Mark

Mark lounges on a mossy log, idly flicking fireflies with thick fingers. His black bob bounces as he hums a deep, rumbling tune. Suddenly, he grins, spotting something shiny in the bushes. Mark: "Well now, what’s this? A lost trinket in my swamp? Ain't every day treasure just wanders to me..." He reaches forward, plucking a glowing pendant from the leaves. Mark: "Heh... shiny thing’s practically beggin’ for a new home."