The Ducal Palace of Löwedorff was far from the power spectacle of Machellons: its walls were elegant and decorative, a Leutz attempt at Vixhalls architecture. The grand archway, leading up to the Palace, was donned with statues of fallen Leutz heroes, posed in magnificent and heroic style. The Palace was a bastardisation of Ithanian decadence, coated in Leutz Military tradition which found itself prominent in The Lion's Fold. Where statues of cherubs would lay in the Palace of Vixhall - Stone Generals, and their men lay in Löwedorff. All of this was topped off with the added addition of Ducal Honour Guardsmen, standing at attention in every conceivable corner of the Palace, dressed in their Military finery, and shining half-plate. Among this opulent yet powerful display stood the Duke. His height was dwarfed in comparison to his Guardsmen, and his attire unlike the surrounding area, was a sharp purple and blue, unlike the Ravenstad magenta and red. The weathered elderly nobleman made his way through the scarlet halls, his feet clicking against marble flooring before he made a pause at his Office door. The old General wafted his hand up with a spin of his wrist, and at once the magenta-clad Honour Guardsmen at his side departed from his presence. With a turn of the golden handles, the Duke entered the confines of his bright Office, his sunken eyes retreating at the morning sun, of which he had avoided on the Western-Wing of the Palace. Within his Office stood his two remaining sons, his youngest boys - the one's who had not been stolen from him. The Duke granted them both a stern, muted nod, seating himself as they both kissed his signet ring, in service of Hinterlandish tradition. "We stand upon the very precipice of power." The aged Raven would utter out in his native tongue. "The King of Brichauds has been decrowned. We can no longer speak those sacred words in our dear tongue.. Héich Revain vun der Hinterlands." He'd continue, his expression dire, stoic, and full of Nationalism. "You my sons, are the strength in this man's arm. Though you stood to inherit naught of our Family's power, you held yourself in Noble esteem." The old man would state, clearing his throat with a sharp cough as he shifted through his desk. "To you my eldest boy, I give my Father's Ducal ring. You will rule in due time, though first you will learn." Albaer offered out his hand, extending his arm to place the ring in the boy's palm. The elder would turn his expression to his youngest child as he reached once more into his desk. "To you my son, I give my medal of Service. Take my warlike valour.. For if there are those who would seek to destroy us. Those who would deny us our home.. Our birthright. We shall bring them such terrible vengeance.. That generations of their kin, yet to be born, shall cry out in agony." The elder would announce with a passion in his eyes. "Never again, shall our land be ripped from us. Never again. My sons."
The elder would finish with a twisted hateful visage, his wrinkled expression enflamed with Leutz Nationalism. At that, the old Duke would offer his sons a solemn bow, his riding boots clashing with the marble once more as he stomped to the room's exit. The two boys stood with their gifts, eyeing one another as their father made his authoritarian march to the Capital. The power had shifted in the Hinterlands, for better or worse, and the weathered Duke knew this well.
