Mina watched the vines continue to grow. They shot upward, like a film moving too quickly, knotting and braiding themselves together. The thorns grew sharper and blacker. More menacing. Because no matter how hard the Kindred tried to embrace life, there was always a touch of death to them. No matter what.

"My ancestors didn't develop rituals for healing," she sighed. "The Kindred answer to healing is usually just forcing a pint of vitae down the injured person's throat. Wonderful solution, if you can leave an area. That won't do here."