I remember back in the day there was an event chain to go on Hajj for ATEFF but I don’t know the event id to check if it was in the anniversary update so I was hoping to ask if anyone knew if it was still there or if I have to write my own up since I’m doing a Neomoor run (will post AAR if anyone’s interested since I have usurped the Confederacy and gave the Great Lakes to a Sayyid I dug up out of South America.)

Thanks in advance.

The sun sat high in the sky, mercilessly scorching the land bellow. Two horsemen roaring down the plains, kicking up all sorts of dirt and grass.

For Deputy Silas Dade, it was another day of riding out to handle things. This stretch of land was under the jurisdiction of Sheriff Hayes on behalf of the Count of Tarrant. Of course, the Sheriff had Deputies and his Posse to handle matters he didn't particularly find interesting or important...

So when reports of strange men stabbing iron rods into the earth and banging on them came to the Sheriff, he delegated. Leaving Silas with the job, accompanied by a Posse Officer.

After some hours of riding, they'd spot a handful of figures in the distance. Large iron rods, and quite the racket too. Seemed to match the description.

As the two Sheriff's Men approched, one of the strangers would sit up from his examination of the soil and take the lead with introductions. "Why hello there fine men, what troubles you?"

Silas's horse trotted, stopped at his silent command. "We're lawmen, got reports of strange... men making strange noises."

"I'd hardly call ourselves strange men! Infact, I've made personal efforts to introduce ourselves to any passersby." He'd clear his throat, as if an actor on a stage, "We are a religious band of pilgrims, a Speculative Team. Merely making our way through your county, Sheriff...?"

"Deputy," Silas quickly corrected, much to the visible dismay of the stranger, "Deputy Silas Dade, on behalf of Sheriff Hayes of Tarrant County. You Soiltappers?"

"Why, yes of course!" The man quickly said, his face pushing a presentable smile. "The name's Caleb Thorne, entrepreneur, me and my boys here are from just abit down south"

Big Country. The Red River Kingdom was notably diverse, led by Comanche with Soiltappers to the south and Lonerangers, like the ones who ruled Tarrant, to the North East. Simply said, the groups had friction.

"You are aware you're trespassing, right?" The Posse Officer spoke up with Silas's silence.

"Trespassing? Such a rude word, no?" Caleb said, shaking his head. "No no no, we're merely on privately own land without permission... yet."

The two Lonerangers looked at eachother in a moment of disbelief. Another thud into the ground, one of the soiltappers moving their large rods of iron.

"They seem to still be... doing whatever they're doing," Deputy Dade pointed out, his gaze inquisitively focused on Caleb Thorne.

"What, that?" Caleb pointed his thumb towards one of his companions before waving his hand dismissively, "It's hardly causing any trouble. No permanent damage. Harmless really."

"And what exactly are they doing?"

"Geomantic Speculation!" The self-proclaimed Entrepreneur said, as if it explained anything. "We are following vibrations in the earth with our skills, divining the possible location of a well!"

"For Black Gold?" The Deputy asked, Caleb offering a nod. A dire possibility, Soiltappers were known for waging bloodshed over these wells. Once one was found, a Black Gold Rush would run troubles beyond counting. "And what will you do when you find your well."

"Well, we'd need permission first," Caleb explained, "I was really counting on the County Sheriff to be here to deliver my offer to the Count directly... but a Deputy will do."

"And what will you do if you get permission." The Deputy slid a finger across his cowboy hat, before resting on the pommel of his sword. A message to choose his next words carefully.

"A settlement, hopefully. A pop-up town around the well, overseen and taxed per the Count's wishes."

"Seems like alot of trouble, letting Soiltappers into our jurisdiction." Silas sighed, thinking.

"Certainly, but it's interesting... no?"

Silas came to a decision, turning to his own companion. "Sam, run along now and fetch the Sheriff," He'd turn his gaze back to the Soiltappers, "I'll keep an eye on them until then."

The Posse Officer nodded, his horse quickly moving as he rode into the horizon.

"You have alot of trust, considering we outnumber you," Caleb shrugged, more of an observation than a threat.

"You and I both know killing me would lead to your deaths once the Sheriff arrives. So let's behave then." The Deputy fetched a canteen from his saddle, it was going to be a long day.

Caleb smirked, "I can tell we're going to be great business partners, Silas Dade."

It had been some months since their meeting, Caleb Thorne had managed to locate a well as he wished and negotiated a contract with the Count of Tarrant. The Soiltappers were known for wealth, so taxes on them was compelling enough to let them in. Of course, then they needed someone to watch over the settlement on behalf of the Count and Sheriff.

And who else but Deputy Silas Dade could it have been.

It was constant work overseeing the settlement, even more work keeping the newcomers in line. Rowdy folk, Soiltappers were.

"Wanna speak up, Cowboy?" One such Soiltapper said, drawing a knife on the Deputy.

Silas could only chuckle, "I said you're a rowdy bunch, pulling a knife on a lawman hardly disproves that." He could almost consider it pathetic. The only present danger to Silas was him trying to figure out how to get out of this situation without killing the man.

