The sky was dark and moonless on a chill January in New York City. At the top of a brown apartment building that sits at the heart of Brooklyn perched a large gray owl. His round, gold eyes peered unblinking at the shrouded figure in front of him. Christian Parker, growing impatient for a pearl of wisdom from the old Indian, stood mildly perplexed across from the large bird. Slowly, the creature began to elongate, the wings and feet filling into human limbs and within a few seconds the creature was a middle-aged man sitting cross-legged on the ground, his mass of hair woven with innumerable objects thrown behind his shoulders. His round, dark eyes regarded Parker calmly, silently inviting him to sit.

"So what are we here to talk about? When do we get started?" Parker asked as he slowly lowered himself onto the black tar surface of the roof.

"We've already started," Tony Redwing replied. "Tonight, maybe we finish."

"About time," Parker muttered.

"I want to tell you a story," Tony said.

"Ok."

"This one is important," the old Gangrel said, "And you're going to have to tell part of it."

"What do you mean," Parker asked, He was intrigued by the Gangrel tendency towards storytelling. He had a few stories himself, and most Gangrel he'd encountered had done and seen some remarkable things. He wasn't so sure about the fictions of Tony and his people. Their deeper spiritual meanings were fairly elusive to him. As he thought, Tony began to gather bits of wood and gravel from around him, his eyes closed. After a moment he began to speak.

Wildcat lived at the top of a very tall mountain, and there was a lot of wind. The mountain was very cold, and nobody was ever on it. Sometimes the crows would fly past Wildcat's mountain, and they would caw at Wildcat and make him angry, and sometimes they would come at him and peck at his eyes. At night, when Wildcat dreamed, sometimes he dreamed of the crows coming to peck his eyes. When the crows fly near the mountain, Wildcat tries to catch them, but they fly too far away, and Wildcat can't get off the mountain to chase them.

Wildcat used to be able to fish in the river, but then one day the fish just stopped coming to him. Wildcat had said "Well I don't need you, fish. I'll find other food." And Wildcat could hunt. Wildcat could hunt beasts very easily. Wildcat went up the mountain to hunt beasts but there weren't really any big beasts there. But after awhile, there was nothing on the mountain except Wildcat. But the mountain was tall and dangerous, and very big. And very dark. And Wildcat didn't know if he could find his way off the mountain or not, and he didn't even know if he wanted to. Wildcat didn't think he would ever be able to fish in the river again.

One day Wildcat thought he smelled a very big Beast on his mountain. He smelled it and he heard it and at night he thought he could even see it off in the distance. Wildcat decided that he would hunt the Beast. Wildcat hunted the Beast, and searched for the Beast, and for the swell of the moon and the wane of the moon Wildcat ravaged the side of the mountain chasing the Beast. Finally he found the Beast and fought the Beast and for days and nights Wildcat and the Beast tore at each other. After much blood was spilled the Beast finally died, and Wildcat was so glad that he killed the Beast. Now there was no more Beast on Wildcat's mountain. The mountain was all Wildcat's now.

"Why don't you tell me the next part of the story, Parker," Tony said quietly. The gravel on the ground in front of him was arranged in a perfect circle, maybe six inches in diameter, and he was in the process of twisting the wood bits and stacking them in the center. Parker shifted uncomfortably for a moment.

"I don't know what happens to Wildcat," he said dimly.

"You know," Tony replied, and simply gazed at Parker expectantly. Parker settled, and drew a breath.

Wildcat drank the blood of the Beast, and continued to stalk his mountain. He looked for other Beasts that might be there, and he always thought there would be, but most of the time he couldn't find them. Wildcat slept for a long time. He slept for so long and hunted for so long and for so long thought about nothing but blood that eventually he forgot to speak. He never used words anymore and one day Wildcat stopped doing anything at all. All Wildcat had was the mountain, and all the mountain had was Wildcat.

And Parker grew silent after that. The sounds of Tony working the wood bits had stopped, and a small lattice of wooden sticks sat in front of him. To this he began to add small slivers of grass from a pouch around his neck, and after a bit he said, "Yep. That sounds about right. You have any change?"

Parker stared at him blankly through his narrow black pupils. "Change?"

"Yep," he replied patiently. Parker fished around in his pocket and produced a quarter. He tossed it to the Indian who caught it, and dropped it into the center of the wooden lattice, along with what appeared to be a penny from his own pocket. He started searching through the pockets of his clothing as he began to speak.

One day Owl flew past the mountain, and he saw the dead Wildcat, and he laughed and he said, "That Wildcat. He's a good hunter, but if he could only Fly he would be able to get off that mountain." Owl flew around the mountain four times, and each time he said one of the names of the Earth. The Earth decided to give Wildcat his life again. Wildcat was thankful! When Wildcat was dead, Wildcat saw that for all those years he had created nothing. All he did was kill Beasts. And try to kill Beasts. And swat at the Crows. But Wildcat was alive. And he was Thankful. And Owl said "Wildcat, if you learn how to Fly, you'll be able to get off that mountain. Stop hunting for a little while and Fly." And then the Owl flew away.

Parker groaned inside, as he knew the part where he would be forced to fend for himself was upon him. Tony grinned and produced two small stones from a vest pocket, which he clicked together over the materials in front of him, causing them to burst into a suprisingly large flame. It burned for a few seconds releasing a sweet smell that reminded Parker of the grass in the Northwest, where he originated. Tony began to fish around in the still red embers, and from it he produced the two coins, slightly blackened. He handed the penny to Parker without a word, and began to twist the quarter into a knot in his hair. His hands worked quickly, with sharp, calculated movements, and when he was finished he tossed the braid behind his head, and shook shoulders slightly, creating an almost musical series of rustles and clinks. "You've been pretty interesting to talk to, Parker. Look me up some time -- especially if you have any stories to tell. You owe me a few."

Parker nodded, about to open his mouth, but realizing that he had nothing to say. He just kept nodding. Tony's severe expression cracked into a broad smile, and a melodic laugh escaped his light brown lips. He nodded back to Parker and turned, his shoulder melting as he did so. Moments later, no more than a diffuse cloud drifted across the rooftop. Parker laughed a little to himself. "I will certainly be looking you up, Mr. Redwing..."

Parker began to walk toward the edge of the roof, turning the still-warm penny over and over in his hand. He looked at the face of Abraham Lincoln, and saw how the pattern of streaks made a warlike headdress over the dead president's head. It occurred to Parker that Tony is probably old. At least old enough to remember a time when "What we did to the Indians," was "What we are doing to the Indians." Hell, as far as he knew it was still pretty actively going on in some ways. He felt a sharp pang of guilt. Most people feel guilty about the oppression of foreign people. Few of us, however, can take the sort of personal blame that Corporal Christian Parker can. He sat on the edge of the rooftop -- a favorite pastime -- and contemplated Wildcat, the uselessness of his existence, hunting, the mountain, his awful awful past, and flying.