The Valley of Cinnamon (IC)

[Lox]

The riverboat that drove up the Paraguay river docked in Porto Villa, Mato Grosso del Sul, Brazil, at noon on the 7th. A lot of people disembarked. Many were Latin Americans. Others were gringos - white treasure hunters, adventurers and prospectors who had traveled further south in the hopes of finding fortune and glory. Porto Villa was the bridgehead, the staging point for such expeditions, standing between civilized South America, and uncivilized South America. It was the city where a thousand adventures started every year.

Outside Pub Villa, a shady looking bar in the docks by the river, a piece of paper was posted on the door. The text was simple, written in English, Spanish and Portoguese, and announced the need for experienced adventurers. Many such people entered the bar to apply for a position with the expedition that the paper was preparation for. Most, however, were summarily rejected by the gray-haired, handsomely sharp-featured man in a suit, that was doing the recruiting. Sitting behind a table in the rear corners of the bar with a bottle of tequila and a glass in front of him, he gave an impressive, albeit not threatening air around him.

Jorge Guevara, formerly a professor of archaeology at the University of Sevilla, made a dismissive gesture of his hand, sending another unlikely candidate away. The candidate had barely passed his boy years, and Jorge was no man who would drag a child with him on the kind of expedition he was planning.

He heaved a sigh as he called out:
"Oye, Gustavo! Send in the next one!"

The bartender gave him a quick nod, and called out in Spanish to somebody in the bar. A large-built Mexican with a considerable potbelly, wearing a dirty and sweat-yellowed white muscle shirt, and an enormous handlebar mustache, approached with heavy steps. He sat down in the chair. It creaked under his weight, though whether it was from muscles or fat, Jorge had his own opinion about.

"I'm Emilio Garcia." The man said in fluent English. "I want to join your expedition." Jorge looked at him for a moment, before raising an eyebrow, asking:

"You have any experience with this kind of expedition, Senor Garcia?" Garcia grinned in what was supposed to be, but failed in that aspect, an intimidating smile.

"I've been around." He said. "I worked for Jevaro Soza..."

"Well, your English is very good, Emilio." Jorge said. "Unfortunately for you, I'm neither looking for an English translator, nor some peon for a damnable drug lord." He rejected the man with a wave of his hand, leaning back as he poured himself another glass of tequila. The gesture almost seemed to suggest he needed a drink to manage to deal with more of these buffoons who thought they could join an archaeological expedition just because they knew how to stab someone in the back.

As if reading his thoughts, Emilio flew up angrily from his chair, flipping it over in the motion. He brought out a stiletto, unfolding its blade with a click. "Oi, you saying I can't join? Because I'm not educated like you? Either you let me join the expedition, or I'll stab you good in your fancy suit..."

Jorge stood up calmly, and met the man's gaze. Suddenly, he lashed out towards him, his hand clutching the glass of tequila. The contents hit Emilio in the eyes, and the man clutched them with a cry of pain. Before anyone could react, Jorge had leapt up on the table, surprisingly fast for his fifty plus years of age, and sent a merciless kick to Emilio's jaw, snapping it sideways with a harsh twist. The man's eyes rolled up, and he slumped heavily to the floor, unconscious.

Jorge jumped down on the floor again, turning to Gustavo, one of the bartenders.

"My apologies, Gustavo." He said. "Would you be so kind as to have this man thrown out?"

"Of course, Senor Guevara." Gustavo grinned, gesturing for two guards, who grabbed the unconscious man and dragged him to the door, where they tossed him out onto the streets without hesitation. There, they left him unconscious.

Jorge sat down, heaving a sigh, and waved with his hand.
"Next." He sighed.

[Lox]

Rowe Breen had left the city almost a year before, along with many other mercenaries and adventurers, heading to the Teculca region of southern Mato Grosso, a region that belonged to the Teculca Indian tribe, and was rich in diamonds. A drug lord had financed an illegal mining operation in the region, and had had need of experienced soldiers like Breen to keep the natives in check, as they were prone to attacking any such ventures. But now, the gig was up - the diamonds had run out, and the Brazilian government had been alerted to the project.

Which meant Rowe Breen, and all the other mercenaries, were out of work.

And back in Porto Villa.

His only luggage, a heavy duffel bag, slung over his right shoulder, Rowe unfolded a piece of paper with his left hand, and looked down at the text on it.


Experienced treasure hunters wanted for archaeological expedition!

Archaeological education meritous. Bring your own equipment. No payment, but percentage of profits upon success is given to every participant. Come to Pub Villa in Porto Villa, Mato Grosso on the 7th, if interested. Only a limited number of applicants will be hired on. Do not bring friends, or friends of friends.

The paper had been sent to him by letter, accompanied by a letter from somebody he knew very well, a dishonored professor in archaeology at the University of Sevilla, Jorge Guevara, dishonored because of his seemingly crazy theories and obsessions with myths such as El Dorado, Atlantis and the lost continent of Mu. The mere thinking of the name made his face screw up in a grimace as he recalled the last time the two had worked together. He had been hired by Guevara to head up his personal security detail during the negotiation of the buying of a historical artefact. An artefact located in Sadr City, Baghdad Red Zone...Baghdad Red Zone as in 'Iraqi Warzone'.

Things had worked out in the end, otherwise Rowe wouldn't have been there today. Even so, he wasn't keen on working with the man again. But he could never say no to Guevara. He owed him too much for that. And so, soon, he found himself outside the Pub Villa, where a fat Latin American man was just thrown out on his face. Breen, as if avoiding a vomit on the street, sidestepped him as he entered the shady and dimly lit bar.