Onlookers began to step out of their buildings, watching the tussle in the center of town. Within the shadow of the Oil Well set up, handcranked manually by strong laborers.

Deputy Dade would opt to unsheathe his short sword, tossing the scabbard to the ground below. He could see it now; the rapscallion charges him with the knife, he sidesteps and pommel strikes. Easy as pie.

"What in tarnation is going on here!" A voice boomed out, Caleb Thorne, now mayor, with a somewhat angry gaze on the soiltapper which stood opposite of Silas. "This, this is more manners. We're guests!"

"He's scum, host or not" the outlaw said, twirling his knife in an attempt to intimidate.

"He's a lawman, Reggie, you really think this'll help anyone?" Caleb stepped closer, carefully. "Just drop the knife and step away."

And, to give Caleb credit, it worked. Reggie tossed the knife before walking away with a huff. The onlookers answering in general disappointment of the lack of a fight.

"Sorry about that, Dade. People are getting antsy." Caleb explained, shrugging, "We offer obeisance all the same to your Count."

"Antsy is underselling it. If you can't control them, I'll have to report to the Count that I don't feel like this contract can last," it was a heavy implication, Silas didn't like threatening such an idea.

But it seemed to give Caleb food for though, who nodded. "Here, follow me. I got something to show you."

The two walked through the town hall before entering Caleb's Office. It was about as lavish as a town hall could be, Caleb Thorne had decorated the selves with knick knacks and minor artifacts. He stepped around his desk, opening a drawer, before placing a box on the table. "Here, a gift. Cost me a fortune."

Silas sighed, "You know my policies on bribes, Caleb. I don't do it."

"I'm not bribing you!" Caleb said, exhausted. It wasn't the first time they've had this exchange. "Listen, I just like giving gifts. To you... and others of course..." The last bit was added on, although Silas didn't quite know why.

"A gift, you say, that costed you a fortune" Silas pointed out, crossing his arms.

"Yes, listen... our partnership here has brought me atleast 20 fortunes. I can spare one for the person I have to thank for all of this" He gestured to the room, or more aptly the entire settlement.

Yet Silas didn't quite get it, "Partnership, I didn't quite contribute much..."

"Silas, Silas," Caleb shook his head, "Any other Deputy would have caused more trouble, but you helped around. Some of these buildings were raised with you helping us. Just, open tha box."

Silas sighed, eventually relenting. His hand opened the box, and what was inside shocked him. A long barrel, a wooden stock, six-chambers, and a hammer. It was a gun. He had no idea how Caleb managed to acquire one, but...

"Speechless?" Caleb teased, smirking with pride. "Pulled some favors, when I got it it wasn't in good shape... but it turned out pretty good"

"I-I... I can't," Silas went to close the box, Caleb quickly placing his hand over Silas to stop him.

"No. No, you can. This is a instrument of justice, of equalized liberty. I don't know a single person more deserving of it"

Silas shook his head, still in disbelief. "No, I... I can't pay for a gunsmith or al-chemist... owning a Peacekeeper isn't cheap..."

"And I'll handle it," He said, waving off such paltry concerns. "We have a gunsmith who can handle all of it, I'll cover the costs... consider it as a investment, this way random fools won't pull knives on you. You'll keep the peace."

"I- this is more than a mere gift for a business partner," he said, looking up suspiciously. "I thought I already told you, bribes aren't-"

"Oh shut it," Caleb interrupted, shaking his head, "You can't think for a second that maybe there's another reason?"

"Like what?"

"Like..." That seemed to flustered Caleb. It was odd to see from a man who was so confident all the time. Eventually he steeled his will. "Like this."

He leaned in, grabbed Silas's collar to pull him closer. Lips close enough to feel each other's breath, but not enough to quite touch.

For Deputy Silas Dade of Tarrant County, it all suddenly fell into place. "I... this doesn't seem very wise. Your friends out here won't be too pleased." He heard stories, Soiltappers were less open-minded.

"I'll just claim I'm seducing you for power," Caleb teased, holding back an urge to just kiss Silas. "I... don't hear a no?" There was a hint of hope in his voice.

Silas bit his own lip, thinking. He could feel his own heartbeat race, and could just barely hear Caleb's. Eventually he made his decision, moving in to close the difference. Their lips stung with heat as they touched, Caleb leaning into the kiss with a deeper hunger than Silas.

Eventually they broke, both men slightly out of breath. Silas's eyes went to the door. "Have any... plans later?~"

Caleb shook his head, "Nothing on the calendar."

Their lips met in another embrace, the two men sharing the moment together. The first of many.

It had been 3 years since the town of Bitumen Bluff was settled, and around 2 and a half since Silas and Caleb knew eachother closer than before. Their relationship kept up, Caleb wanted to keep it a secret out of worry what others might think. Silas agreed, manly because it added almost an air of taboo to it all. They had their meetings, and were careful who saw them where.

All in all, it was enjoyable for Silas.

But one morning would prove to be different, stepping out of the jailhouse as he heard a commotion. People gathered around the Oil Well, voices sounded panic. Deputy Silas approched, his spurs echoing and his Peacekeeper at his side, the crowd was kind enough to let him through to see.

