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He could hear the shingles break above him. It sounded like they missed him, or at least couldn’t keep up. The cloaked man peered out the window as the sounds died just to be extra certain that his pursuers had left. They had. It was finally time to head home for the night. He crept out of his borrowed refuge, a home he had ducked into to make a quick get-away, careful not to make a sound, lest he wake the residents of this home and drag innocents into something they didn’t need to be a part of. As he opened the front door though, his heart sank. Outside were two of his most recent victim’s biggest thugs. One made a grab at him but he was a split second too quick and ducked between them. Rushing for the streets, he quickly tore off his cloak, his scarred visage becoming evident. As he ran, he ripped a scrap off the cloak, pocketed it and tossed the cloak to the ground.

”Just a few more blocks.”

He strained his willpower not to look back, to confirm that he had lost his pursuers. But alas, what if he hadn’t, what if they saw his face? He rounded the corner, and slowed down, listened hopefully, and strolled into the crowd at one of Midland’s market districts. He was invisible now.

The next day, the paper read, “Mucker strikes again!” not front page news, but a small mention is always appreciated. The article detailed how a cloaked vigilante struck down yet another minor crime lord in Korvosa. The article went on to call him a menace, a vigilante, and “a disgrace to the order of this city.” ”How dare he mock the Korvosan Guard for not catching him sooner. They can’t be bothered with these riffraff, these, these, ‘minor scoundrels,’ these vermin!” Marcus threw down the paper in the alleyway. Luckily, no one was around to see his outburst. Somewhere deep down, he knew he was only frustrated with himself. Why hadn’t he targeted Lamm yet? He was skilled enough, no one could outrun him in the Shingles and he’d drawn more than his fair share of marks into that trap before. Why was he still afraid? Soon. He thought to himself. I’ll prepare to strike before this week’s end, and then, I’ll make him breath his last.

Marcus grew up a troubled child of the streets and it wasn’t long before he was picked up by Gaedren Lamm and added to his miniature militia. Gaedran saw something in him though. Marcus was quick on his feet. Quick enough to get things done and if Gaedran wanted to move up in the ranks he was going to need to get the right messages to the right place, efficiently. Marcus was the boy for the job. He could carry a message across town faster than any other child, and on this night, Gaedran would use that speed to make his fortune. He sent young Marcus off to deliver payment to a local gang that would help him rise through the ranks of the underworld but as luck would have it, Marcus arrived hours late. Marcus had fallen from the rooftops and twisted his ankle. Robbed of his speed, he couldn’t make the delivery on time and whoever was meant to pick up the payment had lost patience and left by the time Marcus arrived.

He limped back home, whimpering to himself. When he finally made it back, Gaedran spent the night beating him like never before. Violence shown as an art form that night and the scars Marcus received would not soon heal. His rage spent and Marcus comatose, Gaedran dumped the poor boy in a dumpster to rot. That night, fate found the boy. As luck would have it, someone, some unknown person found Marcus, brought him to a doctor in the night and fronted the bill. That unknown citizen then disappeared, never to make themself known to Marcus, though he was grateful none the less.

Soon after, Marcus could walk again, and the doctor threw him to the streets. This time, however, he would be clever about whom he would forge alliances with, he would survive in this urban sprawl on his own abilities and when he was ready, someday down the line, he would make Gaedran Lamm pay for his actions.

Marcus firmly believes that he was saved by The Blackjack that night. In his own way of paying it forward, when he felt he could live stably enough, he began to hone his physical prowess. He laid out a plan, start small, and work up the ladder of the underground.

It started one night with a thug on the docks. He had just happened to be in the right place at the right time to witness a mugging. He crept from the shadows and stabbed the mugger in the back. With fresh blood on his hands, he panicked and ran, returning to the shadows he came from.

That night he realized what he was capable of, he would kill those who wronged him. No he would kill all that was wrong in Korvosa. He would be there for those that needed him, like The Blackjack was for him.

The next few killings went quite the same as the first and for a while the news reported on a serial killer wandering the docks. This would not do. He sat down and tried to create an identity, one that would strike fear into the hearts of the criminal underground. It came to him one night when he was playing cards with some less than reputable individuals (blackjack becoming a favorite pastime of his). The dealer happened to catch someone slipping cards into the deck and called him out on it. ”Get your %ss out of my back room you no good mucker!” And there it was. He would stack the deck against the criminals of Korvosa! They wouldn’t play fair, and neither would he. That night, before making his rounds, Marcus stitched a handmade insignia to a cloak and wrapped a thin scarf around his face. From that night on, he would spend his nights flitting from rooftop to rooftop, hunting those he felt had committed crimes against Korvosa, especially the mob bosses and gang leaders. The Mucker was born.

Marcus is still somewhat a child mentally, hence why he's so quick to grab a cape and try his hand at being a super hero. Physically however, he's just recently turned 21. His first kill was just 5 years ago and 4 years before that he was in a trash bin. So at this point he has a name for himself as a delinquent of Korvosa, as well as being known as a serial killer. He likes playing cards and as such leaves them as a sort of calling card (pun completely intended) at the scenes of his victims. He hopes to someday become (in)famous enough that he'll meet The Blackjack so he can thank him to his face for saving his life that night. He has few friends and those he does associate with are all seedy criminal types whom he'd be willing to drop at a moments notice. The insignia on his cloak looks like a large spade pip and generally is on the back (though he has been known to tear it off (and it shows in how worn the pip is) and pocket it such that he can ditch his costume). He doesn't wear a mask but trades off between black paint and a scarf (whichever is more convenient at the time), which has led some to believe (erroneously) that "he" is actually a group.

"I never wanted this. I never wanted any of this." he grumbled as he paced back and forth around the barracks (the others had learned to ignore him when he got like this). "I just wanted to be a doctor and live a safe, normal life. Why was that so much to ask!?" He thought back to the days...before everything went to Hell...

Before everything fell apart, he (don't have a name yet, haven't built anything yet in fact) was training to go into medicine. When the dead rose, he was quickly snatched up by bandits who wanted him for his expertise. After months spent treating the wounds of many a raider, he one night escaped, taking a revolver and some ammo with him. Every since, the revolver has been one of his best (only) friends.

After wandering the wastes for a while, he finally stumbled upon Alkenstar where he immediately boasted of his medical skills in the hopes he'd get assigned a job within the hold and never have to trudge the wastes again. When the call came from Duchess though, he found out he was wrong.

What he calls pragmatism could (and has) been misconstrued as cowardice (and honestly, they wouldn't be far off from the truth). He doesn't like fighting the undead and as a matter of fact is not completely confident in his ability to kill them (though he did survive the mana wastes for a short time by himself, how much is attributable to fast legs is any ones guess). He picked a revolver because, of the guns he could find, it was the gun that could hold the most ammo. More ammo, more shots, more chances to hit one of those abominations.

Would you mind if I dipped 2 of the first 3 levels into Alchemist(Chirurgeon) for medical expertise or should I just stick with a high Heal skill?

I'll probably add more to this later but as a general concept I think it's pretty solid :)