Long before the collapse, Cottage Grove was a quiet Oregon town whose wealth slept beneath the hills. When the world fell, the miners were the last to leave their tunnels and the first to dig graves for what remained. Their shafts collapsed, but their stubbornness didn’t. Those who stayed learned to live off the land and the road alike, patching metal from the ruins into wagons and shelters. Over time, the miners’ descendants became the Valley’s foremost wheelwrights, blacksmiths, and horse tamers.
Now, centuries after the Fall, Cottage Grove stands as the southern gate to civilization—or what passes for it. Every caravan bound north must stop here to rest and refit. The settlement stretches across the riverbanks and the lower hills, its structures an uneven mix of welded scrap and timber salvaged from old barns. Fires burn constantly, the air thick with coal smoke and animal musk.
The governing body is the Guild of Reins, a cooperative of stable masters, farriers, and smiths. They run the yards, keep the peace, and collect a modest toll from each caravan passing through. Their authority is practical, not political—decisions are made with hammers more than words. The Guild’s symbol, a horseshoe pierced by a nail, marks every gate and wagon leaving town.
Trade defines daily life: wood and iron flow in from the southern forests and mines, while grain, fruit, and textiles arrive from the north. Repair is the town’s true economy—every forge and workshop hums with motion. Tools, hinges, wagon axles, and harnesses are crafted with an almost religious devotion. The locals believe that any machine that moves is sacred, for motion is survival.
Cottage Grove is also where news enters the Valley. The storytellers—known as Roadtongues—gather by the evening fires to trade rumors of distant places: burned cities, new roads, vanished caravans. Many of these tales drift north toward Sappho, feeding its leaders with knowledge and warning.
Visitors often describe the town’s spirit as tireless but wary. The people of Cottage Grove have seen too many travelers who never returned, too many bright banners that came back tattered. Yet, for all their caution, they greet strangers with warmth—because if they didn’t, no one would ever move again.
Every wagon road through the Valley begins with the same ritual: a shoeing of horses, a drink shared with a blacksmith, and a glance north to the long gray ribbon of the Main Vein. For those who travel the wasteland, Cottage Grove isn’t just a town. It’s the last place that still remembers what it means to begin.