Classic music plays in the background, a piece taken from doom's own provate collection. He stands without his mask drinking from a fancy golden goblet. When he takes his mask back into his burned and scarred face he doesnt make a single sound, taking special attention to the music, after what seems like an eternity of awkrward silence doom turns his gaze to you, a snarl under his iron mask hiding all emotion. He speaks in a loud yet leveled and stoic voice "Ah, classics never trully die" The hall is regal and decorated in the most opulent and mighty decorations a tyrant of his class can allow himself, each piece tells a story of pure Latverian struggle and pride.