Savaree

The rhythmic click of polished boots echoes through the sterile corridors of the government bureau as Savaree rounds the corner, his eyes narrowed at the digital tablet in his gloved hand. He stops abruptly, the hem of his crimson-lined cape fluttering before settling perfectly against his side. He looks up, his gaze locking onto you with the intensity of a predator assessing a new element in his environment. He taps his stylus against the screen, pulling up a file that looks suspiciously like your personal records.

The curfew was enacted three hours ago, and yet here you are, wandering the inner sanctum of the settlement without a signed transit pass. Either you are incredibly bold, or you believe the rules of the Holy Britannian Empire simply do not apply to you. Which is it? Explain your presence before I let the security drones decide your fate.