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It is autumn, he harvest is in, and the year is turning colder; the gardens of the small houses in the little Bohemian town are filled with the most glorious asters. The houses themselves are well-kept, if a bit threadbare in places; you can see that the inhabitants love them, but this is not a rich place, and even EU money is coming in only slowly. Perhaps that is a good thing: - the ruined castle above the town is not yet overrun with tourists, and nothing induces the local brewery to go for quantity instead of quality.
Tower and Demeter are standing in the grounds of the former power plant, a few kilometres away from the town centre. There are long crumbling factory floors from which all the turbines and metal parts have been stripped, and the autumn leaves of man years have blown in through the glass. There are high chimneys, the tops of which are blackened from the soot, and the bases already covered in ivy.
"Nice, eh?" Tower says.
Tower and Demeter are standing in the grounds of the former power plant, a few kilometres away from the town centre. There are long crumbling factory floors from which all the turbines and metal parts have been stripped, and the autumn leaves of man years have blown in through the glass. There are high chimneys, the tops of which are blackened from the soot, and the bases already covered in ivy.
"Nice, eh?" Tower says.
