72

It's been a long time since you last found yourself in a situation requiring an unscheduled meal. The challenges and uncertainties of recent nights have revitalized the predator inside you. Tonight, your prey won't simply be handed to you on a platter, and the choice of where to hunt is your own. Unfortunately, your Nosferatu disfigurements limit you to less-public places. Parks and alleys are fair game, but you wouldn't be able to hide what you are in close quarters like a nightclub.

There are a number of hotspots for feeding in Ottawa, and while you haven't been to each of them personally, you've been briefed on acceptable locations, areas forbidden by the Prince due to concerns of Masquerade breaches, and personal hunting grounds of the city's Primogen and notable coteries. Given reasonable travel constraints, you've determined a few optimal victim locations.

Where do you plan to sate your cravings?

The cloistered world of the Camarilla's Ivory Tower has little place or tolerance for the downtrodden—those left behind by society. To the likes of the Blue Bloods and the Divas, Ottawa's homeless might as well not exist. This is not so for the Clan of the Hidden. Despite their allegiance to the tenets of the Masquerade, the Nosferatu have a unique understanding with the underbelly of Kindred-controlled cities. Perhaps it's something to do with staying underground, not daring to show your face to the mortals living above you. Or maybe there's a more innate connection, an understanding on a spiritual level with the outcasts and downtrodden that society would just as soon pretend don't exist. Either way, from city to city, the link between the homeless and Nosferatu communities is a regular phenomenon even if it's one you haven't exploited for a good long time.

Bright lights flood the greenery of Gil-O-Julien Park as you approach what locals have begun to call a "tent city" of Ottawa's forgotten citizens. Tensions have been high between local homeowners and the park's newest residents for months now, and you're unsurprised to find the floodlights blazing throughout the night in an effort to make the neighborhood "safe" from society's undesirables. You angle west into a cluster of trees and push your way through scrub bush until you can make out the dim light of a concealed fire, smoke tingling your nostrils. A sleeping bag is draped over a tree limb to form a wall against the wind, its side torn open, leaving a trail of grungy fluff blown about haphazardly. You push past it into the encampment.

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