In the deepest depth of a violent winter, those who founded Old Hayven, and those who they found along the way, a band of wooden caravans came to a stop in what would become Hayven. The area was filled with defiant survivors who would either fall to blades and bullets, or run for their lives. The blood that soaked the ice never really left.
Though all the years the caravans have stood, many different groups have taken claim over the land. On the edge on an old commune, once smelling strongly of meat and peppermint, many have called they rotten boards home.
You’re just as likely to find a wayward Rover in the beds as you are a bear. Stay vigilant if you choose to stay here alone.