Makeshift LZ

Byron's Twintail Seaplane is settled on the edge of the beach. Engines idle, it only bobs ever so often as the waves break against its pontoons.



The pilot himself is running a crude maintenance check before he prepares to make his next delivery. Izula... been a long time since I've been out this way. Hurts yet. Some wounds never do heal correctly. He thinks, the stubby cigar smouldering between his lips was held loosely. He has a clipboard in hand, and is checking off the list as he moves his way around his floating/flying home. The life of a smuggler is rarely filled with lavish grandeur; if only for so long.

The old Galideno Military BDU reflects in the mirror within the cabin of the plane, his military issue Quicksilver hanging under his left armpit in the brown leather holster. He still has time to run into the jungle and mingle with the locals before he was scheduled to depart to Scardia, which was half a stone throw away, so he had plenty of time on his hands yet.