Misha shrugged as he said in a friendly tone, "Well just to be on the safe side, I had better grab my medical bag before reporting to the bay.  I don't want to be caught in a "situation" where I need my medical instruments and medicine but I don't have access to them."

Misha dropped by his room and grabbed a few items along with his medical bag before heading to the aeroplane bay.  Since he had taken the time to study the ship's layout, he was able to find the bay with little trouble.  If Swanson wanted to tag along, that was fine to Misha.  The American was a good source of gossip and Misha didn't really have anything to hide... yet.

When Misha arrived at the aeroplane bay, he looked around for the Captain whom he was sure was going to lead the flight down to the surface.

Misha grabbed his bag and gear, and headed down the walkways to the small aeroplane bay that housed two aircraft; one was a German Albatros, the other was half-covered by a tarpaulin.  Captain Harry Smith was striding along the floor, carrying two bulky things that Misha realised were parachutes. Swanson had trailed after Misha, and had now somehow faded into the shadows, the black apparel making this easy for the man - or his skill in stealth was very good.  It was loud here, the engine room being so close, and the air was hot and smelled of oil.

"Ah, Doctor,"  Harry Smith said, his raspy voice sounding harsh even over the whine of the engines.  "Perhaps you will accompany me ?"

Misha nodded his head and responded in a neutral tone, "Certainly Captain, might I ask where we are at present and perhaps more importantly where we will be going?  Have we reached our final destination already?"

So just the two of us... that's a bit odd.  However it does fit with the story Tussaine gave me, is Smith really going to reveal this secret "fountain of youth" to me... and if so.. what will be the price?

"We are over Brazil."  Harry Smith rasped. "There is no place to land, and we will parachute down and hike to the nearest town.  Our final destination is some ways away, and I do not reveal it until I can say, 'here it is.'  That will have to suffice for now, Doctor."

He handed Misha one of the heavy packs of silk and rope harness.

Misha raises his eyebrows at this latest information as he considers the parachute being handed to him.  With a sigh, Misha accepts the parachute and puts it on.  It had been quite awhile since he had last worn one and his movements were a bit awkward at first.

Misha had a wry smile on his face as he said in a resigned tone, "Very well Captain, as you say that will have to do for now.  I must admit that my memories of parachuting are not fond ones.  Generally speaking the few times I had to use one... it meant that the enemy had succeeded in crippling my plane and shooting me down.  I don't recall even jumping over such a heavily forested area before, have you done this before... any pointers you care to share?"

Harry Smith offered up the crisp smile that did not reach his eyes. "Look for a soft tree," he said.  "I will make sure you reach the ground safely."

With that, he strapped on his parachute, and slid open a door.  The wind immediately whipped through the bay.  He looked out, then back at Misha, and once Misha had gotten the parachute harness on properly, he jumped out.

It takes a certain amount of bravery to jump out of a perfectly good aircraft.  But Misha managed it, flinging himself into the cold air, the wind rushing all around and the emerald green of the trees below him.  Something made Misha look up - and he saw a third figure tumbling from the Hexe.  Swanson, it seemed, was not going to be left behind.

(GM: roll on piloting skill, % dice !)

Misha's parachute opened, but the trees were hard to judge.  He crashed hard into one, and the world went black.

He awoke aching and hanging from the harness, listening to an argument.  He would see a knee right by his face, and felt someone pulling at the straps to his left side.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah,"  He heard Swanson muttered, close at hand.  The other voice was raspy and harsh, Harry Smith. "And if I wasn't here, your new pal here would be buzzard food."
"You had orders !" Smith snapped.
"Somebody has to watch yer back,"  Swanson snapped back.
"I do not require a bodyguard !"
"Well, you got one anyhows," Swanson said, and then bent around, at an angle that Misha usually expected to see on a circus performer, not a mercenary.

"Oh, ya's awake," the mercenary grinned, seeing Misha was now conscious.  "Tree gotcha, but I'm getting you untangled."  True to his word, Misha was being freed from the tree, and gently lowered to the ground.  His head hurt, and he felt a lump on his left temple.  Assorted scrapes and contusions were also making themselves known, and he thought his right shoulder had suffered a strain or sprain, the ache was harsh and the arm felt weak. His ribs were also protesting, where he'd met up with a branch.  Harry Smith steadied him and Misha set his feet onto the ground, to the tune of Hunnish apologies.

