Rock Hill
Rock Hill is the only thing resembling civilization for miles in any direction, and even that description requires generous interpretation. A cluster of log cabins and shacks east of the Rollin Hills, the town exists because someone had to live somewhere in the region, and this spot was marginally less terrible than everywhere else. Pre-fall garbage heaps surrounding the settlement have stewed for decades into toxic sludge that keeps raiders and most undead at a distance. It is a defensive perimeter born of neglect rather than engineering, and it works well enough for the people who call this place home.
Most of those people are Moonshiners who use Rock Hill as their off-season base when the stills in the foothills are running cold. During the brewing months, the town empties as its residents head into the hills to tend their operations. In winter, it fills back up with hard-drinking, hard-fighting brewers who have no patience for outsiders and no formal law to restrain them. River's End serves as the town's combination inn and bar, catering to locals and putting up the occasional traveler for the night. Gilly's Trading Post handles the buying and selling of local goods, most of which smell faintly of moonshine or toxic sludge or both.
No one comes to Rock Hill by choice. Its residents are outcasts, refugees, and people who found the rest of the south too civilized for their taste. The town has no mayor, no council, and no law beyond what a wronged party can enforce with their own hands. Rovers pass through heading north, Moonshiners pass through heading to their stills, and everyone else passes through as quickly as possible. Rock Hill endures not because it thrives, but because no one has bothered to destroy it.
Most of those people are Moonshiners who use Rock Hill as their off-season base when the stills in the foothills are running cold. During the brewing months, the town empties as its residents head into the hills to tend their operations. In winter, it fills back up with hard-drinking, hard-fighting brewers who have no patience for outsiders and no formal law to restrain them. River's End serves as the town's combination inn and bar, catering to locals and putting up the occasional traveler for the night. Gilly's Trading Post handles the buying and selling of local goods, most of which smell faintly of moonshine or toxic sludge or both.
No one comes to Rock Hill by choice. Its residents are outcasts, refugees, and people who found the rest of the south too civilized for their taste. The town has no mayor, no council, and no law beyond what a wronged party can enforce with their own hands. Rovers pass through heading north, Moonshiners pass through heading to their stills, and everyone else passes through as quickly as possible. Rock Hill endures not because it thrives, but because no one has bothered to destroy it.
