor did not steal the bracelet, but instead examined the tools and the loose sheets of parchment. By the time the old mole awoke in the morning, Prestor had made the bracelet whole, its tiny metal links joined together as well as if they had been done by the paws of a master. Of course, the mole panicked and chased his would-be apprentice out, but Whitegrin left with more than the bracelet tucked in his pocket.
    The young ferret found a skill, a calling, a way of life.
    He vowed then and there to make treasure for himself, rather than steal it from others. Thus, he learned from the victims of passing slavers, from his mother and occasionally from the old mole (to this day, Whitegrin feels ashamed that he had to steal the mole’s books, though he knows the hermit would never have allowed a ferret to learn under him). Soon, the other vermin were using him to fix their stolen treasure, from jewelry to weapons. Prestor never seemed to earn as much respect as those who led the attacks on the woodlanders, and he was often made fun of, but he was content. Until, one day, his brothers and sisters robbed him. The pickings were slim that night, and the vermin stormed into his tent, beat him senseless, and took everything he had, leaving behind nothing but the tools of his trade, for which they had no use. The next morning, angry and helpless to revenge against his entire tribe, Prestor Whitegrin chose to leave and find his way among the woodlanders from whom he learned so much.
    Now, Prestor the Toymaker wanders Mossflower, trying to find a home and a life, mending small things and making treasures for himself and others.

    The State of the Soul:

    Prestor is not a good beast, and may occasionally act as badly as any other vermin, but the seasons of labor with small things taught the ferret patience and kindness. There is certainly hope for him yet. He certainly thinks so--otherwise, why try to live with the woodlanders?

    “I like mouses and moles and otters and shrews. Not what they make. Not stealing from them is easy.”--all anybeast ever got out of him about his morality.


    Prestor keeps a set of tools (stolen from some poor beast in his youth) and assorted odds and ends in a small bag on his shoulder, a dagger in his belt, and a tough pack on his back, where he carries some of his small creations. A small fur brush is always somewhere on his person. He almost never packs enough provisions, and sometimes lives for days on nothing but stream water.

    What has he made so far?

    Prestor Whitegrin made six wood and metal puzzle boxes, each one a near-perfect copy of the other, many bracelets, made of metal, small stones, clamshells, and anything else he could get his paws on. He keeps a number of carved statuettes in the shapes of a fox, a ferret, an otter, and a mouse (he would carve more, but few beasts stay still long enough around him). He also worked with poisons, and carries a small flask of his “bad stuff” with him (likely some dangerous plant juices, though their deadliness is eternally in question). A pair of armored gloves rest at the bottom of Prestor’s pack, their metal links and plating shaped by him, waiting for some beast to wear them.


    The Craft of Small Things: Prestor has talent in creating and mending odd devices. Toys and weapons, armor and art, he tried his paw at it all, with varying success. Like most vermin, he cannot help but make dangerous objects which fascinate him, from puzzles that can cut the paws of those solving them to spoons made from poisonous wood. Given enough time, he can make much of little, and turn it against any foe. Or, at least, that is what he believes.

    “This here bracelet means that if something broke, I can fix it. If it doesn’t exist, I can make it. So long as it’s small and doesn’t take a master smith, see?”--showing off his bracelet.

    Innocent Beauty: The ferret looks harmless. Prestor is the sort of vermin that could get away with murder, his large eyes and dibbunish body making him appear younger and less dangerous. Prestor, naturally, hates being underestimated or made fun of, so beware in calling him “cute”.

    “I’m not cute. No, I’m not. You stay away, see?”--brandishing a large spoon at a molemaid.

    Strong Paws: Because he is used to working with metal and wood, Prestor Whitegrin’s paws have become like small vices. He may not be able to lift a badger, but any beast in his grip will believe they are dealing with a creature twice his size.

    “I’m not strong, sure, but I got myself some skill in my claws. Just as good.” --bending a piece of armor back into shape with his bare paws.


    Vermin: Prestor doesn’t know how to act. He eats like a vermin, smells like a vermin, and fights like a vermin, when not running away. Other beasts may see him as barbaric or strange, and many may have the sudden impulse to teach him a lesson. He never seems to learn better, though, and his understanding of woodlander behavior leaves something to be desired (like him dunked in a bathtub…).

    “I smell? Well, of course I smell. I’m a ferret, see? Washing? Why? I’m fine.”--response to a local hedgehog’s questions about taking a bath.

    Coward: Prestor is a coward. Pure and simple. He would rather run and hide than stand his ground and fight. He long ago traded battle prowess for skill in small crafts, and as such, never wields anything bigger than a dagger (not that he knows how to use the dagger, besides carving wood with it). Prestor may be willing to hurt somebeast, but until he has the upper hand, he would not dare raise his paw.

    “I’m not running! I’m retreating until a better opportunity arises!”--on being a coward.

    Expects the Best: Despite his difficulties with other beasts, and his cowardly nature, Prestor Whitegrin cannot imagine that any woodlander would cause him harm until it is too late. Fortunately for him, he has not run afoul of any truly frightening beast (Prestor never met a badger, for instance), and has managed to hold on to some sliver of innocence that allows him to see all goodbeasts as his friends.

    “Hey there, mouses, my name’s Prest! How’re you this fine morning? Aww, what a nice dibbun you have there…Aiiieeee bad mouses! No rocks!!!”--typical attempt at making friends.

    Please do tell me if something is bad, and if possible, show me any threads where Prest can fit in without seeming too out of place. He and I are eager to prove ourselves in the world of Redwall.

  • A thoroughly unique, entertaining and interesting character if there ever was one.  I like Prestor already.  ^^

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