Yeral's voice trailed off as he recounted what had happened in Oolacile. Priscilla looked at him oddly, not sure what to feel anymore. Yeral seemed to be genuinely regretful of his sins – but was that enough to absolve him? Priscilla really couldn't say for sure.
"So thou witnessed the fall of the city of Oolacile, and Lady Reise died by thy hand. What happened next?" she asked, curiously. She was hoping that Yeral's next story would help resolve some of her questions about him. The knight of Astora stared straight at Priscilla for several moments, and the crossbreed saw something she had not noticed before – a large, hastily sewn seam in the surcoat of Yeral's armor, no doubt from where his sword had pierced it. That confirmed that his story was true, at least partially. Yeral, for his part, was still struggling to compose himself after his last tale. The memories of his experience in Oolacile haunted him vividly, but perhaps even more overwhelming was the guilt that he felt, for he had played right into Kaathe's hands. It took him nearly a minute before he spoke up.
"I wanted to do anything that I could to atone for my terrible mistakes. And I knew. I knew what I needed to do..." he said softly, looking down at himself with regret. Priscilla stayed silent, for it was obvious that Yeral was not done speaking yet. When he finally finished his sentence, his voice was heavy. "I knew... But when the time came, I faltered. I ran. I came to this painting, for it reflected how I felt... I spent a long time staring at it, unsure of what to do, until one day I awoke here." he recalled quietly. Priscilla was more confused than ever now, for this answer raised yet more questions.
"What didst thou mean, when thou said thy knew what needest be done, yet faltered?" Priscilla wondered curiously. She had a theory about what Yeral was talking about, but she wanted him to say it. Yeral shook his head and sighed sadly, obviously steadying himself before he answered the question.
"I suppose I have one last story to tell..."
In a dark room below Firelink Shrine, the sacred Lordvessel sat on a rough wooden altar. Standing tall behind the altar were a pair of great stone doors, sealed tightly by some ancient magic. A tiny fire flickered in the center of the Lordvessel, but the room was otherwise deathly still. Suddenly, something dropped from the blackness above and landed with a clank on the brick floor of the Firelink Chamber. Yeral strode determinedly towards the altar, a huge mass of glowing golden souls in his hands. He had done it – he had retrieved the four Lord Souls, and now he could finally make things right.
"Reise... this is for you. And for everyone." he declared to himself, and dumped the four brilliant souls into the vessel before him. In an instant, the tiny flame burst into a roaring inferno, its light filling the chamber. A low rumbling noise permeated the air, and the enormous stone gates slid open, a white light shining from within. Yeral stepped forward and saw that behind the doors was a pure white passage – almost like the opposite of the Abyss – with stairs descending downwards towards a wide doorway that opened into a gray sky. Without hesitation, Yeral began walking down the staircase. As soon as he set foot on the stone steps, eerie apparitions emerged from the white void.
They looked like knights with horned helmets, like the black knights that roamed Lordran, but they were completely gray and almost transparent, much like the ghosts of New Londo. The spectral knights seemed content to ignore Yeral, walking straight by him before fading back into nothing, though Yeral swore that he heard them whispering as they passed. Soon enough, he reached the bottom of the staircase and marched out through the doorway into the Kiln of the First Flame. The kiln was, to put it bluntly, a wasteland. It was like the land itself had been incinerated, with veritable mountains of ash covering the barren landscape. The melted remains of what had once been great columns and archways dotted the area, and the sky was cloaked in heavy dark clouds.
"What a bleak place this is..." Yeral murmured, looking around. In the very center of the kiln were the charred ruins of what had once been some sort of great temple or shrine, a towering round structure with many archways. This imposing building was standing upon a great ashen tree stump, larger than any tree that Yeral had ever seen. Black Knights roamed the lands, but like their spectral comrades, they did not seem to care about Yeral's presence as he walked by. Trudging silently through the dry wastes, Yeral began to feel something odd, like a great sense of heaviness on his back. The air here seemed hot and arid, and somehow sad. The kiln had once been a great font of power and life, but now it was dying. "The world is dying." Yeral realized suddenly, as he climbed down a glowing, partially-molten staircase.