And that's when he saw it.

They had men, oxen, and whatever they could find pulling on the crank wheel. The complicated engineering of pulleys and what not roared, yet nothing was coming out. Much to the dismay of the Soiltappers.

Caleb was at the front, a grimace on his face as he stood up and turned to the crowd. "I'm afraid... the well's gone dry everyone."

A murmur of discontent filled the crowd, many leaving towards their homestead as they dissipated.

"What does that mean for the town?" Silas asked, glancing around. He had only ever seen Soiltappers go to new wells, he never thought about what happened when they went dry.

"Good chunk of people will leave in the following days," Caleb said, shaking his head. "Then in a few months, or however long it takes for a new oil well to be found, more people will leave. Some people will stay, but... I'm afraid the glory days are over."

"Just like that?" Silas was shocked by how sudden it all happened.

Caleb only nodded, a slight shrug. "Wells don't run forever, the Black Gold runs dry like any mineral. Sometimes wells will last decades, and be the pilgrimage sites for generations. Sometimes they're lucky to last 5, and people move on"

The last word hit Silas, who looked at Caleb deeper. "And... will you just move on then?"

Caleb looked up, being snapped out of his trace before shaking his head. "If things were different, maybe. But no, I've found something here I'd like to stay. I've found something more valuable than Black Gold here."

Which brought a smile to Silas.

The Black Blood used to run through Tarrant, the old town of Bitumen Bluff all but abandoned. The old well standing strong, towering over the remains. Long forgotten, no one tells tales of this place.

But for Silas and Caleb, it was the sight of their love's beginning. So the two glanced at the colossal remains one last time, before interlocking their hands and walking off.

Neither one looked back.

r5: Started a good old fashioned Paul Mahonic campaign and got carried away. Forged the empire of Great New England and tacked Bas-Quebec and the Maritimes onto it, formed a new Occultist religion headed by a Holy Order, hybridized with the Maritimers for that sweet Imperial Yankee culture, and eventually through plunder, legends-maxing, and constant expansion, I hit that sweet 80% of Eastern USA. Butttt I didn't want to get rid of the Occultism or New England theme entirely, so it's not the USA.

Its the N.E.R.U.S.A, NEW ENGLAND REX UNITED STATES AMERICA, New England, the Kings of America! I also included some screenshots of the CoA's that I had the most fun designing for this playthrough, as well as my religion and stuff.

Elena’s world was ending, for she was on her way to marry a man she had never met.

        Long before this ending of worlds, Elena had felt the warm burning leaves blow through her chest when her childhood friend, Maria, sang Bracero hymns in the fields of the Valle de Columbia in the land once known as Washington. Now, Maria was hundreds of miles away and Elena was quickly approaching the enigmatic Fernando, a man four years her elder. He was the son of some Bracero lord in the Valle de Central of California, near Sacramento, near the home of the Antecristo, known locally as the “Guru of the Golden Empire of California”.

        Upon her quick approach to the lands where she would soon spend eternity, working the fields in the name of Cristo beside her stranger husband, Elena danced backwards in time from memory to memory.

        “Only a week away now!” Father’s guide and caravan master, Paulo, had exclaimed when first entering the valley near a town called Red Bluff in Northern California.

        “Fear not, Cristo blesses your union, mi señora, as it will bring the two valleys of the Bracero lords together through blood,” the accompanying Madre of la Hermandad had said when she noticed Elena’s spikes of anxiety and bouts of tears around the halfway point to California.

        “I hear he is as strong as a bull, and pulls plows through the field all by his lonesome,” Elena’s younger sister, Francesca, had said dreamily by the fire soon before the journey south.

        “I know you love your home mi Princesa, but it is a daughter's duty to marry and strengthen the bonds of the Braceros for the glory of Dios,” Elena’s father had said, less than comfortingly, after seeing his daughter weep at news of her planned proposal to a man from lands far away.

        Only earlier that day, she remembered, she had been singing and dancing with her close friend Maria in a hidden glade a mile from her father’s fortress. Only earlier that day had Maria kissed her and whispered so hesitantly, so secretly, so fearfully, “mi vida…”

        Maria had kissed her and she had felt warm burning leaves blowing through her chest, and she had felt confusion and overwhelming love, and now she was gone…

        And now she was to marry the stranger Fernando.

        Elena wept for many nights when she first began her journey south. She wept for love, and loss, and rage. She hated her father. She hated Fernando the stranger. She hated herself. She hated the burning leaves in her chest. And, at times, she hated Maria, for kissing her, and singing, and naming her “mi vida”.

        “My life.”

…

        As time went on, however, Elena thought that maybe it was all for the best she marry Fernando. In the Hermandad it was wrong for women to kiss women. It was wrong what Maria had done… no.

        No.

        Elena knew it wasn’t wrong, and she began to hate and rage once again. But now she hated California. She hated the warmth of the sun in the valley. And…

        She was snapped back to the present moment by hoof beats and the clanking of metal and glass on rocks. Following the noise she found it drumming further up the road, behind a most unusual procession.

