Fletcher is dark-furred, black everywhere but his very back and his face, more polecat than the albino-bred ferret. He has only the barest of a white-tan mask above his beady black eyes and the edges of his ears; the white is more brilliant around his nose and chin. He is gangly-limbed and long-bodied (with a bit of paunch to his tum), prone to stooping with his back hunched, waddling, and doing inexplicable barrel rolls in the normal course of going from Point A to Point B. This is how you know he's a ferret. He is 17 years old.
Fletcher is whiny, selfish, sulky, bad-tempered, brutish, crude, and all around unpleasant most of the time. He is a coward in serious situations, but he loves watching, betting on, and getting into controlled fistfights. He is scared of the dark, but would sooner stab his best friend than admit it; sometimes he cries for his mother. He enjoys witty jokes, crude jokes, puns, and pranks—but can never think of any himself. He is incredibly insecure about his own intelligence; he cannot read or do sums. He enjoys drawing with sticks in mud, and should he ever be shown a pencil and some paper, he would be the happiest ferret ever to doodle random inappropriately-sized triangles. All he really wants is a nice friend who will giggle at his jokes, and lots of ale, and to get rid of his fleas.
He has a lot of fleas. He has a dirk, or maybe it's a dagger—he doesn't know the difference. He has a very dirty green tunic, tied with a belt, upon which hangs a pouch full of rocks; the pouch may be empty, or full of things besides rocks, such as clumps of dirt, or bugs, or funny-shaped river pebbles. He has a blue beret which he uses to store spare food; sticky things keep the hat on his head very well.
Uhhh… can ingest quite a lot of accidental dirt before realising its not food?
Extremely forgetful, illiterate, bad taste in art, tendency to musk when scared, prone to boredom; see Personality. While not a thief, Fletcher does not understand personal property and will attempt to grab things he wants to eat/inspect/play with in plain view of their owners.
Fletcher was born on a pirate ship. He was raised on an island with two sisters, then they were brought to Mossflower when he was a young stripling. He genuinely doesn't remember what happened to his father: he never knew the cur. And after his mother's constant nagging at him to be useful, he simply didn't go back to camp after one of his foraging trips. Or maybe he couldn't remember the way back. Either way, he shows little outward concern for his mother and siblings. Inwardly, he misses them quite a bit. But he knows he can't go back home now. He has to be a Made Ferret. Or whatever it is young vermin are expected to do with their lives nowadays. Like plunder and pillage and loot and steal and torment honest woodlanders and throw rocks at things that make him grumpy. Point is, he's still working on this part of his life. It'll get exciting soon!