A name is a hell of a thing, the Nosferatu thinks to himself. The years get muddy, a century was a long time. McCole is almost certain that he's spent more years now under his new name than he ever had being called 'Michael Hawkins.' In this unlife, it only felt right to let that name die with the human, and take up a new name as a Kindred.
A cigarette hangs loosely out of his maw, before a bony finger readjusts it to take a drag from it. All these years, and it's still the closest thing he has to breathing again.
"McCole is fine." That was the name he chose for himself, after all. This one is... strange. Not human, if he had to guess. Enough time in the dark and one starts to get an instinct for things like that.
"What about you? Do you have a name, or do you just say something convenient for the moment?"