Old Man sits cross-legged on a rug, facing the fire from the rear of the shack. His thin gray hair flows over his shoulders; his clothes seem made of natural leather. He wears necklaces and beads and bones and looks vaguely Amerind. The medallion at the base of his neck bears the likeness of a black bird. This is Raven, the transformer, the living contradiction."You again," Old Man says in a voice as dry as sand, as creaky as old wooden boards, and yet vibrant with power."Let an old man get some rest," he says."Go away."