Amytha is a city of without ambition, content in its obscurity. Wedged in the bosom of a valley in a province of modest fairs, dull but serviceable wines, and plump but none too plump women, the city prospers in middledom, distinguished only by an absence of strife or longing.
It is little told and much forgotten, however, the story of Amytha’s crescent shaped bridge. Though it stands at the city’s center, the townsfolk are quick to cross the bridge and seldom linger, for they say it is unlucky. Like many stories of foundation, Amytha’s cannot be found not in the dusty library quarters off the main square, but in the greater libraries of much greater cities.
Here is the story of Amytha’s bridge; of the crooked deserters who burned the bridge, their weary aggression turned to shameful settlement, then a silent husbandry without pride or history. Forgotten are the displaced elders’ limbs torn asunder and tossed from a bridge once sacred but now scorned, or the young mistresses so captive in drink that they belied the gods of Amaseum. This story is known only to scholars. In Amytha, all that remains are the vague rumors and the bad luck.