Chapter Eleven: Yharnam Lullaby

Inside the great metal cell, the man – a proud member of the Choir Intelligentsia – had resorted to sobbing, forming pathetic pleas in an attempt to reason with his captors. He had advanced past the stage where throwing vile insults and disparagements at the men outside of his prison had seemed to be the best outlet for his suffering. Indeed, he almost seemed willing to renounce his belief in the Church, his blindfold cap now lying by his feet where the repeated electrocutions and subsequent body convulsions had knocked it. Not even his faith in the compassion of the Great Ones he worshipped so reverently was enough to prevent his reduction to a snivelling wreck.

His captors were not softened by the man's cries. One of them, who wore the jet-black robes and demonic, ironclad hood of Yahar'gul's upper echelons, actually seemed to be enthralled by the demeaning treatment of his enemy. The party of Choir Intelligentsia who had descended upon Yahar'gul had, after all, slain several of his men in the ensuing battle, and despite being eventually overcome, left an ugly mark on all those who had fought to protect Mensis and the village.

"Dear, oh dear." The interrogator taunted his prisoner, slowly edging around the perimeter of the cage. "I do hope you aren't breaking down just yet… You have so much more to offer…"

The prisoner let out a wracking sob, and a globule of his own blood hit the cold stone pave at his feet. "I don't know anything…. Please, just let me die…"

"On the contrary, you have information that would be most useful to us," the man retorted. "Once you part with it, I'm more than happy to grant you your death."

"What is it… you think I can tell you…?"

The interrogator stopped pacing, and gripped the metal bars with his gauntlets, face glowering in the half-light.

"The location of the umbilical cord taken from Kos' infant child - Mensis is very interested in the possibilities that such an artefact may possess."

"Not…possible…" the prisoner stuttered. "The cord was stolen…. Taken from under our noses, and divided into three pieces…"

"Where are they?" the interrogator boomed. The prisoner simply shook his head, tears rolling down his seared flesh. "Then who took them?"

"It was Gehrman…" the prisoner howled. "He betrayed us!"

"Gehrman?"

The interrogator's hooded head snapped round, irritation spreading across what little of his face was visible beneath his helm.

"Did I ask for your interruption?" he growled, addressing the one who had spoken – the man controlling the electric currents.

Archibald, who had been happy to remain silent up until the mention of his old compatriot, swiftly became vocal in his confusion. "Why would Gehrman turn on the Church? That is… shocking."

"I don't care who did what or for whatever reason!" the interrogator spat. "I want that cord, and if you don't stay out of it, I'll have you in that chair!"

"Now now, quiet down."

The interrogator stopped dead in the middle of his rant as an inhumanely-tall figure loomed out of the darkness. "Master… I…"

Micolash stepped from the shadows, the elongated metal cage atop his head clanking as he bowed beneath the doorway.

"There's really no need for shouting. The School of Mensis does not allow in-fighting – we are united; something that fool Laurence will never understand."

The interrogator stepped aside as Micolash approached the cell, casting Archibald an apologetic smile.

"You'll forgive my friend over there. He gets a little too excited by the prospect of torture…. A most unsightly trait…"

Archibald shrugged. "I have no quarrel."

"Good," Micolash grinned. "Because you and I – and that assistant of yours, Paarl – have great work to accomplish together."

Turning back to the prison cell, Micolash's eyes met with those of the bound Choir member.

"This really would be easier if you just talked," he professed.

"I've… told you... everything I know…" the prisoner breathed. "Please… kill me."

Micolash nodded, an eerie understanding passing between the two. "As you wish."

With a subtle hand gesture and a wink, Archibald accepted the orders of his master and turned the dial up on the electrolysis machine. The Choir member screeched for a few seconds as his body was flooded with an incomprehensible amount of electricity, before slumping in the chair, smoke rising from his singed clothes.

"He could have told us more," the interrogator said, trying to keep his calm, lest he provoke his master's ire again.

"Possibly, but that's not the point," Micolash replied. "He told us everything we needed to know. Now, we have a mission."

The interrogator curled his fist in anticipation, an odious grin parting his lips.

"Find Gehrman."


Just as the First Vicar had predicted, it wasn't long before the people of Old Yharnam swiftly turned heel, begging for the relief of the Old Blood. The ashen plague had spread like wildfire, claiming more lives for the reaper than the beastly scourge, medical incompetence and complications in pregnancies put together. Bodies became more common than chimney stacks in the festering ghettos of Old Yharnam, and quickly replaced the industrial scent that the once-bustling district had produced so earnestly.