Rounding a corner from the bottom of the stairs, Yeral saw that he had finally arrived at the entrance to the central structure of the kiln. Inside was a rough stone room, like it had been carved out of a natural cavern, with jagged spikes of black rock jutting from the floor. In the very center of the chamber was a small shallow basin, with what looked like a tiny campire crackling within it. No doubt, this was all that was left of the once-mighty First Flame. Sitting immobile next to the flame was a ragged, skeletal figure with a heavy stone greatsword sitting on the ground next to it. The remains of the man's ornate robes, combined with his tall pointed crown and his luxurious beard made him seem familiar to Yeral. Obviously, this was Lord Gwyn of Anor Londo, who had sacrificed himself to sustain the fire. But now, it seemed, he was nothing but a burnt-out husk, just like his knights.
Yeral had barely taken a step towards the First Flame, before the skeletal Gwyn jolted into life, leaping to his feet with surprising speed. As soon as Gwyn had lifted his greatsword off of the ground, the blade was instantly engulfed in a raging fire. With barely a moment's hesitation, Gwyn jumped high into the air and flew down at Yeral as if propelled by some magical force. The burning sword whiffed past Yeral's head as Gwyn landed, and the air pressure from the blow was so strong that Yeral could feel it through his helmet. Even after centuries of decay, the king of the gods was a mighty opponent indeed. Immediately after he landed, Gwyn lunged forwards at Yeral with his empty hand. The knight was far too close to Gwyn already, and was swiftly taken off guard. Gwyn grasped Yeral by the throat and hefted him upwards, channeling powerful fire magic through his hand. Yeral clawed desperately at Gwyn's fingers, trying to pry them loose as the heat burned through his armor. Thinking quickly, he swung his foot upwards hard and kicked Gwyn square in the gut.
Gwyn reeled back, releasing his grip, and Yeral dropped to the ground, still clutching his throat. He had escaped from the lord of sunlight's burning grasp, but he was still lying defenseless on the ground. He expected a burning sword strike to kill him on the spot... but it never came. Gwyn may have retained much of his massive strength, but it seems that his stamina was not what it once was, for he stood wheezing and clutching his side for several seconds, trying to catch his breath. Yeral quickly stood to his feet and grabbed the zweihander that he had dropped, swinging it sideways at Gwyn. Gwyn jumped backwards as quickly as he could, but Yeral's blade cut through him, leaving a deep gash in his chest. The lord of sunlight soon tried to retaliate, swinging wildly with his burning blade, but his movements were heavy and telegraphed, and Yeral simply bashed the blade out of his way with his shield, sending Gwyn staggering backwards. Yeral seized the opportunity and dashed forwards, slamming his greatsword down onto the god's head.
Gwyn, however, was not done fighting just yet, and thrust his empty hand out in front of him. An enormous burst of fire exploded outwards from his palm, throwing Yeral backwards and burning him badly. Gwyn flew into the air again, trying to use the force of gravity to slam his sword down onto Yeral as hard as he could. Yeral, dazed and wracked with pain, just barely managed to roll to the side as the great lord crashed into the ground. Gwyn's body, weakened and damaged as it was, was not suited for such an impact, and he crumpled to the floor in agony. Yeral rose steadily to his feet and looked down at the crumbling god before him, still struggling to grasp his burning sword. Taking pity on the poor creature, Yeral hefted his sword and stabbed it down into Gwyn's skull. The flames on the stone greatsword flickered out, and the lord of sunlight gasped out one last breath.
"...The burning... is go...n...e..." The haggard whisper chilled Yeral to his bones, as he slowly drew his blade away from Gwyn's remains. Shakily, he walked over to the tiny, dying First Flame and looked down at the glowing embers. He was about to reach out his hand and touch it, but then suddenly he stopped himself. Racing through Yeral's head were images of himself, burnt to a skeleton just like Gwyn had been. He pictured himself writhing in agony from the flames eating away at flesh, desperately hoping for another undead to come and end his suffering. That must have been his Gwyn felt. The king's final words echoed in his head, and slowly Yeral pulled his hand back. The world was dying. He needed to link the fire, or everything would end up consumed by darkness just like New Londo... just like Oolacile. But, as he stared down at the fading fire, he realized that he couldn't do it. His fear was too much. Slowly, he turned around and began to walk away, looking regretfully over his shoulder for a moment.
"Reise... please forgive me..."