Inside the bartender nodded to him in greeting. Breen nodded back as he approached and sat down on a stool.

"Tequila." He said, placing a coin on the counter. Soon, he had a glass of the amber liquid in front of him, which he sipped silently.

[Damonique]

Emerson Cahr was sitting with his feet jangling out the side door of the beat up Russian Surplus AN-2 Hydroplane he had docked at the edge of the wide rivermouth that make Porto Villa a natural dock. Getting ahold of the plane had been a pain in the ass, as the people he bought it from knew quite well that he had purchased it with loan money from a local drug lord.

Boredly, the nondescript man straightened the creases in his Olive Drab flight jacket and jumped the short distance from the edge of the mid-sized plane to the dock, and walked with purpose the short way to the Pub Villa, an establishment where he was known quite well. Not always spoken of in good graces, of course, but known well enough, and the barkeep was alright with him since he always settled his tab there after a job.

Emerson had noted the poster searching for members for this 'Expedition' , and had prepared for such. His large backpack full of all manner of necessary bushgear, the cargo compartments of the plane stocked with even more. Over one shoulder, the handle of his Kukri Machete showed itself, and while it was technically concealed, anyone looking would notice the telltale bulge of the grip of his Schofield Revolver angled across the small of his back.

Emerson noticed the crowd gathered around an impressive looking man in a nice suit that contrasted quite a bit with their surroundings, and figured that he was the one conducting the interviews. Emerson waved down Gustavo at the bar.

"Vodka, and not the piss-swill they distill around this place, but the nice Ukrainian stuff I know you still have a case of. And let the suit over there know I'm here for the job. I'll bet you whatever a bottle of that is worth.." Emerson commented, laying a few worn bills on the bar table and signaling for him to keep the change as he was handed a glass of the clear liquor. "...that he can't find another pilot half as qualified as I am in five hundred miles." Emerson finished in slightly Italian-accented english.

[Lox]

Gustavo grinned at Emerson, pulling out a bottle of the Ukrainian vodka and placing it in front of the man together with a glass. The bills seemed to disappear into thin air as he said:

"Right away, Mr Emerson. It's good to see you back safe and sound. I hear you got a new plane. Finally gave up on the old iron goose, huh?" He grinned again as he turned around and approached the table where Jorge Guevara was conducting another interview with another (un)likely candidate. It was another kid, too young for his own good. Gustavo leaned closer to Guevara's ear, and whispered something in it, motioning towards the bar. Guevara nodded, replying something before raising his glass in a greeting to the Italian-American.

Gustavo returned, nodding to Emerson.
"He's very interested in your proposition. But he want to talk to you himself to see if you're good enough. He'll come talk to you as soon as he's finished with the interview." As he said that he returned to his business as a bartender.

Not far away, Rowe had overheard the newcomer's words, and also caught sight of his old "friend", Jorge Guevara. Fortunately, Guevara had not yet seen him, allowing him some manner of peace for a while longer. He heaved a sigh, and emptied his glass of tequila.

"So you're a pilot, eh?" He said to the man, lighting one of his Cortleigh cigarettes as he studied him through the cloud of smoke. His cockney accent sounded oddly out of place in the bar. "What kind of bird you flying?" He gestured towards Emerson with the fingers clutching his cigarette, and continued: "I couldn't help overhearing you're looking to join that old fool's expedition."

"I worked with the old fart in Iraq a few years back. And let me tell you, if you're a fan of living, you might want to look for work somewhere else. That cheeky old sod values treasure more than his own bloody life. Now that's not a very good thing when you're the one hired to protect his sorry nugget. His recklessness almost borders on the ridiculous." He shook his head, extending his hand.

"Sorry, mate. Spending time in the jungle dulls one's manners a bit. The name's Rowe Breen. I'm what you might call the trouble-buster of the expedition..."

[Pixel]

News of the expedition group forming inside the bar had traveled throughout town, even reaching the ears of Catherine Abelev. Whenever a man in a snappy suit showed up around here like that it was natural for everyone to exited; they were practically a celebrity. Almost everyone who felt important enough to take the job would be in that bar, waiting in line to get the job. Catherine felt the need to investigate what this was all about.

She had not been in the town for too long, as her job required moving from place to place constantly. Settling down really wasn't an option. Besides, Catherine still had the excitement of adventure in her veins; it was impossible for her to stop now after she had worked so hard to get here. She walked through the village quickly, passing by quite a few folk that were gossiping about the recent arrival. Within minutes she was at the bar.

Catherine pushed the door open and walked in, hearing quite a ruckus coming over from the far end of the bar, where the man in a suit was sitting, interviewing various people. She had noticed the sign at the entrance of the bar, talking about the expidition, but by now that was old knews. Figuring she wouldn't have her chance for quite a while, Catherine took a seat at the bar, close to a couple other men who were talking about this journey.

"Water, please," Catherine said to the bartender with a smile. She was not in the mood for spirits right now and never liked to indulge in them anyways. Looking over at the two, she noticed that they seemed to be fairly well equipped and dressed. They were obviously serious about this, not like those other folk. None of those people over there were likely to be accepted.

"You are both joining up on this expedition as well?" Catherine said to them with her light Russian accent. "I think it will be very exciting. I myself am an archaeologist, so I'm hoping that'll give that man a reason to hire me."