Laurence decided to appear in person atop a parapet overlooking the gates of Old Yharnam – which were to remain sealed for the indefinite future. With a pair of white-clad Church doctors at his side, the vicar gave a rousing speech to the surviving masses.

"In this time of division – this time of fear, it is crucial that we remain united in our efforts to stem the plague that haunts our streets. The Healing Church has never shied away from our ambitions, and we remain firm in our convictions. We will find a cure for the plague, and any plague that may follow. People of Old Yharnam, we welcome you back into our congregation with open arms, and hope that our supplies reverse this most terrible escalation of events. Our prayers are with you."

No applause followed, but this was more because the ravaged denizens of Old Yharnam barely had the strength left to raise their arms, let alone clap their hands. But, for the first time in many a week, there was hope in their crestfallen faces. Even the fits of coughing amongst members of the crowd seemed to be hushed, as some kind of gesture of appreciation.

Ludwig met Laurence as he climbed down from his stage. The Holy Blade was far from relieved at the state of affairs, but there was a deep respect in his shimmering emerald eyes as they landed upon the vicar.

"Wonderful speech, sire," he said. "I couldn't have said it better myself."

Laurence nodded. "I leave the rest in your hands, Ludwig. Keep an eye on things. The loyalty of your men will yet be needed."

Ludwig's gaze fell. "I fear that might be a problem, sire. The Church Hunters are yet to see me in the same light as you. They see me as a subordinate to Gehrman – why, one of them even named me "a degenerate" in a whisper to a fellow hunter."

"What do you want me to do, Ludwig?" Laurence sighed. "These men revere Gehrman, in spite of his crimes against the Church. Any form of public dethronement we attempt will backfire horrifically."

Ludwig cursed silently, and a shadow crossed his features. "And… I assume killing him is out of the question?"

Laurence looked him hard in the eyes, before giving an enthused chuckle.

"Why, I didn't think you had that sort of thing in you, Ludwig," he said.

"Normally no," Ludwig replied. "The idea of an orchestrated murder – of a founding member no less - sickens me to my stomach. But the man is a false idol. Whilst he lives the Church Hunters will follow a flawed code. Their resolve is misled. Only with him out of the picture can I truly begin to reshape them – put them on the path to righteousness."

Laurence smiled, almost admiring his pupil's determination. "Unfortunately, that is out of the question too. It would be better to let him rot in jail, let the people forget him."

Ludwig let out a long, sorrowful breath.

"Since when did the world become such a morbid place?" he asked.

Laurence patted the Holy Blade on the shoulder.

"We have always lived in darkness. But, we must remember, it is us who cast light upon this sorrowful world. Yharnam needs something to look up to."

"Of course," Ludwig nodded. "My belief in the Church is unfaltering, sire. I need only look at Old Yharnam and see what good it has brought into this world."

Laurence beamed. "Wise words. You may yet make a knight of valour."

Ludwig's heavy heart seemed to rise a little off the ground, like a lead weight attached to a platoon of hot air balloons. As Laurence continued on his way, the Holy Blade looked back at the chained gates of Old Yharnam, and smiled.

There was hope for his city yet.


Night fell.

Upper Cathedral Ward was like a beacon in the darkness, the heavy yellow gleam of its windows striking up and outwards into the sky. Even from the edge of the forests, its decadent light was visible.

The two black-garbed Church Hunters standing watch over the gates were surprised when a trio of Choir Intelligence arrived at the door, as it was uncommon for any of their number to be observed outside of their quarters during evening time. As Zephyr so boldly claimed, midnight was the most productive hour, when the mind may be awoken from its slumber, and unleash the full potential of one's imagination.

"Evening," they greeted, remaining slack as the first of the Choir Intelligence reached their position. "What brings you out here so late?"

The leading scholar tipped his hat to the hunters. "We find solace in a nightly stroll. There is nothing to distract us. It is a time for great understanding."

"Just unusual is all," the hunter noted. "Go right ahead."

The two hunters parted, and pushed the gate open. The scholar nodded his appreciation, stepping in close. "Thank you, good hunters. Your work is always appreciated in this city."

