312 years ago the human Empire of Thessar tried to light a sun that would never set. Emperor Caedmon IV drilled into a volcano to pull the primordial fire, the Ember, up into the sky.
The rite failed. The moon covered the sun for forty days. The Veil between the living and the dead tore open, demons slipped through from the Underside, the elements broke loose and the Ember woke up beneath the world. The empire fell.
Three peoples rose from the ashes, and each of them wants to fix the world its own way. Now the bells of Saintdawn have stopped ringing, the volcano under Kor'Vash is heating up and the moths of Nyr are fleeing out to sea. A Second Eclipse is coming. That is where your story starts.
The emperor who started the rite came back through the Veil without a soul, but he still remembers. He wants to finish what he began.
The will of the fire beneath the world. It does not hate anyone. It is just hungry for the sky.
Mortals who worship Pyrrhax and poison wells, burn fields and open portals. Some of them hide inside Kor'Vash itself.
Every class is playable in every faction. Guards attack members of the other two, and the battleground puts all three on the same map.
The repentant heirs of the empire: humans, dwarves and gnomes sworn to share the Dawn with anyone who accepts the law. Behind the banners is fear, and an Inquisition that burns what it does not understand.
The orcs were the empire's chained soldiers. In the dark of the Eclipse they broke their chains and built Kor'Vash inside the crater where the rite was cast. They guard the volcano now, with the trolls and minotaurs who joined them.
Moon elves who left the Pact, the Returned dead they protected, and the moth-folk who have always guided souls. On the misty isle of Nyr they work to stitch the Veil shut. Everyone else calls them the people of the dead.
Each race has one active and one passive racial ability, plus +15 in a profession.
Heirs of a fallen empire, torn between its pride and its guilt.
Stubborn folk who rode out the Eclipse underground. Rings in their braids count their deeds.
The clockmakers who built the machine behind the Eclipse, still trying to make up for it.
Former slave soldiers. Their legion number, once branded, is now tattooed with pride.
A laughing tide-folk who talk to the spirits of their dead at the bottom of the sea.
Giant herders of the savanna who carve star maps into their horns. Slow to anger, unstoppable after.
Ancient keepers of the Veil, with silver hair and tattoos that change with the moon.
The dead who came back remembering who they were. A pale flame in the chest, the Lumen, keeps them themselves.
A new race: moth-folk who live only 40 years but keep every memory of their ancestors in their wing dust.