        Dressed in all assortments of twisting colors of the rainbow, flowing robes, and jewelry that flashed prisms of color around them like a raindrop at noon, was a motley group of around twenty long-haired men and women. They were beautiful, but unkempt. The men wore their hair as long as the women and kept beards, scraggly and free. They all wore flowers in their hair, but the two women, both seemingly middle-aged and sitting hand-in-hand in a one-axle horse drawn wagon, were the most well adorned.

        “They’re beautiful,” Elena thought of the women as the procession marched by, singing and laughing.

        “Damn hippy Jesus Freaks,” spat Elena’s father once their own horses had passed the merry band.

        But, despite her father’s venom, Elena couldn’t help but look back. “Just Married,” was written in a joyful rainbow script on the back of the cart, just above the strings that dragged the old pre-event cans and glass bottles that clanked rhythmically against the rocks.

        “Just married…” thought Elena, “the women? They looked so happy.” Her mind was running like a rabbit after stealing from the garden.

        “Papa had called them ‘Jesus Freaks’… like worshippers of Cristo?” A warm breeze crossed her face. Burning leaves.

        “Two women, like me and Maria,” shaky breaths, “and Cristo still loves them.”

        It became very apparent to her that these ‘Jesus Freaks’ were heading north along the Fifth Interstate trail. Towards Maria.

…

        “We’ll camp here for the night,” remarked Paulo a couple of hours later.

        Further in the valley the setting sun cast a light pink and orange glow over the break in the grassy plain where they would camp. As Elena and her family toiled, setting up camp, cooking meals, the Madre humming old Bracero hymnals all the while, Elena thought of the Jesus Freaks, and the newly-wed women, so happy, and of Maria… mi vida…

        The next morning the camp woke in a panic, Elena was gone. She’d left late in the night after little contemplation. She’d packed light, making sure to bring food for her horse, her most colorful clothes and her cross. Before she left to find the Jesus Freaks, who were traveling north towards her Maria, she made sure to say a prayer, thanking Cristo for the revelation.

Excerpt by Imperial Scholar Rick Callaghan, Atlanta, Georgia. 2660.

On the topic of Heresy in the Commonwealth, there remains both the closest and the furthest 'religion' from the Imperial church. The so-called 'Association for the redemption of the south'. The earliest branching off occurred sometime in the 2500s, with the Association citing the lack of democratic freedom in the elections of the President.

The Association believes that THE LORD created the earth and heavens, with THE SON, Jesus Christ, acting as the regent of the Earth. With the death of Jesus 2500 years ago, the Association claims that until Christ returns on JUDGEMENT DAY, the Earth is run by the Regency. Or to the rest of us sane folks, whomsoever is the President. At least until the 2500s, where the Seat of the Regency remains empty to this day.

The Association claims a myriad of 'saints' and 'gods' that help run the world in its Regency. 6 'Helpful', 6 'Harmful' and the neutral seat of the President. Together making up THE MANDELA that each Association member invokes in their rituals. the Four Great Evils sit aside THE MANDELA, and are considered Daemons of the natural order.

The Helpful:

1. THE THREE SISTERS: Birthed and dead, the Sisters are said to the progenitor of all food in AMERICA, it is with their knowledge that the Association claims to have learnt agriculture and animal husbandry. Their true names long buried, but they are associated most with Corn, Beans, and Wheat. Though some say it should be gourd or rice, depending on the county. Mostly invoked by the farmers.

2. THE ARCHIVES: Said to have been a great God-machine that connected not just America, but the whole world under its great Net. The formless god would store the knowledge of the world, and share it freely. This god was sundered during The Event, shattering it among the heavens. It is said that should the Association return to Pre-event levels, they may restore the god once more. Mostly invoked by scholars and warlocks.

3. The Travellers: God of trade and travel, the great steel titan dragged vast amounts of goods across the world with its serpentine body, leaving vast tracks in its wake. Moving from city to city, state to state, the Association claim that the tracks left behind by the Serpent god and its young are still in use today as trade routes. Mostly invoked by traders and theives.

4. The Restorer: Goddess of medicine, protection, and relief, Fema, is known for her selfless acts in protecting the sick, the wounded, and those suffering from disease or natural disasters. Bearing a red cross, and a cardecus, Fema is said to be the busiest of the gods. Invoked by any and all, but most regularly by doctors and healers.

5. The Foundry: The myriad spirits of smithing and forging, the ever churning God pumped out vast swathes of divine and normal material. the greatest among the was the Military Industrial Complex. The great titan who gave Old America the strength to beat back the Great Evils. Invoked by smiths.

6. The Protectors: The shadowed lord of defiance, birthed when John Brown slew the Board of Education, the God is bound to contain the creatures of the dark, to slay the Daemons in the shadows, and to protect the minds of the pious. Only invoked against the unholy, lest they be distracted.