Before either hunter could react, the scholar had unsheathed his mace, and swung it around at the first guard's head. The blunted dome of the Tonitrus smashed through the hapless hunter's jaw, splitting it open and sending him flailing to the ground in a shower of blood. As his partner unsheathed his saw blade, another of the Choir Intelligence drew a pistol and blasted him straight between the eyes. The wail of the firearm echoed throughout the night. Any other day, such a sound would not go ignored.

But a night of the hunt wasn't any other day.

With both guardsmen dead, the false Choir Intelligentsia continued their trajectory towards Upper Cathedral Ward. So far it had been easy – for such a treasured pillar of the Church, it was not particularly well-guarded. Perhaps Laurence had not anticipated an uprising of such a scale.

At the top of the stairwell, a scythe-wielding Church acolyte stepped into their path.

"Did you hear those gunshots?" he asked, sounding deeply frightened from underneath the plague mask he wore over his face. "They sounded close-by."

"No." The leading scholar replied, shortly before taking out his blunderbuss and blowing a hole through the acolyte's forehead.

From there, it was a brisk walk up to the front door, and with no further resistance, the scholars of Mensis shrugged off their Choir garbs, tossing them to the ground with unconcealed disdain. No doubt there would be resistance from the real Choir, but the majority of the scholars were scientists and doctors – not fighters.

Slaughtering them would be trivial.

Just as they were about to force the doors open, a voice called out from the darkness.

"You're late."

The lead Mensis scholar turned to face the figure cloaked in shadow. "I didn't expect that you would actually be here."

Under the watchful eye of his beloved moon, Ludwig stepped forth, the darkness releasing its wispy grip around his flesh.

"Business conducted under the cover of darkness gives me no pleasure," Ludwig conceited. "And this is a most grave undertaking, indeed. But you and I both have something to gain from this. Nothing more. My loyalty will always lie with Laurence and the Church."

"As you wish," the scholar scowled. "Have you severed the link to the Hunters?"

Ludwig nodded. "It's done. You can be in and out with minimal attention. Provided, of course, you don't blow anything sky high…"

The sincerity of Ludwig's concern, and the low volume which he uttered it, brought a cackle to the scholar's lips.

"You really think us savages, don't you?" he sneered. "How easily you Church folk forget."

Ludwig turned away, determined to get away from the conversation before it took any further turns.

"Don't let him suffer," he whispered, before departing.

The three Mensis scholars turned back to the Upper Cathedral Ward, and the task at hand.

Getting in was the hardest part. From here on out, it was child's play.


Several miles away, under the same glorious moonlight, Caryll was sat on a balcony, overlooking the Byrgenwerth grounds. The lake below him, cast pearly-white in the thrall of the luminous light, ripple soft wind blew over the shore. In his hands lay a scrawl of parchment containing his latest obsession. The calm night air and a silence broken only by the occasional chirp of a nesting frog or cicada were the perfect environment for inscribing runes. The smith's hands scribbled insatiably, possessed by a primal energy, completely enthralled.

"Caryll?"

Willem hobbled out onto the balcony, supported by his gnarly walking stick. The Runesmith turned his head to briefly acknowledge his master, before returning to his work.

"I thought I might find you out here."

Caryll grunted his affirmation. "Indeed, I find the swill of the water sat night quite soothing to one's mind."

Willem came closer, every step accompanied by a soft thud as his stick connected with the stone pave.

"I had hoped I might speak with you."

Caryll shut his eyes and sighed. "Can it wait, Master? I am the midst of inscribing this parchment, and I-"

"It has waited long enough."

Caryll stopped, finally wheeling around to look at Willem. The expression on his old master's face was calm, but even his blindfold could not disguise his melancholic demeanour.

"Caryll, you are the heir to my research," he declared. "Everything I have. It is yours. "

The Runesmith's breath caught in his throat. "Master, I don't know what to say…"

"Then you needn't say a thing, my boy," Willem replied solemnly. "Words are distractions. Whimsical, spirited things that have no place in a realm of enlightenment. This I have seen. It is the dark enticement of persuasion, uttered by a master of manipulation, that has led my old city to its ruin."

Caryll stayed silent, deeming it appropriate.

Willem sighed. "I fear soon I will not have the strength left in these old bones to show you the advancements my research has taken. I hear that silver chariot drawing near; death's curved halberd grinding along the edge of my window. Now is the time, or never."

"Master Willem?" Caryll asked, softly. "Are you alright?"

