[b]Town of Brent, Volksingen Canton, Vlaanburg Electorates[/b]

“So there you have it, Haans - the story of the great sky-bulls, Tauros Major and Tauros Minor.” 
Dietrich stared up into the heavens at the pair of constellations. The stars formed two mighty bulls, a male and his mate, that once charged across the earth, paving the land into fields and clearing the forests for the first inhabitants of Askor. It was a story his father told him, and his father before him, and now he passed it along to his son, not yet into his tenth year.    

“And what is that one called, father?” Haans asked, pointing up to another cluster. 
“That one is Lucca, the trickster mink. Do you know why women love mink coats?”
“No?”
“Because according to legend, Lucca was so insufferable that the Primordials made him into a hat! Nobody wanted to trust the minks after that, so we stuff and wear them for good measure. Ha!”

The two of them shared a laugh until their bellies stopped heaving, and Dietrich settled on the grass, lying on his back. On nights like these, his father would take him out to see the stars, or he’d sneak out under his mother’s watch if he were away on business. Perhaps it wasn’t much, just children’s tales to keep the mind sharp and eyes alert. But they meant more to Dietrich than that. These were Vlaanburgian legends - the culture of an entire people lay with them. He hoped Haans would feel the same once he became a man, to pass the torch, so to speak.

“Father, those are strange stars,” Haan said suddenly. “What are those?”
Dietrich perked up, following his son’s gaze. Sure enough, a cluster of lights danced on the ridge beyond the valley, flickering orange and yellow. Alongside them shimmered metallic hints, like the rim of a helmet, or edge of a halberd.

“Saint Karlus,” Dietrich swore. “Back to the town, Haans, now!” 
He pulled Haans from the grass and took off into a run, as fast as Haans’s little legs could manage. What the devil was happening? An [i]army[/i] outside of Brent? There had been no calls for muster. Even with night’s pitch, Dietrich had seen no banner. The two of them ran, down the emerald slopes, across the Taan River bridge, into Fey’s Acre and then down the paved dirt road of Brent proper. 

“Haans, go straight home to mum. Let me deal with this.”
“But father, I-”
“No buts!” Dietrich knelt down to place his hands on either side of the boy’s face. “What does Deacon Rudolph always say?”
“That children who obey their parents grow to be the most serene of all,” Haans mumbled.
“That’s right! Now go!”

Dejected but alert, Haans made for home. Alone, Dietrich hurried to the town garrison, a meagre thing, but Brent had no need for a grand armory. Inside, a pair of drowsy militamen watched him enter with puzzled faces.

“‘Ey, Deet,” one slurred. “What’s all the rush?”
“It’s an army! An army on the fields!” Dietrich shouted, grabbing hold of the garrison’s bell rope. “Wake the entire guard, get the guildmasters and the deacon! Get a messenger to the Elector!”

The men sputtered their drink, and clambered to their feet. With a hasty “Yes sir!” they hurried out the door. Dietrich yanked on the rope and the alarm bell shrieked. Soon the entire town would be on its feet.