"I am sorry, I could not assist you better,"  Harry Smith said contritely, letting Misha lean on a tree trunk. "I was tangled up myself."  Swanson was climbing down the tree now, nimble as a monkey.  Misha's bag of gear had also been rescued, though a small brown snake was winding along the side now, in pursuit of a grasshopper.

All around was jungle.  Something was cawing loudly, some sort of bird that could not be seen.  The sheer greenness of the place seemed to suck one's breath away, or perhaps it was the bruised ribs.  Harry Smith had a rucksack; Swanson had his weapons, and both looked remarkably 'at home'. Sunlight fought to get through the thickly interlaced branches above; vines and plants were everywhere on the ground, the thick loamy soil smelling rich and musty.

Harry Smith drew a machete and turned in a specific direction, and began to cut a path.  Swanson shrugged, and picked up Misha's bag.  "Can ya walk ?"  he asked.

Misha sighed as he finally got his feet back on the ground and he stood up to stretch as he said in a resigned tone, "Yes I believe I can still walk... though it is a miracle that we lived.  Remind me never again to abandon a perfectly functioning aircraft... there had to have been a better way to make landfall than this."

With another sigh, Misha looked over at Swanson and said in a friendly tone, "Thank you for cutting me free and getting me down Swanson.  Thank you also for getting my gear collected... if the rest of this trip continues as it has begun, I may end up being my own first patient."

Misha looked back at Harry and added in a calm tone, "While I don't condone needless risks, I am still alive and in one piece... more or less.  Please lead on Captain."

Swanson grinned affably.  For a mercenary, he was remarkably friendly and calm.  "Yer welcome, Doc.  I still owe you for the fancy stitchin'."  He indicated the line of stitches on his face, which was healing quite well.

"I am sorry," Harry Smith repeated, with every appearance of that being the truth, and continued to hack a trail into the thick underbrush.  Swanson drew a knife to cut at a thick wooden stem, and ended up with a long tube.  He then cut some vines and made a string to carry it with.  "Canteen," he explained, to Misha. "Didn't bring mine."

There was a loud chattering in the trees, suddenly, and Misha looked up to see monkeys up there; just as he was watching them protest the arrival of the humans, a grey eagle swooped past and hauled one off the branch.  "Lookee there !"  Swanson laughed at the sight. "He just got dinner !"  The rest of the monkeys hurried away.

Misha responed to Harry in a polite tone, "I accept your apology Captain, I know you weren't deliberately putting me at risk.  Besides, as my old flight leader used to say... "Any landing you can walk away from is a good one".  No bones broken and more importantly no necks broken, considering that we just jumped out of a functioning airship into a jungle... I'd say that's a pretty good achievement anyday."

As the eagle flies away, Misha looked at Swanson and asked in a wary tone, "So aside from touchy primates and monkey-eating birds of prey... what other wonders of nature are we likely to find out here?  Or rather more importantly... is there anything close by that is likely to look upon US as potential dinner?"

Harry Smith took the acceptance of his apology in stride and continued to hack a path in the jungle.

Swanson shrugged. "Dunno," he said. "Never been here before.  But I reckon so.  Probably painters around."

This caused Smith to turn around, with a puzzled look.  "What ?  Why are painters here in the jungle ?"
"Painters," Swanson said, pointing to a tree, which bore some long vertical scrapes on it.  "You know, big cats ?"
"Panthers." Harry Smith said.  "They are panthers."
"Big black ones ?"  Swanson added, glancing up and smoothly drawing a pistol.

"Panthers?  Oh dear... why do I suddenly feel horribly unarmed?  I don't suppose you know if there are any "unfriendly natives" in the area who have acquired a taste for roasted European, do you?"

Misha looked around the area, his senses were alert to oncoming danger and then he realized that the best he could do was dodge out of the way and pray these two other men would get "it" before "it" got him!

