THOMAS CHASTAIN

Born to a suburban Illinois family in the mid-60s, Thomas was always a bit of a loner that didn't connect well with others.  He was the kid at the back of the classroom and on the sidelines of the basketball court, doodling in his notebooks that were otherwise blank.  Still, he got decent grades and eventually was accepted to Duke University where he majored in business.  Halfway through, though, he suffered something of a breakdown and dropped out without warning, severing all contact with his family.  He spent a few years on the street, alternately stealing and working shit jobs to eke a living out of nothing. Somewhere along the way he picked up a nasty coke habit.

In 1982, having wandered to Charleston, he got tied up with a gang.  His initiation was to spray-paint graffiti on a wealthy socialite's car.  Stupid hazing ritual, if you asked him.  Nonetheless, he was running out of options, and he needed some sort of support group...and a gang was as good as any.  He went for it.

Halfway through, an enormous force hit the side of his head.  Next thing he knew, he was inside the house, and said socialite, in actuality a Toreador poseur with a knack for finding new artists but no talent whatsoever of her own, was inducting him into a different sort of gang.

She had, apparently, been impressed with his technique with a spray can.

Nonetheless, she was an astute judge of artistry. Thomas was indeed brilliant, even without training.  When the can was replaced by a brush, he displayed a level of talent that had the whole Elysium churning with excitement.

Soon thereafter, his Sire grew resentful.  It didn't seem fair.  She found him, yet he got all the credit.  Life became harder and harder for Thomas - at first in small, imperceptible ways, then in a series of rather large disasters.  He got the hint, sold his paintings, and bought a plane ticket to Milan.

There he met Estelle deMedici, a fellow Toreador embraced in the flapper era.  She became his mentor; for ten years he learned the ways of society and art from.  Eventually, he came to see her as something more, and that's when she took off.

Disgruntled, Thomas went back to Charleston.  He spent most of the '90s the way he spent the late '70s and early '80s: on the street.  He brawled and snorted coke, hunted and vandalized.  It wasn't a good way to pass his life, but it was a way to do it.

In 1999, a massive Sabbat attack swept up the eastern seaboard.  Thomas bailed, heading inland away from the destruction. Then, in 2001, he heard Estelle DeMedici had resurfaced in Charleston.  For reasons he doesn't fully understand, the news drew him back to the port city, and there he remains today.