The camera pans down from the heavens and lands upon the verdant valley. Clouds envelop trees as old as time. The valley is partitioned by a river running like a crystal thread allowed to slacken and twist by a god content enough to look upon all making with an air of “You know what? Good enough.”

Welcome to the boreal forests of north america–untouched by man. Battle ground and humble home both for the beasts who inhabit it. A bear, massive and brown. He is fishing at a riverbank. See him now: A steady hunter, he’s perched, coiled on the shore, waiting for the silver glisten of a fat water sausage.
There! He lifts his giant frame into the air with powerful hind legs, he is flying! The fishy prey, the thoughtless meat, has no idea. Crash! The mighty bear lands, paw first.

A fog descends. The bear, his face covered in the pathetic armour flakes of his prey, sniffs the air. Through the cool smell of dead ichthys, he detects a familiar scent in the darkness. The bushes around the bear begin to rustle. He backs out of the lake and assumes a fighting stance. The rustling becomes louder, and the sky becomes darker. The bear’s heaves have steadied since his asault on the river. He is slowing his heart beat. A creature bursts through the green.

“Banjo!” squawks the red-chested breegull. “Banjo, Gruntilda’s back!” The bear replies with a deafening roar–he is a bear, and fears nothing. He pulls himself onto two legs and makes himself huge–moreso. “Banjo!” squawks the breegull. “Don’t you remember me?” He’s forgotten how to speak, he thinks to himself.

Somebody make this game.