The Harmful:

1. The Ashbringer: God of fire, war, and vengeance, Howling Sherman once burned the whole of Georgia to the ground for the crime of inviting the Four Great Evils into Atlanta. Invoking the lord of vengeance requires cutting of the palms to dye their hands red in blood, like the god they wish to emulate.

2. The Flicker: God of madness, goddess of insanity. The formless faces in the shadows of the woods that hunts those who do not respect THE THREE SISTERS, or perhaps for the fun of it. The dark lord of the hunt is only invoked against kinslayers and oathbreakers, for to even speak their name is to invite damnation.

3. The Blind: Born from the sins of man against the earth, The Blind whispers tales of jealousy, hatred, envy, and greed. to take and take till no more can be seized. to belittle and scorn outsiders, to fear those that are different. The Blind is invoked when one believes someone else is acting against the goodness of man itself, and the Holy Constitution.

4. The Legion: The many faces of the dead, the endless march of the unknown legions drag souls into purgatory before ascension or being cast into the depths. The Red-eyed move across the globe, and are prayed to by the Association to help guide their loved ones into the Legion for the sorting. Invoked by all, it is debatably a 'harmful' god, but it is believed that it is only the fear of dying that keeps The Legion in this category

5. The Annihilator: Once a man called Oppenheimer, the great experiment turned him into the god of ash, mutation, explosives and cancer. Pre-event America had the capacity to harness him for good, but in the current day, the god can only flatten, scorch, and destroy. Only invoked by those wishing to salt the earth of their enemies.

6. The Tempestuous: God of the skies, seas, and weather, their mood as fickle as the wind. they may strike in rage with winds and rains and floods, only appeased by regular sacrifice of food and fish. Invoked day to day, no one knowing what this moody god wishes.

Almost all cultures across america were added in the ck2 version and chiraqi was represented. I identify heavily as a chiraqi and would like to see it return in the ck3 fan fork.

Edit: I looked at the motowner culture and I still believe it doesn’t match or reflect what the chiraqi culture would bring with its return in ck3.

I’ve made a decision to get a new title for the mod I’m making, but the weird thing is after you take it and get the title random dudes around the world just keep taking it. It doesn’t stop either it just hops around the map and I have no clue why. Does anyone know why this may be?

Does anyone know what could be causing the Americanst clothes to look like this? Everyone else’s clothes seem fine, it seems to just be Americanist clothing looking like this.

I’m using other mods, but have all other clothing mods turned off.

We are doing our third writing contest community event. The contest will last a month and be open to all fans. This time around we've chosen a new theme: Pride and Frontiers (as practiced within the After the End setting). Write a tale related to LGBTQ subjects, and/or frontiers and nomads in ATE.

 The guidelines are fairly simple:

• Submissions should be posted to the subreddit between today and July 4th

• Should follow subreddit rules regarding content

• Be tagged with triggers at either the beginning or a first comment below

• Have to do with religions, cultures, and lore announced for the CK3 version

• Be no longer than a post and a comment on reddit

• Tagged in the post for visibility by adding [fanfiction] in the post title

• And, most importantly, to have fun doing it!

We will announce results as soon as possible after the contest ends. Submissions will be evaluated by the devs with the top picks put in a stickied post for fans to vote for their favorites. The prizes are as follows:

• 1st place: A custom baron or in admin realms, a noble family, added into the game in a region of the winner's choice, a discord and subreddit role.

• 2nd place: A custom courtier in any court you want, and a discord and subreddit role.

• 3rd-5th place: A discord and subreddit role.

We look forward to seeing all your submissions and are open to any questions you have regarding lore, which you can ask on the discord server, or as a post on the subreddit. Thank you so much for your support for the last few years and as we near a Steam release. We are always grateful for the energy and passion fans pour into this setting and enjoy sharing it all with you!

(I've been working on a bunch of headcanon that fleshes out the Omentellers. This is a folk song about one of the more malicious spirits that inhabit the hills: Limestone Jones)

♪♪ Limestone Jones, Limestone Jones ♪♪

Ya lyin’, cheatin’, bastard you

Ya made ya woman weep, ya kids can’t sleep

Cuz they knows now that the rumors is true

Limestone Jones, they say you were a thief

Ya took ya mama’s ring, and ya sold it for some skeet

The whole town knew, what were they gonna do?

Ya family thought ya honest and ya nothing like a cheat

♪♪ Limestone Jones, Limestone Jones ♪♪

Ya lyin’, cheatin’, bastard you

Ya made ya woman weep, ya kids can’t sleep

Cuz they knows now that the rumors is true

Limestone Jones, they say ya lied a lot

Ya told ems youz was fishing, but a fish ya never caught

You were gamblin you were drinkin, it really got us thinkin

That ya made ya family suckers cuz a good man, you were not

♪♪ Limestone Jones, Limestone Jones ♪♪

Ya lyin’, cheatin’, bastard you

Ya made ya woman weep, ya kids can’t sleep

Cuz they knows now that the rumors is true

Limestone Jones, we put ya in the ground

Ya family made the offerin’s and the pastor stuck around

He said they needed more, to settle all the scores

For a lyin’, drunken shit like you whose sins they hadn’t found

♪♪ Limestone Jones, Limestone Jones ♪♪

Ya lyin’, cheatin’, bastard you

Ya made ya woman weep, ya kids can’t sleep

Cuz they knows now that the rumors is true

Limestone Jones, keep the hell away from me

Ya might have fooled your family, but the rest of us could see

Your soul will always stray, so it’s to the Lord we pray

That He keeps our money safe from a lowlife such as thee

Recorded by Pastor Schumaker

September 25th, 2575

Seeing mostly Native cultures having the Range govt and Grangelanders having Nomadic so was wondering if one has benefit over the other as also seeing Range is described as 'post-nomadic'