"He ain't coming down - looks like he got dinner, too,"  Swanson said, edging along the path that Smith was cutting.  But he didn't take his eyes off the canopy, or put the pistol away.  "Don't you worry none, Doc, I ain't been bothered much yet by a big cat, and I ain't planning to, today."

"There are headhunters, and cannibals," Harry Smith said, sourly, which did not help relieve Misha's unease.  They proceeded onward, slowly progressing through the jungle.

Misha, however, was also nervously looking around; Harry Smith was chopping at the jungle and Smith was watching the panther, so when he looked to his left and saw the painted black man, neither of them were looking that way.  The man was small, barely five feet tall, the colour of tobacco, with twinkling dark eyes and a broad smile.  He was painted in white, ochre and a dull red, in a complex pattern of dots and lines, and wore a simple loincloth; what hair he had left on the fringes of his very bald head was white and cut short.  He wore feathers in his nose and ears, brilliant green ones, and a shell necklace.

Misha cleared his throat slightly and said in a concerned tone, "Umm, excuse me gentlemen but these cannibals and headhunters that you mentioned about.... would they happen to look like small painted black men?  Perhaps no more than 5 feet tall, dark skin dotted and lined with white and red paint wearing green feathers in both nose and ears as well as a shell necklace?  I ask because I've just spotted an individual that matches that description and he's wearing a board smile... I hope he doesn't feel he's just spotted a 3-course meal."

Harry Smith paused in midswing; Swanson's head whipped around, and then both looked at Misha.  The strange little man had simply vanished, without a sound, without a sign he had ever been there.

"Dotted ?"  Smith asked, narrowing one eye.
"Now that's woodscraft,"  Swanson said softly.
"I am sure it was nothing,"  Smith said, with an authoritative ring in his voice, and resumed hacking at the plants with renewed vigor.  Swanson glanced back at Misha and raised his eyebrows, and Misha understood that Swanson didn't believe that BS for one minute.

Misha looked back a few seconds later, to see the little old man again, still smiling, and essaying a little finger-wiggling wave.

In a calm, controlled tone, Misha said, "Well that "nothing" is showing up again in the same form of an old man with a smile... and now he's giving me a finger-wiggling wave.  If he's got evil intentions, it seems he intends to be polite and friendly about turning me into his next meal.  Any suggestions... is waving back considered insulting?"

Both of their heads whipped around again, but the old man simply vanished...he was standing there, waving to Misha, and then he was simply not there.  Now both of them gave Misha a searching look, as if to say, 'are you -sure- you saw this ?'

"If he doesn't try to stick a spear into you, I would say that is a good thing.  Perhaps you should wave." Harry Smith said, somewhat lamely.  Swanson shrugged.

They continued onwards, Smith's strength beginning to flag as he battled the greenery with the machete.

Misha shrugged as the men looked at him and said in a nonchallant tone, "Look gentlemen, the old man was right there a moment ago... I can't help it if he keeps disappearing just as you turn to spot him.  I can say that my imagination is not quite vivid enough for it to be fabricating all the little details.

However if I see him again, I'll be sure to wave back... in the hopes that a wave means the same thing here as it does elsewhere in the world.  Remember, this is my first time in these parts... I had assumed that you two would be the experts about this area and the people who inhabit it."

Misha continues to follow along while keeping an eye out for the old man... or any of his "friends".

Swanson shrugged this time. "I ain't never been here," he said.  Harry Smith's expression became one of 'Reserved German Nobleman' again.  Eventually the machete was passed to Swanson, who got the hang of it quickly.  It was humid, and exercise soon tired a man out.  The sights, however, were amazing.  A spider big as a cat prowled across the path, scuttling faster as it nearly got stepped on.  Colourful birds flitted and called in the trees, and rotund little rodents trundled, squeaking, in the underbrush.  Then there were the less welcome creatures - mosquitoes and other biting insects.

The little old man didn't show up again, yet Misha could not shake the feeling he was being watched.  At last, Swanson was also tired, and Harry Smith declared a rest break had to be taken.  The sun, so far as they could tell by the green light filtering through the thick canopy, was beginning to set.

