A village shrouded in the sounds of a pipe-organ. Nothing has threatened their peaceful rest, until now...
In the night, the notes of the pipe-organ, blended with the whispers of the wind that enveloped the city, can be heard. Rising and falling, [or, the highs and the lows], twittering and bellowing, the beautiful chords. In the workshop by the entrance of the road to the village the old man is tuning the pipe-organ. The notes of a melody that beckon us toward a peaceful night: a lullaby for the village.
But the children did not share this sentiment. To them, those notes were the voice of the king of the wind. The sonorous battle cry that would play when the king of the wind fought. The one who protected this village. The King of the Wind.
