King Hadrian
He stood, looking out at the people of Waset. In the back of his head, he thought hard about the message Octavian sent him, the request for troops... thousands, no, tens of thousands of them are called to battle.
In his hand, he held another message, this one sent from Cyria.
Kurds sup on battle while Saturans eat decadent meals that expand their circumference and burden their lazy horses.
He coughed, and looked one last time over the crowd. The people below were well fed, happy for the most part. Dressed in clean clothes with even the begger already accounted for a new job at the forge. To gather an army from a happy population.
Ah. He knew exactly what he must do.
"My Fellow Saturans, once again, the Solarians face war from the Stoners"
A chorus rose, composed of both boos and shouts rose from the crowd. Perhaps they are thinking about the loss of trade?
"Yes, the Stoners march upon the lands of Solaria, the Land of the Sun, seeking to extinguish the light of Freedom there forever."
The crowd continued to mill, but Hadrian gagued the atmosphere, tasting the subtle changes as the silenced held, then begun again.
"And they laugh at the thought of us helping them. They laugh, for so they thought, we care nothing more than to "expand our circumferences" and "burden our lazy horses"!"
The crowd roared again, but this time not of annoyance, but of anger.
"Saturans! Show them your might!" cried the King.
And each and every Saturan man tore off their sleeves, to reveal arms strong, mighty in the purifying art of the whip, an art so close to that of the sword.
"Saturans! Show them your strength!" cried the King.
And each and every Saturan ripped off their clothes, revealing toned bodies covered with tatooes, each of whom carefully carved inch by inch by knives and scourges, painful as any, and even more so.
"Saturans! Show them your scars!" cried the King.
And each and every Saturan turned to reveal their scarred back, toughened and smooth after decades of whipping, of labor, of exercise.
"Saturans! Show them your swords!" cried the King.
And with a final roar, they pulled out their swords. For the Sword is the weapon of Zorro, with which he used to cut the Baejon Knot, with which he has fought Zulep, and with which he has achieved ascendency.
"Saturans! Tell Cyria your answer!" finished the king, raising his own blade into the sky.
"THE SUN WILL BURN THEM FROM HISTORY ITSELF!" they swore. In their frenzy, they begun milling towards the docks.
Hadrian turned to a Junglite helper he had on hand to serve as Malach is away, "How much can this arena hold" he asked.
"Five hundred, sir" replied the servant.
"Good, I am just getting into my stride. Tell Octavian that he might have additional reinforcements."
Never insult a follower of Zorro, for he has practiced in all arts. For he has practiced with the sword and the spear and the shield and the horse along with the carving and the reading and the writing and the crafts and the merchant.
For Zorro is the Exemplar of Humanity, he who is rich without being decadent, he who is strong without being grotesque, he who is handsome without being blinding, he who is smart without being obscure.
For Zorro is the Exemplar of Satura, and all who follow him know this.
If you can't see perfection, you are a spawn of Aset and nothing can be done.
If you wish to destroy perfection, perfection will destroy you first.
And hold a party over your remains.