Misha sighed as he relaxed his aching muscles from the long hard walk thus far and he asked the other two in a curious tone, "So are we going to keep some kind of watch schedule during the night with one man on guard while the other two sleep?  I know you both may be skeptical of what I reported but I swear that I saw that old painted man not once but twice before he disappeared for good.  Do you think he'll bring along any friends during the night?"

"Swanson, you will take second watch; I will take the third.  Doctor, if you would be so kind, to take the first."  Harry Smith said. "Did you bring any food ?"
Swanson pulled a mashed sandwich out of a pocket. "Ham on rye," he announced.
Smith sighed, and pulled out a stash of dried fruit and nuts, and some beef jerky.

Misha was amazed at the ease with which they set up a small fire, found branches and underbrush to form bedding, and generally were at home in the wilderness.  Dinner was a quiet affair, and soon Misha was watching two hardened mercenaries sleep.  Smith slept with his eyes slitted open; Swanson slept like a kid, curled up and smiling.

It was quite boring, even with the large moths flittering around, the bats flittering after the moths, and the night sounds of the creatures in the underbrush.  Nothing sounded particularly large and fearsome; he even saw a little mouse rush over and seize a crumb they had dropped.

Then the girl was there, just there, without a sound.  She was clad in a simple sarong decorated with red feather patterns, barefoot, with large doe eyes, and she had a basket with her.  She was beautiful; maybe 20 years old, with a heart-shaped face and a form of such supple curves that made one think 'pretty woman' in an instant.  Her black hair was loose and flowing, down to her hips, and a flower was tucked behind both ears.  She smiled gently at Misha and set down the basket, and held a finger to her lips to indicate silence.

Dear lord... is this sort of things going to keep happening to me from now on?  First Silvain, then the old man... and now this beautiful woman!?  Well, if I am going mad... at least my tortured imagination is coming up with more pleasant images each time.  Of course, just because she is alluring doesn't mean she isn't deadly dangerous to us.  Should I wake the others... and if I did, would she still be there... and if not, would the other two continue to look at me as if I were crazy?

With a deep sigh, Misha nods his head in agreement with the woman's request for silence.  He then makes an obvious effort to shrug and raise his eyebrows in curiousity in an effort to ask "Why?" silently.  Misha also took a moment to look around him for any signs of other people approaching or any danger... including trying to peek at what might be in the basket.

The girl smiles, showing perfect white teeth, and  crooks her finger to beckon Misha to follow her.  She leaves behind the basket, in which Misha can see a heap of what seem to be scones, and some fruit.  If she -is- a cannibal, she's the prettiest one around.  She moves a few silent steps away, and looks back over her shapely shoulder to beckon to him again.

Ok... I know I should be doing this... but there are worse ways to die I suppose?  Maybe it has just been too long since I last went out on a date with a beautiful woman?  No wonder Silvain might have had suspicions about me... I really need to look into getting more of a normal life outside of the hospital!  Oh well... I know I shouldn't judge a book by its cover... but sometimes life just isn't worth living without a little risk.

Misha quietly rose from his position and looked briefly down at his two comrades wondering if they would be alright while he was gone.  Then he realized that they were probably better prepared to deal with the dangers of this jungle asleep than Misha was wide awake!

With another sigh of resignation, Misha quietly crept in the direction the pretty young woman was beckoning him towards... I wonder if I'm walking to my demise?  At this point, perhaps I no longer care?  Do all doctors have to go through this kind of thing to discover new cures... I certainly don't remember reading about such things in the medical journals!?

The girl led him along, padding silently, and Misha noticed that there were plenty of twigs and squeaky moss that he was stepping on, that she was missing.  There was a flash of gold on one shapely brown ankle, too.  She led him down a small path, to where another figure was waiting; the painted old man.  He was still smiling, and spoke, in a language that to Misha's ears sounded Russian, but that was impossible !  Wasn't it ?  His mind knew that it could not be Russian, but Russian was what his ears were receiving.

"Healer," the old man said, "My daughter brings you to me, to speak of your path. You have travelled far, for the welfare of another.  This is a dangerous path you are on, and you must be careful whom you trust.  There is a knife in your future."