written by Quex [email protected]
Author's Note: I've never played "Door Into Phantomile" I have no idea what the citizens really look like, what Grandpa really looks like, nor what Breezegale really looks like. Please don't flame me for inaccuracies! ;.; Klonoa, Phantomile, and all related characters are copyrighted to Namco, blah blah blah.
-= Prologue =-
The moon glimmered softly that night.
It fell across the world with a gentle radience, dipping in and out of the straggling clouds until well after midnight. Then, with a clear sky, it took its lowering course along the west and hovered over the Phantomilian hills, waiting for an arrival.
On a plateau in the hills lay several acres of fields, devoted to grass crops of varying sorts. The bronzed texture of the grain was enhanced by the moon, and the entire plateau exuded golden light.
The wind brushed across the surface of the fields, twisting the subservient stalks of grain to its rythem. The wheat bowed low, humble before this natural spirit. The rye whipped about on its stronger stem, dancing furiously in homage to the wind, and the short barley quivered like fur on some timid animal.
The field, as a whole, whispered in an excited, hushed cacophony. Each blade of grass and stalk of grain passed the word round and round, over the acres and back again.
Up a dirt road from the fields, along a ridge of the highest hill, lay the village of Breezegale. It was a small town of windmills and graneries, populated by peaceful folk and a wise elder. The tiny white huts of the citizens huddled close to one another, their grass roofing bristling out as though to touch it's neighbor. Paths of white granite pebbles glittered like water droplets between the small homes. The still, uncloaked arms of the windmill's crossblades cast thin dark bands of moon-shadow over the town.
These wooden structures creaked ever so slightly in the breeze, as though unable to keep silent, but nervous of waking the villagers far below them. Their soft squeaks and cracks drifted out from the city, away towards the moon. Rising above Breezegale and its great windmills was one higher hill, bathed in a cloak of wildflowers that dwindled down to soft grasses at its crown. On the side of this sweeping structure facing away from the town, the grass fell off to a sharp cliff of jagged stone. It dropped directly down to the field of golden grain, nearly two hundred feet below. In the day time, this was the lone peak that broke the strong winds of the hills into a softer, tamed breeze before they could ravage windmills and village homes. At it's pinnacle, one could look back across the wild scrubs and daisies to see Breezegale, nestled in the vale. Looking forward, one would see a panoramic view of the fields and the trees of the forest beyond them, and beyond that, the rest of Phantomile, stretched out and open in the night, with the moon watching at a distance.
Here, the wind changed. It was no longer a soft breath under the moon, but a steady, gentle stream of warm air, running up the sides of every hill in the highlands, gathering together and lifting away from the earth, rising into the night sky. The heads of wildflowers bobbed lazily in this concourse of air, sprinkling their perfume and pollen into it to be carried away to distant lands. The entire hill twinkled with their presence.
On the very top, in the soft grasses of flowers that found the atmosphere too thin to bud, sat a small black-furred figure watching the wind as it travled up from the fields and through the streets of Breezegale. It carried small petals, pollen, and the chaff of grain into a gentle whirlwind around him.
His long ears drifted along the ground, waving back and forth as the wind brushed them, their white tufted ends tracing crescent swaths in the grass. Small hands patted the plants curiously, marveling at the silky, furry quality of the short blades. Wide yellow eyes caught the moon and reflected it more brightly than anything on the hill.
The wind suddenly settled, letting petals and chaff flutter to the ground in a ring around the young boy. He stood up in wonder and his ears fell straight behind him.
"Goodnight, dream traveler," said an airy whisper as the wind gusted carefully once more around the child.
And then the Wind Spirit was gone.
The world now stood utterly silent. The grass quickly settled and the soft creaks of windmill blades ceased. The wildflowers froze into place. Shadows held as still as their castors, locking all of Phantomile into a giant stillframe. The excitement had passed, and every element in the world had returned to it's nightly quietude.
Alone on the hill in a sleeping world, the Phantomilian child drowsily curled up in the grass to sleep as well. The night's journey had been a long one, and he was very tired.
As he wrapped his ears around his small body and closed his golden eyes, all memories of the night slipped away like a dream. His home, the Spirits, riding on the wind - everything he had stored in his young mind vanished into the dark night. Only one memory was permitted to stay, a word sealed forever in his heart by the moon herself before she drifted from the sky that night.
"Klonoa."
