Columbia Edgewater Country Club
The Columbia River forms the northernmost border of Portland, Oregon and Vancouver, Washington. On the southern shore of the river sits an old mansion in a remarkably well state of repair, considering the fate of its neighboring locales. The Columbia Edgewater Country Club is a little slice of pre-war existence that has managed to survive well past the apocalypse by shedding its less savory qualities and embracing that most universal of bonds: Camaraderie in the face of danger.
Once the club played host to Cascadia's elite, who would shut away the chaos befalling the region around them and retreat to an idealistic compound with manicured lawns and an immaculate golf course where food shortages and street riots were a distant noise that could easily be ignored. Now it is the home for wayward gunslingers and men of the wilderness who have taken the austere manor and turned it into a bastion of brotherhood, eschewing the grandeur of pre-war decadence almost entirely.
The Edgewater Hunters who now call the place home are a loose conclave of wandering hunters who use the country club as a base of planning and respite between their sojourns into Cascadia's wilderness to hunt. They will disappear for weeks at a time with no promise of ever returning, only to show up with a handful of new scars and the head of some devilish beast to be added to the club's collection of trophies. Portland owes the Edgewater Hunters much, even if the majority of its population will never know why. The worst creatures that stalk the ruined streets or haunt the dark forests in and around the city require a special breed of hunters to keep them in check. Many a monster that might have razed a settlement to the ground has found itself the hunted target of a superior foe, and been laid low by the practiced aim of an Edgewater Hunter.
Although it isn't all grand hunts against white whales that occupy the Hunters' time. The delicate balance of life in the post-war world must be preserved, and that often means culling the populations of more mundane creatures. Wolf packs, ghoul nests, rabid bighorner herds, even human creatures such as unruly raiders might all find themselves staring down the barrel of a Hunter attempting to maintain biodiverse order and ecological civility. In this sense many members of the club fancy themselves conservationists, and a strong sense of morality has been bred through the generations of souls to pass through the club's halls: Don't get lost in the thrill of the hunt, remember that every life taken must be done consciously and only with the intent of saving others. Practice moderation, for a world with nothing left to hunt will be a dark one indeed.
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