To hunt was a pleasure, particularly when it was done in one’s own Domain.

Such was the case tonight, in southwest Sacramento, the area of town located between highways 50 and 99, the area known to Kindred as the Estate of West Jackson.

A man leaves a 7-11 convenience store, rhythmically packing a box of Marlboros into his palm.. His house is only a few blocks away and he had chosen to walk because he enjoyed the extremely brisk temperature of the air that night. Pulling his coat tighter to him, he puts a cigarette to his lips and lights it, breathing in the smoke as the smoldering end of the cigarette dimly lights his face.

It would have been impossible to hear the footsteps coming up behind him. Even as heavy as each thudding step would have been if they weren't completely silenced by the Cloak of Night. Arnold Culler’s hands fall on the man’s shoulders and pull the man to him with a steel grip. The cigarette falls to the ground as the man sputters and shouts briefly in surprise, until Arnold’s teeth are in his neck and his blood is being sucked out.

The cigarette sits glowing on the sidewalk as Arnold tends to the man’s wound and drops him to the cold ground.

Something was different tonight. The blood had tasted the same as it always had. Rich, and aromatic. Better than anything he had ever tasted as a mortal. A taste that never got old. Still, he had drunk greedily from the Vessel but it felt like the blood just didn’t fill him like it used to.

He reflected on this as he walked away from the man he’d left slumped on the sidewalk. The blood, sluggish and stagnant until he set it about its dark work at which time it pounded in his dead heart like a tribal drum, seemed to roar through his body with increased power in recent nights.

Arnold takes a look around. The street he was on was practically abandoned at this hour, with no sign of traffic. He pushes blood into his body, and suddenly he takes off like a bullet shot from a gun. Pumping his powerful legs, running at speeds that were far beyond the scope of mortal abilities. Burning more vitae to Invigorate his muscles, and then still more to prime his body, he leaps – a running long jump that sends him soaring over a tall fence and into a darkened freight yard. He lands in a crouch well over fifty feet from where he leapt. Standing, he strides over to a dumpster filled with bags and twisted metal. He plants a foot on the side of it, and infuses his strength with vitae before putting all his might into pushing the heavy metal container. The concrete beneath it grinds and sparks as the dumpster slides about five feet from where Arnold had pushed it.

He stands there, admiring his handiwork. The feats of strength were not what amazed him, but the way the blood had worked. It had come so much easier than ever before, flowing through him and making manifest his will in ways that he had never experienced.

As he stood there, reflecting on this, slowly, the realization came to him. It was an exciting revelation, which presented to him a whole new set of boons and burdens. Arnold Culler’s blood had grown in power, as it had before in the past, but this time it was different. He had crossed a threshold. As he made his way out of the freight yard and back to his Haven he knew with certainty that his Requiem would not be the same after tonight.