They called him 'Inro the Inevitable' for his legendary persistence. 'Inro could out-wait a stone' they said. Entirely true and complete sham: he absolutely seethed with impatience inwardly while wearing his mask of calm implacability.
Like the many tribals he'd crushed during the Reconquest, these people waded through thickly-layered rituals and taboos to accomplish anything. Back then he'd ignored their taboos, broken their rituals, overwhelmed their false magics, and drove them back into civilization's fold at spear point. Now he sat at a ceremonial fire reeking of animal dung and pungent weeds, wrapped in a flaking, stinking lizard skin to protect them from his foreignness while he chewed the bitter roots and leathery meat these primitives survived on. All to garner some form of hospitality protections.
Aside from the lizard and snake headdresses for the men, crude necklaces and belts, and the long, uncut hair both genders wore, no one wore anything beyond broad smears and vague geometries of bright paint. At least the married women arranged their hair to fall across their chests in token modesty.
Their language eluded him beyond the odd word here and there. Those words, however, told him it must share some common root with Ebonese. Despite this limitation, Inro had walked the halls of power long enough to understand the dynamics even here where they lacked the sophistication to even build a hall.
Arca, the older warrior who'd served as guide after Inro had killed the rest of his party, clearly spun the battle to maximize his own glory, to honor the noble fallen, and shame the fleeing coward. His retelling held the whole tribe enthralled with its potency. When the tale finally ended, the entire tribe rose up as one to drive the coward's entire family from their midst under a rain of fists, clubbings, and thrown rocks.
Warlike to the extreme, these menials, respecting strength and valor over all else it seemed.
The banishment served as useful distraction at least: the crude meal laid in a woven-grass bowl before Inro tumbled into the fire unnoticed.
The urgency of what Inro absolutely needed to be doing right now to preserve the Dynasty ground his teeth so hard his jaw ached. So much to be done and here he was stuck playing the mysterious and powerful yet polite and non-threatening guest while these backward menials thrashed out the febrile nonsense they called a culture.
He smiled politely and waved his now-empty bowl as they returned. This earned nods, gap-toothed smiles, and his inclusion in the next round as the animal bladder sloshing with what tasted like fermented urine passed among them. He feigned delight in this awful concoction too, pretending to savor the taste before feigning reluctance as he passed the drink on to the next gaping idiot in the ring of cretins surrounding him.
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At least Arca made for entertaining watching, the man opportunistically utilizing their former chieftain's death at Inro's hand to maneuver himself for the position. All others who tried to interject or pushed for the position themselves he outmaneuvered through subtly-undercutting jokes at their expense while his own accomplishments and quallities inflated to smother theirs.
So Arca became the new chieftain by acclaim. This state of affairs suited Inro fine since the fellow proved not only capable but also disposed to help Inro. So he sat, waited, and watched while Arca's ascension celebrations blended with funerals for the fallen. A few times Inro's hand drifted towards his sword when a mourning family member approached, but even the families of those he'd killed revered him for his battle prowess. They likely believed some gibberish about the dead earning plots in some warrior heaven through their glorious demise at Irno's hand or other such nonsense.
Inro played his part. He'd wait and watch for opportunity. If only his Seneschal and his strings had escaped Sunset with him to expedite the process with real communication. The idiot had tried to talk to Aj to stall it during the rout. Aj punched his fist through the man with so much speed and force the chunk of meat flying out his back knocked over two Legionaries while the Seneschal stared down at the hole in his chest.
When a new figure joined the gathering, the woman's appearance drove Inro's spine straight.
Clad in feathers, paint, and bone piercings, the old woman moved only in dance, singing her own arhythmic song as she interjected herself into the community's center. The clan shaman or its equivalent. All others quieted and stilled as the white-haired woman took center place by the fire. Her cracked voice raised in a guttural chant. Hide drums appeared, their rhythms joined to hers.
This all would simply serve to extend the nonsense but for one thing: the woman's paint. Inro knew now why the women wore it as clothing and their warriors armored themselves in thick, colorful smears as though it would turn a weapon: the shaman's paint would.
Her swirled designs bore the distinct glinting glow of long-lost Limn, the very infused clay that Ebon utilized at the Dynasty's birth to cross the Subterrane, found the Black Court, create the Gates, birth the Dynasty, enslave the Pale, and create the Book. He'd only seen meager bowls of the stuff a few times in the treasure hoards and private collections of the most wealthy Dynasts. Once seen it could not be mistaken for anything else.
When some signal invited the people to join the dance, Inro smiled and followed their tugged entreaties to join them.
On the outside, he welcomed their invitation to the tribe in a welter of back pats and women's kisses. He donned ceremonial necklaces and painted his face. He even let a few touch his swords if not draw them. On the inside, however, he plotted and planned, calculating every wink, smile, and laugh. Playing the part they'd allotted for him would ply the most effective route to his goals for now so he took to his role with all his formidable discipline.
He'd find the way to the bed of Limn clay the shaman used, paint his way into the Subterrane as Ebon did, and leave this whole desolate verse behind. If he had to demean himself acting the barbarian and playing the tribe's warrior uncle he would do it for the Dynasty in a heartbeat.
When the opportunity arose to make his escape, however, he'd kill every man, woman, and child in the tribe if they stood between him and returning to the Book to find a way to stop Aj before it destroyed everything.