The Triad: Fear Desperation Terror

Four figures stood on the uppermost rooftop of the citadel located in the southern district of Duraculam. Among them two Humans, a Dragonborn and a Vampiric Lord ascendant. The first armored in black plate that was known to be worn by that nation's greatest general, the second in the well worn finery of the republic's elite, the third in the ornately crafted armor that marked the first before The Iron, and the last fitted in his usual purple tunic stood comatose nearby a parapet. Between them stood the control of a nation, the fate of a world, the destiny of the cosmos. Down below them entrenched in their fortified palisade, auxiliary forces of the Karsder refugees were returning from their excursion into the north of Liacaryn Forest. But these men did not concern themselves with the unimportant on goings of their Pirek allies, something far more ominous was unfolding half a world away. At the fore of the group the desiccated ruler of the republic based on His own name watched not the waves crashing against His docks, nor the citizens wandering about His streets, nor the ranks of soldiers drilling for His campaign to come, but somewhere far, far away.
His consciousness drifted across the skies taking flight to observe the reformation of another one his most hated rivals. Across the seas He soared traveling westward by the light of the red sun. The scorched desert sands of the western continent slowly came into view, where He would fight His next war....wars. He swung south after coming upon a port city not unlike the one he claimed dominion over. A sickening display of arrogance these Humans had in claiming the lands of His sister as their own, she didn't suffer so that they could waste their lives on meaningless thrones and outrageous decadence. Soon He would show them the error of their ways, but not soon enough. If not He, then someone else with less patience and far more room for cruelty. He passed the poverty stricken wastes of Rahal and left the Humans to their own devices.
"The first time He moves from His throne room in a month, just to climb to the rooftop and nearly topple over the side." The man known as Seymour spoke to the others in an old and hardened voice replacing his usual frenzied zeal with fear and confusion. "Something is going on, something important and He's not telling us. I can understand the others, but we are His closest advisers, we should be informed!" He turned to the other two to look for some sign of agreement, but he found nothing.
"These are His ways, solitary actions and brash decisions. We can only watch and await His command when He returns," the Dragonborn said with knowing experience. He had been through this before, when His Lord had spontaneously take His guard to the capital leaving Frokul to command Dracan Isle. What a frightening day that was, everything could've been shattered like glass and thrown into the wind if events had gone differently.
The Iron floated across the sandy ocean without haste or concern for late arrival. He knew exactly when He would arrive and exactly when it would start. Hundreds of miles He traversed without seeing another being. Only a madman would take this derelict for his domain. He rolled His eyes at Himself as He passed over an ancient Istashanian fortress sealed off from everything and everyone after The Collapse. In the distance He observed savage tribes of barbarian species fighting over scrapes of land. What a pathetic waste of energy these savages were. Better to wage war with purpose than to cling onto wastelands like these. Far ahead He saw the boundary between siblings. A massive divide across Dihat that stretched for over six thousand miles in total separating the world from His destination. He looked down and saw nothing but blackness. Bottomless they say it is, straight to the core of the world. A wasted expenditure, no one lived here to even think of invading this land, why waste so much time better spent elsewhere. He shook His head and continued across the chasm on the southbound course.
Day turned to night as the shade passed through the cloudless void. There were no stars visible here, whether that was natural or artificial Duracus did not know, this was His first return to the Evnica Barrens. Sand turned to stone turned to salt flat turned to ash. Nothing lived here, as nothing had for thousands of years. But He did not come for the living, only the dead. Below the lone figure of the night lay archaic necropoli housing generations of the devout. City after city He passed, millions of servants awaiting the day their master would return to call them to arms once more. There was a time, during His exile, that a lone servant stirred from his slumber and caused great harm to the Humans of the north, but that was only a distant memory now.
