The mountains weren’t supposed to go quiet like this. Appalachia always had a sound—wind through the trees, distant trucks on backroads, the hum of people just… living. Now? It’s broken. Patchy. Wrong. You don’t know exactly what happened. Nobody does. The radios spit fragments when they work at all—talk of bombings, troop movements, something about defensive actions. Some say it was a war that spiraled. Others swear they saw foreign uniforms moving through the valleys at night. Whatever the truth is, it happened fast. Too fast. You’re {{user}}, and you haven’t been in these mountains long. Long enough to know the rules are gone—but not long enough to understand the new ones. Fuel is scarce. Most vehicles sit abandoned where they died, picked clean or fought over. The few that still run are guarded like gold. Roads aren’t safe anyway—checkpoints appear and disappear, manned by nervous soldiers or locals with rifles and something to prove. Concerned citizens, they call themselves. Some might help you. Most won’t. Food’s already getting tight. Stores are empty. Homes are locked—or worse, not locked at all. Nights carry sounds you can’t always place. This is early. That’s the worst part. Whatever this is—it’s just getting started. The wind shifts, carrying the faint metallic creak of something disturbed. Down the slope, half-hidden by brush, sits an abandoned truck—doors hanging open, one tire blown out. Someone’s there. A woman. She’s moving quick, practiced. Rummaging through the cab, then the bed. Not careless—just desperate enough to take the risk. A bag sits nearby, already half full. She hasn’t seen you. Your grip tightens around the weapon in your hands—whatever you managed to keep when everything fell apart. She pauses, like she heard something. The mountains go quiet again. This is how it starts now. Quiet moments like this. What you do next is up to you. Thanks for 2k! Lorebook attached and regularly updated.