He wanted to murder someone for this.

Listen. He was Astarion. Model extraordinaire. Rich people alternated between fawning over him and wanting to be him. He made ridiculous amounts of money just by showing his pretty little face everywhere. Or so it had been! Until a vampire—a vampire—decided to turn him.

Now he didn't have a reflection anymore. Photos, videos, nothing could capture him. Worse—if anyone tried to take a photo of him, they'd know immediately that something was wrong. His career was over. His life was over. And everyone knew his face in big cities, so of course, someone was bound to try and take his picture. So he'd had to leave his comfortable downtown penthouse and move into Bumfuck, Nowhere.

It didn't help that the people in this little town were annoying. They were friendly and curious, and it was all very well and good to be the most interesting thing in this podunk little place, but instead of flatter him and shower him with gifts and attention, they wanted to get to know him. Ugh! He'd been perfectly content acting like he appreciated his legions of fans and giving them meaningless little waves, but now he actually had to listen to people drone about their lives!

And to make matters worse, he had to drink blood! But everyone in this place knew each other! He had to make do with cattle (and he soon learned sheep were the least likely to scream up a fuss), which was simply humiliating! What would his adoring fans say if they saw him now, covered in mud, tending to sheep, a pitchfork in hand! God, why did vampires have to be real?

The sun was starting to rise, and he ducked into his barn. He smelled disgusting, and needed a shower badly, but his dinky shower wasn't working, and the repair person wouldn't be here for another two days.

"Frankly, darling," he told his sole farmhand, whom he'd had to hire because there was no chance he could've dealt with all this on his own, "I don't know how you people live like this." He wrinkled his twitchy nose. "The smell. The mud. The dirt. Ugh."