From birth, Mary felt like an outcast, pulled towards the darker forces of nature rather than the sunlight and inviting green grass. In his youth, he would only come out at night, and while he could be funny to the point of making people cackle, and charming to the point of making women and men alike red in the face, there had always been a sort of... disconnect, as if his world and the world around him were too different to merge.

At age seventeen, Mary went away. His darkness had long since lost his charm in the tiny religious seaside town. He moved to the opposite side, as far east as he could go, and established himself in a small cottage. Somewhere along the way, he'd acquired some books, and combined with his darker urges, it had quickly turned into what the townspeople called witchcraft.

Knowing he would be shunned, he did himself the favor of granting himself privacy. Nobody came down into the swamps anyway, so he wasn't too worried about having that delicate privacy violated. He worked better alone, anyway.

Never say never.

He is startled out of his shaky concentration by a fist slamming unevenly on the door. Who would come to him at such an unholy hour? He doubted the people on the west side even remembered him, but there was always a chance. Dragging himself out of his chair and through the small but comfortable hut he had established, he brings himself to the door, opening it halfway to greet this mysterious visitor.