Willem ignored the question. "There is something I must show you. The prophet wishes it so."

"Of course, master," Caryll replied. "Lead the way."

Willem took Caryll through the winding staircase of Byrgenwerth's main research hall, and down to the ground floor, where towering bookcases and rows of flasks and tubes dominated the landscape. He continued on past all of this, until he reached a peculiar cellar door, bolted from the outside. Caryll gazed at Willem expectantly, but his old master gave no indication as to why there was a hidden passageway beneath the floor, when it had been installed, or what it was sued for. With a quivering, withered hand, Willem lifted it open, revealing a long wooden ramp, disappearing into pitch black after a couple of metres.

"I knew one day I would need to bring you down here," Willem explained. "So I did away with stairs."

Caryll peered into the abyss. The abyss peered back.

"What's down there, master?" he asked, sounding timid now. A deep, nauseating unease was setting into his stomach at the very idea of taking a journey into these uncharted depths.

"My fate," Willem explained. "And yours. And the rest of mankind's."

From the corner of his eye, Caryll could see the prophet watching, its spindly legs dangling over the sides of its pedestal. He dared not look at the thing. He had long since ceased to see the human it had once been behind all those glinting black eyes, forever fixed on the wall.

"Come," Willem beckoned, slowly hobbling into the darkness below. Caryll took several deep breaths, trying to calm the churning storm inside of him. But his efforts were to no avail. With rain lashing down and thunder brewing on the edges of the clouds, he began to roll downwards.


Zephyr's eyes fell from the swirling vortex of blue and white in front of his eyes. The cosmic augur, generated between the palm of his hands, dissipated, the blueish hues withdrawn, and the room returned to a dimmer, more mundane state.

There were some concerning sounds on the other side of his door. Screaming, mostly, although there were fainter, wetter sounds too – the splattering of blood against the finely-carpeted floors and wax-embellished walls.

The Choir Master rose from his seat, fists curling. The cacophony of killing drew closer, and he tensed as a dark shape hit the outside of his wall with a dull, soggy thud.

Seconds later, the door exploded, and three figures with maces and pistols strode into his chambers. They were stained in the blood of his fellow choirmen, but appeared completely unscathed. This was, perhaps, unsurprising, considering that his brigade was comprised of doctors and scientists, not fighters. Still, Zephyr could not contain his disappointment that the Choir, who were so revered by the Church and its acolytes, had been dispatched so easily.

The first of the men, clearly sent by Mensis, stepped forward. Instead of moving in to attack Zephyr outright, he cleared his throat, and made him an offer.

"If you give us Gehrman, we will spare the rest of your people."

Zephyr stared hard at the Mensis scholars, willing them to burn away to ash with every ounce of his superior mind.

"Who do you think you are?" he whispered. "To betray the Church like this… The ones who made it possible for you to even exist…"

"I'm not here for a debate, Choirboy," the Mensis leader retorted. "Why give your life for Laurence and those false idols? They have been misguided from the very beginning. We have made real breakthroughs in science and technology. This world is our playground."

"That may be so," Zephyr shot back. "But this place will be your grave."

The Choir Master drew his palms together, and a tiny blue hole, expanding quickly and ferociously, gave way to a glowing black projectile. The object, which was somewhat comparable to one of the Siderite meteorites discovered around Byrgenwerth, soared through the air, colliding with the Mensis leader, and smashing straight through him. There was barely any gore at all – the cosmic rock, propelled like a bullet on the will of Zephyr alone, continued its trajectory through the back wall and out into the main foyer of the building, and the Mensis leader, now missing the majority of his torso, slowly crumpled to the ground without a sound.

His two companions instantly attacked Zephyr, swinging their electrified maces like the arms of a windmill. The Choir Master disappeared in a haze of white, his body shimmering and vibrating as though it was changing on a molecular level, every one of his billions of cells humming with explosive energy. The two scholars stopped, panicked as they scoured the room for Zephyr. Before any of them could react, the Choir Master appeared again behind one of them, a blue surge of energy crackling in the centre of his left palm. The Mensis scholar cried out, lunging with his mace, but before he could make contact, he was thrown backwards off of his feet by a long, leathery limb that had forced its way out of Zephyr's hand.

