The world is dying. As the Corpse Star rises in the black and hopeless sky, no sane creature can truly avoid knowing that the fate of the world is to be pulled into its gaping maw. The gods have long ago averted their gaze, children are born without souls, and corpses lie restless in their shallow graves.
Behold, the dark funeral crypts of the elves, prepared aeons ago to prepare for the prophesy of a dying world. Within their walls, the immortal ones wait, entombed in stone, for their final deaths.
Behold, the noisy feasting halls of the dwarves, gouging themselves to death in a centuries-long wake for the entire world. Hidden in chambers deep beneath the earth, they ignore the madness-inducing sky in favour of the endless feast.
Behold, the great silent horde of the orcs, carving a path across the star-ravaged plains to the very end of the world. Their lips sewn shut, they slaughter and destroy all they encounter in complete silence, to better hear the death throes of the spirits of the world.
Behold, the many empty vales of the halflings, long ago vanished into myth and legend. No man knows to whence they have gone, the only clue being the mad scrawls carved deep into each and every door, speaking of the croatoan.
Behold, the last desperate empire of man, its stepped temples stretching into the sky, a thousand hearts offered into the sky each day in a cruel parody of sacrifice. They hope to appease the maw and stay the death of the world, but their bloody works are all in vain.
The air is stale. Crops rot in the fields and fish float upon the surface of the stinking sea. Each and every sigil and omen and portent and sign points to a single thing: death, to all and everything that will ever be upon this world.
Some few still struggle to avert this terrible fate, but what hope can be held beneath the gaze of a hungry star?