Marcy "Lucky" Lull's page

Standing six foot one, there is something imposing about this man that can't be explained by his size alone. His dark hair hangs disheveled about his face, dull green eyes peering out beneath his jaggedly cut bangs. His skin, baring the scars of fights past, is tanned as one who spends much of his time outdoors. At 200 pounds, he seems to be all muscle, not yet feeling the touch of his 33 years. It is, though, his eyes that are perhaps the most intimidating. There is something akin to resignation there, a man given over to his dismal fate. A man nearly perfectly empty.

His clothing is non-descript. He wears a worn brown cloak over his chainmail, torn leather boots on his feet, and an age-ravaged pack upon his back. Across his back is slung a steel shield that once bore some emblem or another, but which has now been systematically scratched away. The only item to draw any attention what-so-ever is the intimidating pick that he carries at his side: Large, heavy, sharp and so very obviously well cared for.

Marcy Lull's childhood was, by and large, unhappy. His father, a pilot employed to guide ships through the hazardous harbor of Absalom, was a man of many addictions. Not least of these issues were his alcoholism and his incessant gambling. It was these two things that drove Marcy's mother away when he was only nine. His life became a dreary chain of beatings administered by his drunken father's hand; beatings the growing boy would take with stoic resolve, unwilling to return violence upon his only remaining family.

Eager to leave the life his father struggled to maintain in The Puddles, Marcy joined the city watch at the age of sixteen. His natural prowess moved him through the ranks at a steady pace, achieving sergeant by the age of 23. It was at this time that he met and soon married his wife Gladys, renting a small apartment in the Ivy District. They were blessed with a daughter, Maggie, soon after. And though their marriage was happy enough to begin with, it was not to last.

As Maggie grew to be a toddler, Marcy found himself more and more often frequenting the taverns and theaters nearby. Though he recognized his father in his actions, he often denied the similarity. I'm nothing like that old bastard, he told himself on more than one occasion. One particular tavern became almost as a second home to the soldier during this time. The Dark Fox Inn was known for catering to the more nefarious crowds, and Marcy's darkening mood seemed to fit right in. Drinking well into the nights with his fellow soldiers, he would, as often as not, disappear upstairs at some point in the evening, one provocatively dressed waif or another on his arm. It was this, in fact, which garnered him the nickname "Lucky", though if the moniker was ever used in front of his wife, he would tell her it was his luck in the skirmishes and brawls that gained him the name.

Though he seemed none to particular on who he bedded during those years, there was in fact one woman he was particularly drawn to - a half-elven bard by the name of Tari. Though she never did allow him to have his way with her, he spent much of his time in her company. She taught him to play the ocarina, a task which earned him much ribbing from his companions. But it was the attention he showed her that would mark the beginning of the end for him, for it wasn't long before his wife's suspicions were confirmed. She found the two together in a dark corner of the Dark Fox one night, hand in hand and speaking in soft tones to one another. She confronted the pair, shouting and throwing dinnerware before storming out. Tari left town shortly after. Marcy did not return home for three days. And when he finally arrived, his head pounding with the just-ended binge, he found both Gladys and Maggie gone.

Over the next few years Marcy's drinking spiraled out of control. Finally, resigning his commission with the city watch before he was fired, he returned to his father's home in The Puddles. The two drank and fought together for over a year before the old man died peacefully in his sleep, leaving Marcy to fend for himself. He was able to find occasional work with the local Pathfinder's guild, making enough money to support his habit, and gaining the opportunity to do a bit of traveling. Secretly he would hope on these trips to come upon some sign of Gladys and, in particular, his daughter Maggie. But as the years passed by all hope of that slipped away.

He had little to show for his work for the Pathfinders. Most of his profits he drank away, or lost at dice and cards, or spent on women of ill repute; though he did collect a few nice pieces of gear here and there. The first of these was a heavy pick, finally crafted and, he believed, enchanted. As is the way with some soldier's, he gave it a name, choosing that of his lost daughter, Maggie. And now, at the age of 33, Marcy volunteers for more and more difficult assignments. Whether he is simply looking for excitement, or hoping for a guiltless death his superiors are not sure. But so long as he continues to volunteer, they will continue to offer him work.