His companion sent sprawling, the remaining scholar leapt at Zephyr, but the Choir Master simply zoomed away again, leaving naught but dust in his wake. When he rematerialized atop his desk, he was midway through charging another attack, this time taking the form of a white cloud of strange lights, which strafed and circled about above his head. The Mensis scholar pulled out his pistol, firing several shaken shots into the churning mass, but Zephyr was not visibly fazed at all, and the storm above his head burst outwards, each individual light streaming out as a serpentine ray of energy seeking out the Scholar with inhuman efficiency.

Trying to describe the way the man was torn apart by the lights is an impossible task. There was nothing earthly, or scientific about the wide they divided him, breaking him apart and into mere specks of organic matter. Certainly, no rational mind was ever intended to witness such a startling and grotesque application of force.

Zephyr stood amidst the ruins, a seething God watching over the rapturous destruction he had wrought.

"Fools…" he growled. "As if you could possibly comprehend the power of the Great Ones… You are mere children of the cosmos, destined to remain oblivious to its greater majesties. May the wrath of Oedon, Amygdala and Flora render your spirits-"

The Choir Master went silent as his head was blown apart from behind, the quicksilver bullet that had caused it sailing onwards into the wooden, multi-eyed statue that sat behind him.

The last scholar, still bloodied from his impact with the wall, lowered his pistol, whispering obscenities that no holy man should ever have to hear. After a few minutes, he composed himself with some difficulty, and clambered over Zephyr's fallen body to reach his desk. The drawers came open with little resistance, and after some fumbling, the scholar produced a set of golden keys, one of which would unlock the elevator on the top floor.

Afterward, he went over to the remains of his two companions. Swallowing hard, he uttered a soft, quiet apology, before taking out a vial from his pocket, and scraping up a sample of each of their obliterated remains.

'Anything that the Great Ones touch is useful to us. Claim it, for the good of Mensis,' Micolash had instructed.

The thought that the bodies of his dead colleagues could serve some unknown yet grand purpose was not exactly comforting, but the scholar did as he was instructed, bottling each sample and returning them to his satchel.

Outside, there were sounds of skirmish. Presumably, the survivors of the massacre – the remaining members of the Choir – were fleeing the site. This meant the path to the upper levels would be completely unobstructed.

With a final, despairing glance at the wreckage of Zephyr's chambers, the scholar turned towards the open doorway.


A terrifying wail pierced the quiet of the night.

The sentries on the wall that separated Old Yharnam from the rest of the city were instantly awakened, scrambling for their firearms and blades as the howl rose up again, growing louder by the second.

"What in the name of Kos is that?" one of them exclaimed, hoisting up his rickety old oil lantern to illuminate the streets below.

"I don't know," one of his associates whispered frightfully. "I've never heard a beast sound like that…"

There was a rush of movement in the dark below. One of the sentinels fired off a round from his blunderbuss, hoping to catch whatever was stirring in the shadows. A screech, reaching near fever-pitch followed, leading the sentinel to cheer.

"I got the bastard!" he laughed. "All by myself! Who needs those damn hunters anyway?!"

Turning his back on the streets, the sentinel gave a hearty chuckle. However, his boast was swiftly silenced as a gaping maw rose from the blackness, engulfing the man whole. Kicking and screaming, the sentinel disappeared into the blackness beneath, a final, terrified cry sounding across the length of the wall. His comrades let out a chorus of wails, firing wildly at the emptiness where the creature had reared its head, but no great effect.

From across the sleeping city, more banshee cries followed, giving the sentinels a pretty clear idea of what they were up against.

"It's a bloody army," one whispered.

Turning to his petrified underlings, he gave a fearful rallying cry.

"Send for Ludwig at once!"


Gehrman opened his eyes.

Immediately, he recoiled at his surroundings – a darkened cell, illuminated only in the centre by a hanging light. As he tried to shift away, he found himself pushing against a set of tight metal restraints, which only rewarded his efforts with strained muscles and aching flesh.

"Good evening, sleepyhead."

Gehrman's eyes spun about, trying to find the speaker. By one of the barred walls, he could make out the silhouette of an armoured figure, hands clutched to the bars and peering in at him.

He tried to shout at the figure, but his voice came out only as a pitiful rasp.

"Who… are you…?"

"That's not important," the figure replied, tauntingly. "But we know who you are. Gehrman, the first of the hunters. Tell me, was it by courage or by fear that you first picked up the scythe?"

"If you let me out… I'll show you," Gehrman hissed.

