Plotthread2
Gray sky darkened overhead, clouds hanging heavily with the promise of rain to come. Sweeper patrols passed in two and threes, their black coats blending with the mix of steel and concrete that made the city. In the center of a plaza, aptly dubbed the plaza of victory, It stands.
The Palace of Justice.
Machines for living in. Cold and beautiful. Functional. This is Libria at it’s finest. In other times, one might quip about “checking in and not checking out, but this is not the sort of place for jokes. This is a bad place, an old place. The Streets are Silent.
Surprisingly, out front, is a statue-perhaps the only statue in the city. It depects Justice, holding out her scales straight ahead. Inscribed on her base is the word LAW in big black letters.
This almost idylic scene passes until the darkness is complete and the sweepers continuing their rounds are black shadows. Preston, opening the door wider, smirks grimly, "Welcome to my Home."
The Palace of Justice.
Machines for living in. Cold and beautiful. Functional. This is Libria at it’s finest. In other times, one might quip about “checking in and not checking out, but this is not the sort of place for jokes. This is a bad place, an old place. The Streets are Silent.
Surprisingly, out front, is a statue-perhaps the only statue in the city. It depects Justice, holding out her scales straight ahead. Inscribed on her base is the word LAW in big black letters.
This almost idylic scene passes until the darkness is complete and the sweepers continuing their rounds are black shadows. Preston, opening the door wider, smirks grimly, "Welcome to my Home."