[hider=Reginald Marlowe][center][h2]Reginald “Reggie” Marlowe[/h2][/center]
[b]Age:[/b] 134 (Embraced in 1919, aged 36.)
[b]Gender:[/b] Male
[b]Appearance:[/b] [hider][center][img]http://i1148.photobucket.com/albums/o567/flaywright/abad6ad7-e8a6-4c00-9f57-a99df82dfec2_zpsmzkzxdps.png[/img]

Standing at a solid 6’1”, and weighing in at around 180 pounds, it’s safe to say that Reggie cuts a pretty intimidating figure. This stature of his is something he often uses to his advantage when dealing with others, and the effect is magnified by a smattering of tattoos all across his skin. Just get a look at him without his shirt. Each has meaning, and can be explained if asked, but whether he’d grace you with an answer or bash your face in is a whole ‘nother matter. There are a few that he’s particularly fond of, however. The words “LOVE” and “HATE” are tattooed across his knuckles (a massive fucking cliché, but what’re you gonna do?), half-sleeves of dragons and women, a Union Jack over his left pectoral (sentimental nonsense, really), a small, black crown on the side of his right hand, and finally, twin pistols crossed at the small of his back.

Reggie’s eyes are a pale, washed-out blue, nearly grey, in fact, and he often bares his crooked teeth in a too-wide grin. He’d almost be handsome in a gruff sort of way, if you could actually see his face underneath that beard of his. Not that he’d ever cared much about his appearance, anyway. All the same, his fingers are often decorated with stolen rings - gold, mostly, though he isn’t prejudiced against other precious metals. His dressing style can best be described as “non-committal”, in that he just throws on whatever he manages to excavate from his disaster zone of a closet. Most of the time, it’s t-shirts, flannels, and ratty, old jeans, though he isn’t against dressing nice, every once in awhile.[/center][/hider]

[b]Generation:[/b] 13th
[b]Clan:[/b] Brujah
[b]Disciplines:[/b] Presence, Potence, Celerity

[b]History:[/b] Edward “Ned” Marlowe was the only person Reggie could look up to as a child. His mum wasn’t the best person to have around. She was there - but barely. Always had this faraway look in her eyes as she puffed away on an opium pipe all the livelong day. And Ned, of course, Ned couldn’t care less. His girl was content, high as a kite, and Ned was too busy working at the factory to pay for their crummy apartment in East End. Back then, Reggie’d follow Ned to work. He’d follow Ned around London. He’d have followed Ned to the ends of the Earth if it meant being alongside his father.

The people who accused his father of being a deadbeat loser were a pack of stupid gits who could take their shit for brains elsewhere. Ned was a good father, even if he spent most of his off days hanging around bars, leaving with some slag, forgetting that his son was still waiting outside. Ned was a good dad, even if sometimes, when he got [i]really[/i] drunk, he’d hit him. He was a real good parent, if you could look past the fact that he wasn’t much of a parent at all.

But Reggie felt that Ned was enough, and that was all that mattered. He had a father, a mother, and a roof over his head. What else could he want? There were people all over the world who had a hell of a lot less. Ever since he was a lad, Reggie knew that he had to count his blessings each night and say a quick prayer to whoever it was that listened, if anybody at all.

By the time he’d gone and turned fourteen, Reggie found out about something; he had a memory that’d put a bloody elephant to shame. Hyperthymesia, it was called, a name that would only pop up decades later - a condition where a person remembered an abnormally vast amount of their life experiences, and Reggie utilized it to the best of his abilities. He was smart. Unable to forget; able to remember everything - the ace in the hole for any street gang looking to make it big.

And that was when Reggie, barely grown into his limbs, found one.

No name to them, not even a symbol to set them apart. Just a group of kids, looking to make it big.

It started out with petty thievery, nothing too dire. The last thing they needed was the coppers on their ass. In time, however, they moved on to more daring jobs, and that gave Reggie and his pals the money they needed to [i]really[/i] get started.

