In the the valley of Sweegy, between a mountain range and a river, that was where the adventure started. And as with most great legends, the thing that started it all was rather small - about the size of a bored moogle cub. Several moogle cubs, in fact.

It was a slow day in the Sweegy Woods. Most of the adult moogles were either sunning in the upper branches of the trees or gossiping, as moogles are wont to do. The cubs, too rambunctious just yet for sunning or gossip, had surrounded one of the tribe elders, Magra by name. He was the oldest moogle in the tribe, and the wisest, and he always had a story to tell.

Today he was feeling his age, and would have much rather been stretched out on a warm, flat rock somewhere. But that was not to be, for when moogle cubs have their hearts set on something, it is often hard to dissuade them otherwise - or even want to, for that matter.

The tribe Elder had curled up in a warm tree stump, the better to catch his nap. But it was hard to sleep when several of the village cubs were staring right at him.

He opened one eye lazily and glared at them.

"Yes, kupo?"

A few of the cubs shrank back from his ferocious glance, but one, braver than the rest, approached the old moogle with bravado.

"Grandpa Magra, tell us a story!"

A chorus of kupos endorsed this suggestion favorably, and the old gray moogle sighed and stretched his wings, the signal for silence. All at once the ring of cubs went quiet.

Magra scanned the cluster of youths with an appraising eye. Oh, they were a rowdy bunch of furballs to be sure, always fighting over kupo nuts or a warm tree branch, but all in all they were good moogle cubs. So it was a story they wanted - why not?

"Now listen and listen well young ones, for I'll only tell you one tale, and then I'm going to sleep, kupo. How many of you have heard the story of the Summon Spirits?"

A confused silence from the cubs.

"Ahhh, kupo. I figured as much. Well then, I'll tell you the tale of the Summons, and how Chocobo and Mog came to be one of that hallowed circle."

The Moogle Elder settled himself more comfortably into his tree stump, gnawing casually on a ripe kupo nut. The cubs settled in closer around the old one's seat, jostling each other in a rough attempt to get within better hearing range. Once the biting, scratching, and general rowdiness had quieted down, Magra began.

"Once, a long long time ago, there was a Moogle named Mog, kupo. He was the leader of his tribe, and a good leader he was. Fur as silky as Echo Grass, and a Pom-Pom as bright as Harvest-Time apples. His pelt fairly glowed with good health."

Magra paused to let this image sink into the fuzzy heads of the youngsters, eyeing each of them amicably. He took a slow bite of his Kupo nut, relishing the attention, then continued.

"A good leader, yes. He always kept his tribe out of danger, and none of them ever went hungry, for Mog always found enough nuts and berries for everyone, kupo.

One day, while he was out looking for food, he came upon a Chocobo, caught in a man-trap. You've seen the snares the men leave out to catch the chocobos - nasty, nasty things, those snares. But men are nasty too, so we shouldn't expect any less from them, kupo."

Magra's eyes darkened, and he spat in disgust, as though the very word "Man" had left a bad taste in his mouth. In actuality it was just a seed from the nut he was chewing on, but to the cubs it seemed otherwise.

"Mog had a kind heart, kupo, so he cut the rope that held the chocobo, and together the two escaped. The chocobo thanked Mog and left to return to his flock, and that was the end of the ordeal - or so Mog thought.

Some moons later, during the Harvest-Time, Mog was sunning himself on a rock some ways from the communal den, kupo. It was nice and warm and peaceful, and he was having a good dream about fields full of good food. Then, all of the sudden, the chocobo Mog had freed came galloping through the stream in a horrible panic, kupo."

Magra paused again to catch his breath, and the entire circle of moogle cubs murmured impatiently. He smirked at them briefly before continuing.

"He woke Mog up from his dreaming and, all a twit and a twitter, told him about the horrible thing he had seen. Men, several of them with swords and ropes, approaching the moogle village, kupo!

Mog jumped up on Chocobo's back, and together they raced back to the village. But, sadly, they were too late. Most of the moogles had already been slaughtered."

Magra went silent for a moment. In the stillness tiny snifflings could be heard from the crowd of moogle cubs, most of them now terrified to tears by the tale the Elder was weaving.

"When Mog saw the blood of his kindred spilled on the ground, and saw it dripping off the swords of the accursed men, he flew into a red rage, kupo. Together Mog and Chocobo drove the remaining men away, saving what was left of the tribe."