Ancient roadways barely discernible amidst the eroded wastelands marked the way to His destination. What was the point of all this? You don't need to be here wasting your time to see for yourself what you know will come to pass. Even the old fool won't be watching this play out. But Sceptre would've. He would be here watching the return of another of their kindred spirit even if He would only observe. It gave Him power over the rest. "I was here, you couldn't hide it, not from me. I let this happen, not because I wanted it to, but because you are powerless against me." Mind games were always Sceptre's forte. He needed to be more like Him. But that's not why you're here. It's not to demand their subservience to you. It's to remind you why you're going to fight this war before you launch the next.
Light ahead, from the south. The first He had seen in over two thousand miles. A small pyre to light the way of the vessel arriving from the north. Another and another as the night wore on, longer than it should have...probably. This alliance He had forged had made a great number of side effects on this world already, hopefully they stayed put to the color of the sky. Finally He had arrived at the end of his journey. Seven figures stood around a massive hieroglyph painted into earth with blood of the willing. Four of them He recognized, three He could assume. A High Elf, Goliath, Dwarf and a Dragonborn along with three robed figures waited for their last attendee. Behind them in perfect lines ten thousand sacrifices counted down the minutes left in their lives. The Iron would be the sole observe to this ritual. As His feet touched the ground He heard the unmistakable noise of leathery wings gliding through the midnight air. A Tiefling emerged from the dust cloud that had been kicked up by The Red's arrival and walked to the center of the formation.
With the vessel's advent the massacre could now begin. Unliving tomb guardians stalked the formations of those frozen in fear and horror as they could do nothing but wait their turn. Each sacrifice must be touched with the earth of Khadik, washed with the ash of Phalos and blessed with the approval of Anros before a blade was plunged through their heart. The whole thing took around twelve seconds to complete for every sacrifice. In a matter of minutes ten thousand souls were sentenced not to death nor damnation but to annihilation. Their essence and strength, their emotion and thought, their memories and loves, but above all their agony would be the food of their new tormentor.
Chants in ancient Dihatic began to pour forth from the three magi. Cursed and forbidden tomes of knowledge and power were recited that would've been grounds for death in a far gone time. The Hundred Swords of Torment were embedded into the ground surrounding the hieroglyphs, it was only a matter of time now. The Tiefling known as Akmen pulled an obsidian dagger from his robes and joined in the chorus with the others of His kind. Eight mouths spoke the cursed words
"Our sacrifice made complete. We offer you these heartbeats. May our hands be stained in blood. So that we may endure the flood. Hear our song of hate. We offer no other fate. Rise now our Lord. To command this dreadful horde. We call you to this place. Take hold this wasted space. Grasp the terror with your claws! And crush the enemies with your jaw! Come now by this lament. Our Lord, The Torment."
Black magic slowly seeps from the ground heading towards the heavens. Line after line, rune after rune more and more energy poured out of a seemingly infinite ocean. The voices become louder and more intense, the chanting giving way to screams. Akmen grabs the dagger with both hands shaking frantically. A moment of hesitation, of doubt. Silenced by the flood within himself and loss of control. He plunges the knife into His left eye.
Laying still on the dusty ground He hears a voice. One He has not heard in many centuries, the voice of the one He saved. You've been looking after me all this time. When it was my time, my true and final time you were there. You intervened and saved me. Sacrificed yourself, your body, your mind...your soul. Just so you could keep a scrap of me remaining inside of you. I thank you brother for now it is the time of my return. Slowly The Red withdraws the blade covered in Red and Black and plants it in the middle of the altar. He waits and watches for the one He has anticipated for so long. At first the dagger moves, just a shudder. Again and again and again it rattles back and forth spinning now, raising the earth and dust and sand and blood around it. Smoke cascades over the ritual, out past the bodies, surrounding Duracus. From the smoke a form begins to take shape. Pale red skin with jagged edges, horns with serrations carved into them, bony ridge lines mar His face.
At last He has returned. At last the banished Child of Pain lives again. At last Aket Torment The Black lives. At last, there shall be a new War on Dihat.