Background

I am, Apteryx, the Warden of Westria. The fair city of Varossa is my home. It is a place of plentiful resources, a virtual cornucopia compared to the other villages of the Amazons. For this reason, at least as long as anyone living can remember, Varossa has been a graceful city, a gathering place of the Amazons. One works during the summer. The rest of the time, people have done as they wished. Some hunt the reclusive creatures of the lush green jungle, some play engrossing games, a few souls choose to work. Other Amazon villages have lived around the city, peacefully coexisting with Varossa, but few choose to live there as life is just not the same. The culture of the Amazons now glorifies hunting and martial prowess. They are really all that we have left besides a few stories of the past and the ruins of what Varossa once was. It is said that our society has been decaying for a thousand years. There are few tools and even fewer who can read. Among the ruins, there are many things that people can only guess at the use of.

On my election to Warden

I am one who can read. I spend my free days sifting through the musty scrolls that our ancesters wrote. Recently, I uncovered plans to buildings with uses I can only guess of. I tried to convince my fellows and the council that we could recapture our greatness by building them. Sadly, I was scoffed at. When the elections came, people remembered the fool who spoke of past glory. My election was a joke. I was elected to the ceremonial position of Warden that only has real power during an emergency. I have been afraid to use my power for anything until now. Last night, while trying to read the time worn letters on a yellowed vellum scroll, one by one my candles were extinguished by an unknown force. After I was plunged in darkness for a what seemed to be an eternity, but was probably only a few seconds, each of the candles flared alive with a blood red flame. This morning the fire that burns continuously in the town hall showed occasional licks of the same dreadful portent. There is one story that speaks of such a flame. It is said that during the reign of Arragoth, all the flames on the island were blood red, some said the flames shed their color for all the blood he spilled. It seems clear that he will return, and return soon. Perhaps now, I will be able to build those buildings.