The cubs stirred again, and one, a sturdy little male only 4 or 5 months old, scowled up at Magra in obvious confusion.

"That wasn't a good tale, kupo!" he said, in a shrill, piping voice. The rest of the cubs chattered in agreement, and were only silenced by Magra's glare. He glanced over the crowd, finally letting his gaze fall on the cub who had challenged him. The two stared at each other for a full minute before Mogri backed down and let his eyes fall to the ground below. Magra snorted contemptuously.

"Ahh, Mogri, you must learn to hold that tongue of yours. I'm not finished yet, kupo - if you'll be silent I'll end the tale."

Not a peep came from the crowd of cubs. They might have been stone moogles, except for the shine of their eyes.

"That's better, kupo. So, Mog and Chocobo drove the men away, but Mog's heart was still broken. Most of his tribe lay dead and dying on the ground, and there was nothing he could do to save them..........or was there?

In a last effort to save the lost members of his tribe, Mog prayed to Bahamut, the King of the Summons. He said, 'Oh great Bahamut, who sees everything the monsters do, please answer this humble Moogle's plea and give my dead tribe members life again, kupo!'

And do you know what? It worked!

Yes, Bahamut himself came down from the heavens to parley with a humble moogle. His wings would have spanned this entire valley, and he had eyes as large as moons. His tail was like a mountain range, and when he landed on the earth, his claws made riverbeds. He settled himself in front of Mog and Chocobo, and when the dragon spoke, it was like Green-Time thunder, kupo.

'I have heard your plea, Mog of the Moogles, and I will oblige you. However, there can be no gift this great without a price. If I save your people, you must do something for me.'

Mog was so overjoyed to hear that his people could be resurrected that he nearly did a backflip. 'Yes, yes!' he cried, 'I will do anything!'

Bahamut rumbled deep in his chest, kupo. It might have been a laugh, might have been a growl - we'll never know for sure.

'Very well then Mog,' the Dragon King said. 'I wish for you and Chocobo to serve as Summons under me. Whenever a mortal is in danger and requests help, you will be responsible for going down to earth and dispatching of the danger, no matter how great.'

Mog's heart swelled. Him? A summon? Kupo!

'Yesyes, of course!' he shrilled, flapping his wings gaily. 'That is not a task, great Bahamut - it is a blessing!'

'Yes......' Bahamut mused to himself, '......Great blessing indeed. There is one condition though, Mog. Once you are a summon, you will never be able to visit your tribe again. That, and you shall have to help humans, for they sometimes request our assistance too.'

Mog's face fell.

'You cannot be serious, Mighty Bahamut! Those creatures are the same ones who slaughtered my tribe and put me here in the first place, kupo!'

Bahamut nodded. 'I'm afraid so, Mog. I know it is hard for you to understand now, but not all humans are bad, or evil. Some of them need our help, and it will be up to you to aid them. If you do not agree to this, then I'm afraid I cannot save the dead moogles of your tribe. Choose now, Mog!'

The dragon's voice was like a rockslide, kupo. Mog knew he had to choose fast. And, albeit grudgingly, he accepted.

'For my tribe' said Mog, 'I shall do this task you ask of me, kupo.'

And that is how Mog and Chocobo became the Summons that sometimes help us today. Bahamut was as good as his word, and the tribe was resurrected good as new, kupo. But none of them ever saw their old chief again, except in dreams.

And you, young moogles, are the descendants of that tribe, kupo."

Magra leaned back and surveyed the faces of the cubs. Most of them looked satisfied, but Mogri, as usual, did not.

"But Grandpa Magra," he chirped, "Why did Chocobo go with Mog? It was none of the yellow bird's concern, was it?"

Magra looked slightly impatient. He turned and glanced at Mogri as he got to his feet.

"Of course it was, kupo. Mog saved him, after all. Fate bound them together for eternity, and it is said they are still the best of friends. When Mog rides down on his yellow partner, evil trembles."

Mogri sat digesting this, and did not move for some time, not even when the rest of the cubs scattered to play and Magra left for his evening nap. The sun was painting the tops of the cedars orange-gold by the time the thoughtful little moogle finally moved.

"A summon....." he murmured, "......A great summon."

A small smile crept across his furry muzzle.

****

So. I got this idea from FFT, so you know it's gonna be an odd one. And for those of you who might be a little confused, moogles tell the seasons a bit different from us. Green-Time would be spring, Harvest-Time would be fall, etc. That's all - shoo, shoo!