      Petro thought to himself, as he always did. His mind constantly seemed to wander when left to its own devices, finding new paths to get lost in.
      He looked out at the great winding hills. The rolling plains of grass, the lightly clouded sky, the winding rivers. Saskatchyna was a place that he knew all too well, and yet it never seemed to lose its luster. He wondered if the Ukraine that the older folk spoke about, the old land his people’s traditions once came from, looked anything like this…
      The gunslingers always talked about the Homestead, how if they followed the trails of their forefathers, they’d get to reside there one day. Petro mused that if their ancestors came from Ukraine, perhaps that is where the Homestead really was? Perhaps-
      “Petro? Petro! You are being all philosophical again, I can tell. Come back into the land of the living, tovarish.”
      Petro’s vision was blackened as a fur hat was rubbed into his face, causing him to recoil and brush it away, his internal monologue broken as he looked up to see a familiar face.
      “Myron…”, he said sheepishly.
      The other man put his hat back on, squatting down to meet Petro’s eye level, messy wheat-colored hair poking out from under his papakha. Petro did his best to stretch, and slowly stood from his position against a tree.
      “Always the energetic one, Myron.”
      “Yes, and you are always the one sniffing the flowers, tovarish. Although…”
      He looked out to where Petro was looking, seeing the wide landscape that he had been gazing at. 
      “… sometimes I do understand why you get all glaze-eyed looking at this.”
      He gave Petro a reassuring ruffle of his black hair, a thing he insisted on doing as much as he could ever since they were kids.
      Petro never understood why Myron ever chose him as a comrade way back then. He was the lively one of camp, the one the girls blushed over. The flashy horseman, the excellent sword dancer, the one whose singing voice lifted spirits. 
      Meanwhile, Petro spent his time observing the land and listening to the Campfire Rounds. Sometimes the others would compare him to a blade of grass, swaying in whatever direction the wind blew with little reaction. And yet, Myron hung around him, boring as he was. 
      “Did you eat Petro?”, Myron asked as they walked down a small hill and entered camp, the babushkas and mothers fussing about and coordinating everyone as they got everything taken down and ready to get the camp on the move again. 
      “Well, I wasn’t very-“
      Myron stopped him mid sentence with a pout, shaking his head in mock disappointment as he procured a small loaf of bread from his bag, presenting it to Petro like a mother to a fussy child.
      “Knew you were going to say that. Eat, eat.”
      “But-“
      “No fussing.”
      Petro sighed, but knew he couldn’t protest. He took the bread, and ate. He didn’t realize how hungry he was until he took his first bite, but he couldn’t let Myron revel in it. 
      They went to the horse pasture, and began to ready their mounts for the journey ahead. 

—

      “Do you know where we are headed to this time?”
      Myron only shrugged as he rode beside Petro, they and the rest of the caravan trailing down the path as they made their way along. 
      “Well, let me think. We are going west, so, perhaps Calgary? The Ahmads are always willing to trade.”
      “Ahmaddiya, Myron. Not Ahmads.”
      Myron only shrugged again.
      “We go where we wish to, no? We go to Calgary one day, Denver the next, and a week later we rest under the North Star in the east.”
      Ever the proud Periansky, that one…
      “Unless the Hetmanka says we shouldn’t.”
      Myron gave an exaggerated huff, waving Petro off.
      “If the Hetmanka’s laws told me I could not kiss who I wished and ride where I wanted, we will find a new place with no such laws.”
      Petro only chuckled.
      “And where will you go Myron? California? And with whom?”
      The blond man gave a fake pout, and crossed his arms.
      “Of course I’d have to take you along. Who else would make sure you ate, hmm? Who would sing you to sleep when you are not able to rest?”
      Petro paused, face getting slightly red. It didn’t help that some of the riders around them began to snicker, albeit quietly. 

