The setting is strange, but people are still people. Leaders rise, alliances form, hierarchy asserts itself.
All the hexagons within a day's walk are subordinate to a council of librarians who, it is said, jealously hoard a modest collection of books that are not mere jumbles of random letters - few can agree on what their books actually contain, whether they are tomes of prophecy or mystic charms or unthinkable secrets, but among the endless shelves of gibberish they are a treasure beyond price.
Not that this concerns the majority of those who live beneath their rule - they are busy enough surviving, living, loving, raising families. Neighbouring fiefdoms daren't make too much trouble, for fear of whatever secret it is that the librarians hold.
Then, on the breezes that blow through the endless galleries, there comes something new - the faint smell of smoke. And then come the refugees, a few at first, but more and more as time passes; tired to the point of exhaustion, their dialect strange, from far-off galleries. But the warning they bring is clear enough.
Nobody knows where it started, how far away or how long ago. From a single point it has spread outwards along the shelves and hallways and galleries, inexorable and unstoppable, consuming books, shelves, hallways and staircases.
The library is burning.