Session 1 Meetings & Greetings:

The room they were led into felt different the moment they crossed the threshold—quieter, heavier, as though the air itself had been set aside for a specific purpose. A long table dominated the space, already occupied. At its head sat a well-dressed man in a finely lined suit, composed and deliberate in every detail, a drink resting untouched near his hand as though it served more as a prop than for enjoyment. He looked up as they entered, offering a practiced smile—warm, inviting… and held just a moment longer than felt entirely natural. To his side lounged another man in a tweed suit, posture easy, almost careless, a glass turning idly in his hand. He carried the effortless charm of someone accustomed to being liked, yet his eyes told a different story—sharp, observant, quietly measuring each new arrival with unsettling precision. Behind them stood a third figure, rigid and unmoving. He offered no greeting, no smile—his presence less that of a guest and more a fixture of the room. A sentry. Watching. Assessing.

Alan Knight and Jesse Hughes lock eyes for the briefest moment—just long enough to suggest recognition, and just short enough to deny it. Jesse moves first, rising slightly with a smile already in place, extending a hand with practiced ease—too quick, perhaps, for a true introduction. “Jesse Hughes, good sir. A pleasure.” The room feels prepared… expectant—not for conversation, but for something to begin. At the head of the table, the man gestures toward the open seats, his smile never quite fading. “Please,” he says smoothly, voice controlled and assured. “Join us. Let’s begin.”

“Augustus Larkin,” he says, voice smooth and deliberate. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting each of you.” He gestures lightly as he continues. “Allow me to introduce my associates: my manservant, Luis de Mendoza, who ensures I remain at least somewhat presentable…” Behind him, Mendoza inclines his head—controlled, almost too precise—his stillness suggesting not service, but vigilance. “And Jesse Hughes, a folklorist from New York City, and the newest addition to our expedition.” To most, the introduction passes without incident, but those paying closer attention might notice it—the faint, unspoken tension between Hughes and Mendoza, subtle but unmistakable once seen.

Larkin dabs at his lips with a napkin before setting it aside, offering a warm, practiced smile as he settles back, hands briefly folded. He speaks with quiet confidence—of scholarship, discovery, and the rewards awaiting those bold enough to uncover history first. Mendoza moves silently to refresh his drink, his gaze passing over the table in quiet assessment before returning to stillness. Larkin’s tone warms as he describes a lost pyramid in the highlands—remote, untouched, just within reach. He speaks of recognition, of doors opening, of names remembered, his eyes lingering just long enough on each of them to make the promise feel personal. And then, almost casually, he adds that should fortune favor them, there may be more than academic satisfaction waiting at the end.

Raising his glass, he offers a simple toast—to ambition, properly rewarded—before leaning forward, his voice lowering as the story turns more intimate. Near Puno, he explains, he acquired several unusual artifacts from an alpaca farmer, a man unremarkable in every way except for the story passed down through his family. Years ago, the man’s grandfather discovered them deep within tunnels beneath a mountain pyramid—and never returned. Not because he couldn’t, but because he chose not to. Superstition, Larkin dismisses, though the word lingers. Still, the man spoke of more—artifacts left behind, waiting. The directions were vague, fragments and half-remembered landmarks, nothing one could act on alone—but Larkin’s expression sharpens as he describes his own work: cross-referenced accounts, overlooked records, pieces others had ignored. Slowly, carefully, he has narrowed the search—not certain, but close enough. Enough to make the expedition possible. Enough to make it worth the risk.

Larkin lets the room settle before continuing, his voice smooth and deliberate as he outlines the opportunity before them—an expedition into the highlands, a lost pyramid, and the promise of recognition… and perhaps more. He speaks of ambition, discovery, and the rewards awaiting those bold enough to act first, and it is compelling—carefully so. But the table does not remain silent. When pressed on the pyramid’s location, he explains it lies in the highlands near Lake Titicaca, several days from Puno—remote enough to have remained untouched. The directions he was given were imprecise, but through his own research he has refined them—not exact, but close enough. Asked to see that research, a small, apologetic smile crosses his face as he admits he destroyed his notes once word began to circulate—one cannot be too careful when discovery is at stake—assuring them with a light tap to his temple that everything is kept safely there. The questions turn practical: transport has already been arranged—three trucks to Puno, then resupply and onward by pack animal, no more than four days into the highlands, conditions permitting. Supplies are handled as well, though anything specialized can be acquired and reimbursed. Finally, when asked when they depart, Larkin checks his watch and answers with quiet finality—Monday morning, March 21st, eight o’clock sharp, from Hotel España. And just like that, what began as a proposition begins to feel like something already in motion.