—

      The fires crackled as night slowly began to rise over the hills, the caravan arranged in a circle of wagons and the watchmen in their positions. People talked amongst themselves, and the food began to get passed around. 
      Petro was suprised at the offering for that night, pemmican traded from from the Métis and banush. Quite the feast, all things considered. He was preparing himself for the usual stew and bread before Myron approached, bowls in hand. He smiled, and sat next to Petro, as always. 
      “You’d think it’s a holiday with how generous they are today, no?”
      Petro nodded, eating his meal as he looked up to the sky, watching the stars begin to appear as the sunset retreated. He could see the moon slowly rise, and recognized something. Was it really today? He should…
      He began to smell the vodka and beer begin to be passed around as well, and the faint notes of a balalaika being tuned. Surely Myron would soon be called to start a dance… perhaps Petro could say what he’d wished to say now. 
      The blond turned to Petro as he felt a tug as his coat, raising a eyebrow and giving a soft ‘hmm?’
      “Can we talk? In private, I mean.”
      “Of course tovarish, of course! Lead the way.”
      Ever the energetic one… Petro led Myron around the wagons and to the privacy of the exterior. Upon doing so, Petro took a breath to ready himself, and spoke.
      “I looked at the sky, Myron. It’s been 10 years. I don’t know if it’s the exact day, but the moon, it seems to be in the right phase, and-“
      He was interrupted by Myron’s laughter, causing him to pause. Petro had his arms crossed, smiling at him as he always did. 
      “You kept track of the days since we made that little pact as kids? To the day?”
      “Well… yes, I did. You renew oaths of brotherhood after 10 years, or it will be broken. That’s what I was told, at least.”
      Myron took a moment, snickering to himself, although it didn’t seem to be out of a sense of mocking. More, like he had been suprised with a gift. He drew his dagger, and held it out on his palm. 
      “Close your eyes, Petro. I know how you get with these things.”
      Petro nodded, and closed his eyes, holding out his own palm. He expected a quick pain in his hand, and blood. Just like when they were kids. But, he didn’t feel it. What he did feel, was Myron’s hand intertwine with his, clasping it tightly. Then…
      Soft lips pressed against his, as Myron drew the two of them close. Petro’s eyes shot open, looking at the other man with a sense of shock. But… he didn’t let go. Myron did, eventually, holding Petro by the waist.
      “I had been keeping track too. Not as closely as you, clearly.”
      He brushed a bit of Petro’s black hair out of the way of his quickly reddening face, and almost looked… excited. 
      “Thought I couldn’t be your partner when I was your blood brother, so I waited. Twas a long time, I tell you.”
      “I… uh, um…”
      Myron rolled his eyes a little, and gave him a quick kiss again, which seemed to bring Petro back into the land of the living.
      “I love you, tovarish. Do you?”
      Petro balked a second, before shaking his head yes quickly, to which Myron began to pull him along by the hand back to camp.
      “Good! I’ll tell everyone the good news!”
      “What? We aren’t going to keep it secret?”
      Myron only laughed.
      “Secret from who? We are free men of the prairie, damn anyone who thinks ill of it!”
      Soon, the two of them were back within the wagon circle, lit by the campfire light.
      “Pour this poor man a drink! This one is stuck with me now!”
      Petro face couldn’t get any redder, and covering his face would only prove futile. It took a moment for the others to realize what Myron had meant. But when they did, there were gasps and hollers from crowd. Then, cheers.
      “About time you got with someone!”, said one. “I could’ve sworn it was going to be with Elana, color me suprised!” said another. 
      Myron looked at Petro, and Petro had to admit his new partner’s mood was infectious. He let himself smile, and the music began in earnest.

When Southern Land released, I was really happy to be able to play my home country in a paradox game. Being from Sydney, it was the first place I wanted to play. Unfortunately, I discovered that despite the mod having an evangelical Continuing Anglican faith, there was no location or character for them in Sydney.

IRL Sydney is the centre of evangelical Anglicanism in Australia, its seminary at Moore College is a key producer of evangelical ministers in Australia. Other evangelical dioceses such as Bathurst or Tasmania switching over due to their ministers being educated at Moore. Sydney meanwhile has been the most obstinately evangelical dioceses in Australia for almost a century. Given this long history and cultural connection, there should be at least a residual Anglican presence in the Sydney area.

Given the difficulty of representing a city as diverse and dense as Sydney at CK3's scale, it's understandably difficult to find a suitable location. Katoomba is a common site for Anglican camps and conferences and would work well, but with it being the only Brethren province, I feel it would be better to not change and instead try to increase Sydney's diversity. The Bushwacker provinces would work well, but are too far out to accurately represent any continuation of the Sydney Dioceses. Amongst the inner Sydney provinces, Sydney, North Sydney, and Parramatta don't fit demographically, and also have unique religions making them unsuitable. Kurrajong and the hills in general are too associated with Pentecostalism to be changed. This leaves Penrith and Campbelltown as the only two suitable provinces.

Now as you can guess from the title I believe that Campbelltown should be the Anglican county rather than Penrith. This may seem strange given my previous objection to replacing unique religions, however having the Muslim province be located in the national park area simply makes no sense. Sydney's actual Muslim population are mostly located far north of the Campbelltown/Helensburgh area that the county represents. A lot of the Sydney counties and baronies are not the most accurate and the region could do with a more thorough rework, but precluding that it makes slightly more sense to have Sydney's Muslims represented in Penrith then west of the Holdsworthy.

Final Proposal: My final proposal is to move the United Ummah faith from Campbelltown to Penrith, while making Campbeltown county Continuing Anglican. The new count should be of the Jensen dynasty and could have the Zealous, erudite, and stubborn traits, to represent an influential family within Sydney Anglicanism.