Soon enough, the sprawling spiderweb that was Reggie’s empire began to weave its way through East London. It was a slow process; one that took nearly a decade to build, and another to solidify, but God, was it worth it. Plenty of older groups thought that they were encroaching on territory that’d been claimed decades ago, but Reggie was undeterred. He’d had seen countless good friends get gunned down in showdowns between rivals. But at the same time, they spilled their fair share of blood in the streets; ridding the world of their enemies.

Things could only go up from there.

And for years, that’s how it went. Up, up, up. They needed to expand their territory, really push their borders outwards; something they accomplished with gang fights that stained the streets with blood. Reggie told himself that in the whole scheme of things, these sporadic explosions of violence were nothing. If they truly wanted to make it into the big leagues, what were a couple of casualties on the way there? For the first time, Reggie truly felt like he had found his place in the world, like he could tackle anything that came at him.

...Not that he had much time to savour the moment.

They’d come for him before he could seek them out. Reginald Marlowe - crimelord of East End - so caught up with the success of their recent foray into bootlegging, was caught off guard. A man dressed entirely in black had attacked him on the walk to the distillery, the pointed toes of his Italian leather shoes digging into his ribs. He’d fought back, but what good was it? The stranger seemed to have the strength of ten, no, twenty men. Maybe he’d beat him to death. Maybe this was how his story ended, the story of a man whose ambition got the better of him. 

Whatever he imagined might happen, however, Reggie soon learned that he was meant for a different path. A bag was thrown over his head and he was hurled, kicking and screaming, into a car.

He’d thought they’d kill him after that, too. When he saw a bright light and found himself tied to a chair, taking in his surroundings to be a warehouse. A man stood in front of him, with eyes like ice. He’d introduced himself and promised Reggie that their time together could either be painless, or the exact opposite. It all depended on him.

That day, he learned of the Camarilla. Of its reach. Of its existence and its ways. That day, they would either exterminate him or induct him into his ranks.

A choice. Accept the offer, or watch everything he’d work so hard for crumble to dust? It was obvious, at least it seemed to be, at the time.

Reggie died that night, but it only served to free him from that dreaded mortal coil. He wasn’t the clan’s best, but if they wanted a job done, and they wanted it done right, they trusted him with it. He had the connections. He was strong where they couldn’t be. He was willing to make the decisions that nobody else could. He was intellectual, but equally bestial if need be. He was everything and nothing. A ghost at sunrise, and a phantom at nightfall. He stood among gamblers and killers and sadists and could only grin wildly at how far he’d come.

Since then, he’s been part of the Brujah, handling the more criminal part of their operations. Sure, it’s not the most glamourous of jobs, and frequent changes in identity are bread and butter, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

[b]Personality:[/b] To those with a discerning eye, Reginald Marlowe might seem a little off his rocker. While his levels of crazy are nowhere near close to those of Malkavians, the black streak in him is unmistakable. Needless to say, he is an extremely passionate, and emotional person. When he truly takes interest in something (or someone), he puts all of himself into it, and momentarily forgets about everything else.

One of Reggie’s defining traits is his volatility. To say that he has a bad temper - well, that’d probably be the understatement of the century. When he gets angry, he yells. When someone disobeys or frustrates him, he either puts a gun in their face, or breaks their jaw. For Reggie, violence is always the answer. Even when he talks, his speech is flavoured with language vulgar and graphic enough to make a sailor blush. He [i]was[/i] raised Cockney, after all.

Interestingly, while he has a rather obnoxious habit of grandstanding, he has very little tolerance of it in others. Reggie frequently admonishes others to get to the point. It’s a powerfully controlling behaviour, subtly belittling others for wanting to make an impression, and gaining him back control of the situation. But whatever one might be led to believe, Reggie is a Brujah, through and through. With a keen wit, a penchant for absurdism, and a horrifyingly macabre streak, you get the sense that Reggie always has a snicker hidden at the corner of his mouth, even if everyone around him is a little afraid to join in.[/hider]