Black Jack leans back slightly, a half-smirk forming as he glances between the group. “Highlands, lost temples, gold…” he mutters, just loud enough to be heard. “Careful we’re not walking in the footsteps of the conquistadors.” The comment hangs for a moment—half joke, half something else. Most brush past it, but Mendoza does not. His reaction is almost imperceptible—a slight tightening around the eyes, a flicker of something sharper, colder, gone as quickly as it appears. He says nothing, returns to stillness—but for those watching closely, the moment does not pass unnoticed.

Larkin reaches into his case with careful precision, his movements slow and deliberate—almost reverent. “I suppose it’s best if I show you,” he says, producing a small wrapped bundle and unfolding it across the table. “These are the items I acquired from the farmer.” He gestures first to a pendant, angling it so the light catches its edges—a stylized humanoid figure holding two rod-like forms, its surface covered in repeating geometric patterns that feel more intentional than decorative. Around the table, attention narrows. Mel leans in slightly—not out of curiosity alone, but calculation—her eyes tracing craftsmanship, material, and condition, quietly assessing its value and what it might command in the right hands. Larkin studies the piece briefly before shifting to the second object, lifting a golden cup just enough for all to see. It gleams with a warm, almost unnatural luster, etched with precise designs and threaded with veins of turquoise. “This… is what truly convinced me.” Across from him, Eustis leans forward, his focus entirely different, studying the structure and design with academic precision, searching for origin and meaning, his expression tightening at the sense that something about it does not fit. Larkin sets the cup down with care. “Workmanship of this quality does not simply appear in a farmer’s field. These came from somewhere… and if the story holds even a fraction of truth, then we are standing at the edge of a very significant discovery.”

As the objects rest between them, Eustis leans in further, his attention sharpening into careful examination. His eyes move between the pendant and the cup with practiced precision, tracing form, pattern, and craftsmanship. Then something clicks—something wrong. These pieces are not from the same origin. The pendant aligns with Tiwanaku designs, dating as far back as the 5th century, while the cup is distinctly Incan—much later, likely from the 15th. Nearly a thousand years separate them. These are not objects that should have been found together—not without explanation. And yet, here they are, placed side by side on the same table, tied to the same story. Separated by centuries, never meant to share the same history—and yet, somehow, now they do.

Larkin offers a faint, apologetic smile, one hand briefly pressing to his side as though steadying himself. “My friends, you must forgive me… I’m afraid I’m not at my best this evening.” He exhales softly, and for the first time, a trace of fatigue slips through his carefully maintained composure. “I think it would be wise for me to retire early and regain my strength before our departure.” He straightens, almost deliberately, the polished charm returning—but not quite as it was. “Please—enjoy the rest of your evening. We’ll speak again before we set out.”

With a polite nod, he takes his leave.

Those paying closer attention might notice something subtle in his passing—the way his complexion has grown paler, his features softer, almost unnaturally so. There is a sweetness to him now that wasn’t there before.

And as he disappears from the room, the impression lingers.

Jesse Hughes leans back in his chair, eyes following Larkin as he departs, before letting out a soft, amused chuckle. “Well now—that was quite the pitch.” He lifts his glass slightly, the gesture easy and inviting. “Seems a shame to let a night like this end early.” His gaze moves around the table, lingering just long enough on each of them to draw them back into the moment. “What do you say—another round? We’ve got a few days before we head out… might as well make proper introductions.”

The tension in the room eases, if only slightly. The formalities are gone now. What remains is something more natural—and perhaps more revealing.