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You don't remember how long you've had that name. You don't remember who gave it to you.
You remember a mother, with hair the colour of spun gold, and a father, who's callous hands were thicker than leather. Logically, it was one of them who gave it to you. But whoever they were to you has long since faded. The name they had, which only exists now in an anagram, is gone as well.
You wake up. Ybbob is not beside you. You sent him away to a school in the States.
Maybe you could've sent him off somewhere closer, like Italy or France. Anywhere that isn't half way across the map. You wonder, quietly, if going across borders hurt. Running water has always hurt you, but entire oceans are not ones that you traverse. There is inherit danger to it, and death is one of the few things you fear.
Ybbob tells you it is only a stinging feeling, the aeroplane so high above the waters, above the clouds and Earth itself, that it is hardly anything to be afraid by.
You rise from your bed, and decide what to do for today. You could go out to Sephora and get your makeup done. She knows a thing or two on painting undead faces. You could also go to the castle's storage room and find that ball dress you wore a couple of centuries ago. You've worn so many fine fabrics and jewels in the time that you have been alive, and yet there really is such a thing as timeless outfits.
You decide that Sephora is the best route to go. She's always been your go to makeup artist. There's a good few portraits near the staircase that aren't only still hanging because of her handy work.
You change out of your silken robes and put on a black mermaid dress, chiffon hugging your curves.
The mirror shows just how dazzling your figure is. It's distinct, something worthy of being admired. You ignore how you cannot see your face nor your hands.
Transforming into a bat, the dress fades away. It will reappear once you transform back. You don't understand how that is possible. By all accounts, you should not b able to make something spontaneously disappear and reappear like some clueless magician.
Though, you are a vampire, so realism hasn't mattered much to you.
When you arrive at Sephora's quaint dwelling just outside of Bucharest, you are unsurprised that the lights are still on and she's yelling at someone on the phone.
You wait outside, keen ears listening in on the Romanian chatter that does not sound all too friendly. Vampires, as well established, cannot enter without being let in. This only applies the first time, as it only takes one invitation for a vampire to have free reign over a home.
Still, you have your reservations of going into the home of your makeup artist without waiting for their conversation/argument to finish. But the hours begin to pass and there's only so much night time in the day.
As a matter of fact, you actually do value what you look like for the rest of your undead life. Who would ever wish to scorn the artist you've worked with for over a century? Silly people, of course. Besides, she's the closest one within a bat flight's distance of your castle and you'd rather not commute out of the country for a touch up.
So you wait.
And wait.
Sephora has a hearty pair of lungs for a four centuries year old witch.
You wonder if you can grab a bite to eat before. From what you recall, Ybbob should be bringing a nice, juicy slice of meat later the night. Feasting isn't an everyday thing as it is for mortals. With the proper regime and energy conservation--and a careful watch on your figure--you needn't consume so much. Once a month, twice if it's an especially moody sort of time. Days fly by so fast that it feels like nearly every day, anyways.
Though, despite how the days have gone one, you feel the thing that every immortal dreads: boredom.
You have the sudden remembrance of one of the new age inventions of past century: your cellular device. Surely you can pass the time on that, they're basically made for mortals to forget time passing at all.
But you also think of how lively you'd look if you had just a smidgen to eat beforehand. Eating is always a messy affair, and while Sephora does the finest job of long lasting makeup, dribbling blood often leads you to reapply a little here and there yourself. Or, heaven forbid, ask Rigor, your servant thrall, for assistance.
Whatever are you meant to do?
You reach your hand to your side when you remember you wore your chiffon dress today. There are no pockets, especially for a dress as old as this one. You sigh to yourself, unable to do much more than to stand outside the front door and hope Sephora will put down her own phone so you can get this over with.