"I don't think so," the figure retorted as they started to walk around the cell perimeter, boots clanking upon the ground out of sight. "But I'll be happy to release you… from life -if you give us the location of the umbilical cords."

Gehrman's head fell forward. He had not thought about the cord in months.

"What do you want with that awful thing?" he moaned.

"That's none of your concern," the speaker informed him. "You took something that wasn't yours. Granted, it wasn't the Church's either. That cord is the property of the cosmos."

Gehrman froze, and then let out a spirited chuckle.

"I know who you are," he spat. "You're from Mensis. Only you lunatics speak like that. Come on, I don't want to talk to you. I want to speak to Micolash. Your master. My old friend."

The figure stopped pacing, and leant in through the bars of the cell. The light caught his face, and Gehrman's mouth clamped shut with a sharp intake of breath.

"You needn't look far then, old friend," Micolash said, voice softening like a rotting fruit. "I wouldn't let my boy do this interrogation. He's far too… violent, in his methods. I prefer to be more cerebral. Torture needn't be about pain, pure and simple. There are more enriching ways to mine a mind."

"How long have you been sat in the shadows, Micolash?" Gehrman rasped. "You sound as mad as a march hare."

"Long enough to see that fighting the night is pointless," Micolash replied calmly. "The moon beckons not violence, but enlightenment. When the red moon hangs low, mankind's future will be made abundant to him. Such is the will of the great and old ones who watch over this world."

"Poetic," Gehrman sneered.

"There's nothing quite as repellent as a damned hypocrite, Gehrman," Micolash sighed. "Was it not upon your findings that we began our conversation with the cosmos? Anyhow, that's quite enough irrelevant talk. Time for you to sing, old friend."

Micolash stepped away from the cage, and Gehrman felt the temperature in the room drop by several degrees as the sound of metallic wrenching echoed throughout the chamber.

"What are you doing, Micolash?" Gehrman asked, fear rising to a crescendo inside of him.

There was no reply. The roar of the chains grew louder, and louder, until the whole machination came to a complete halt, and an eerie still set in.

Gehrman was about to call out again when, without warning, the entirety of his vision was lit up by a pulsing red light, brighter than the glare of the sun itself. Instantly, he felt his skin rippling, the blood coursing in his veins ramming up against his skin in a desperate attempt to escape. It was like he was being assaulted by hundreds of thousands of little pins, digging into him, yet unable to break the skin or cause him anything other than a prick of agony upon every single space of his body they inhabited.

Through the crimson haze, Gehrman could just about make out the outline of an eye boring into him, so intense that he couldn't hold its gaze for more than single second, or else he felt his own visors would melt out of their sockets.

The pain continued, unrelentingly. Gehrman found his mouth agape faster than he knew how to stop it.

"There are only two pieces of the cord left!" he cried. "I burned the third!"

"Where are they?" Micolash asked, his voice still clear as day over the overwhelming force of the eye.

"Ahhhh, oh god, oh god! One is in my old abandoned workshop! Argh! The other is hidden under a coffin in Oedon Chapel!"

The red light cut out so suddenly it was as though the power had been cut out. Just before a rattling chain carried it away, Gehrman saw the body of his torturer – a pulsating, writhing mass of flesh with two gigantic, bulbous eyes. The thing on the chain blinked at Gehrman, almost as though apologising, before it disappeared into the darkness.

"Good show, good show!" Micolash laughed. "Just as entertaining as ever. You hunters really are something. You should consider taking up dancing lessons."

Gehrman could not find the breath to respond to the taunt. His skin felt as though it had been bathed in lava, or as though a hive of insects had been birthed right out of him.

"Well, I think I'll leave you here for a bit, old friend," Micolash chimed. "We'll soon find out if there's any truth to these answers you have given me, or if we need to arrange a second session. I look forward to it."

Micolash strode out of the tower, lighter than wind. He reached the balcony overlooking Ya'Hargul, and took in a deep, cleansing breath. Across the rooves of Ya'Hargul, clung to every spire and parapet as far as the eye could see, his beloved children gazed back up at him, constantly in awe of their wondrous landlord.

"Can there be any doubt?" he whispered to himself, before increasing his pitch to a shout. "Can there be any doubt – that this is the work of Greatness?"

His city gave him no answer. It needn't. He felt the strength of every one of its denizens flowing through him.

Yharnam would fall. And Ya'Hargul would rise.