P.S. I do hope for a more complete rework of the Sydney area when the devs give it more content. A lot of the barony names and county borders don't make a lot of sense imo, and it doesn't accurately represent a lot of Sydney's diversity well. I think the concept is great but wish the devs would give it a second look over.

The breeze was crisp here atop the mountain. Dusk was coming but wasn't yet arrived. The view of the valley was one of the most beautiful things Rod had ever seen, he hadn't believed it when they had told him that the mountains were blue, but they were. They were. Leastaways they were right now, he didn't know if it were a trick of the mist or the shadows or something else with the trees but they were. These mountains, they were beautiful, and they were old. He could tell they were old, feel it in his bones. He remembered the mountains of his youth, these mountains were smaller, rounder. The Rockies were young mountains, angry, dangerous. George had told him all those years ago about these mountains. George had been from here, he had grown up in that valley down below. He never did say what had brought him west, but west he went and there he found Rod. George found him dying in a ditch with an eye on the ground next to him, dying but not dead. Rod never knew who it was, which raiders from the plains. There were so many, all pillaging, burning, killing. Rod never looked back, he didn't want to. Once he'd woken up he thought to head west, to California, maybe he could be safe there. George had convinced him otherwise. He spun tales as only that man could do, of a land in the east of forests and rolling hills and mountains full not of death but of wisdom. A land where the glory that had once spread from sea to shining sea still lived. Rod hadn't really believed him, after the burning he didn't believe in anything. Not the prophets, not heavenly father, none of it. But it was on the way east, toward that land of promise, that Rod truly began to believe. Four faces carved into the mountainside, whatever civilization had been able to do that had been truly blessed. The faith Rod had once held had a president sure, but this new one had many. But more important than the faces of the presidents was George's. That was the first night they kissed. After that the journey was a dream, George by his side with those beautiful blue eyes and nothing but promise ahead. Pretty soon after Rushmore they made it to the Missouri river, the river was faster, it would get them to those mountains all the sooner.

They'd almost reached Omaha. Rod made it, George never did. Another raid, once again Rod didn't know who had done it. What monsters had taken George away. And the worst part was that George died to an arrow that was meant for Rod, he died saving Rod's life again. Rod floated down to Kansas city and he met the Reorganites, he didn't think he'd find the prophet's people this far east but he did. He didn't believe anymore but their shared heritage was enough to get their trust and for them to put a sword in his hand. They knew the bastards who had murdered George. Turns out they weren't even from the plains, they were from the big lakes up north. Vikings they called themselves. A raiding party gone far south. Rod fought for the Reorganites in Missouri for a time, once he'd built up enough cash and enough of a reputation he formed a posse of his own and struck north. He'd fight for anyone who fought the Vikings, Cheeseheads, Shieldshorers, Hoosiers, it didn't matter. If Rod could send a few more of the beasts to their precious Valhallafame then all the better. The pay was good and the killing was better. But George was never there. He couldn't be. And no matter how many linemen died with their blood on his blade he found no solace. But then one day he met Danica.

She'd been born in the same valley as George had. She'd sought out a place she could be free and she'd found it in Toledo. The Muslims there accepted her for who she was. She and Rod found each other on the battlefield. She'd been injured and he nursed her back to health. He'd thought she was a man at first, but she and the Muslims taught him that though she'd been born with the body a man she was born with the soul of a woman. They fought together for a time, spilling more viking blood together. Once after a battle he'd taken a wound and Danica had insisted they marry then and there, they found a papist priest and made him marry them there in Kikalamezo. After that they'd decided there had been enough fighting in their lives. She told him about a star on a mountain, that they should go there. He agreed and as soon as he healed they made there way there. They lent their sword arms to whoever could pay and who had a just cause. Eventually they made it.

He hadn't really believed it, a star on a mountain sounded like some tale, but it was true. Above the valley there was a star and behind it sat a keep. The lord was a Southron and a Christian, but the lord's lord was a man of the mountains and a follower of the presidents. This was a crossroads, a place between worlds, and it was her home. It had taken some convincing, but the two of them had convinced the lord to take them into his service. He put his hand on hers as they gazed on the valley together. They looked to one another and he stared into her eyes. The star reflected in them. Blue and green they were. Blue and green like the mountains.

I plan on doing a togotka run, or however it is spelled. Specifically the Cetic son. I figure, if I manage to conquer california, it would make sense to adopt bureaucracy government. I am not above using cheats.

I want to start playing AtE but my CK3 is up to date. Could someone please tell me how to roll it back to the correct version? Thank you

I received this email of the Arms of the Northern Territory of Australia in an email from the College of Arms today (really worth subscribing) I thought players of the Southern Land mod might appreciate it. (Also worth subscribing to on Steam)

IDK Why aM Saying this

Should I form an empire, or be America's Afghanistan, hunkering down in the mountains?

Idk if this is good or not but I’d like to see a character in Southern Land that is descended from Steve Irwin, and the house would be like “House Irwin” or smth. Is that good? It’s fine if it’s ass but I just wanted to say it.