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Date: 7/26/1900 Subject: Hell let loose... After the tumultuous morning, we took our positions around the ranch, each of us feeling the weight of sleeplessness as we vigilantly scanned the house and its grounds. My wife was still struggling with her morning sickness, and our primary focus was to ensure her safety. The swamp-devils—shadowy figures lurking in the marsh—watched us intently from a distance, only retreating when we caught sight of them. As night fell, the stillness of the evening was shattered by the crack of gunfire coming from the bridges that spanned the swamp. It became apparent that the swamp had turned into a deadly trap, with no one managing to cross in or out. By morning, the grotesque display of bodies strung up from the trees served as a grim testament to the night’s violence, marking the swamp as a place of peril and death. After midnight, while we remained on high alert, the ranch was suddenly pierced by agonizing screams from the direction of the tents. The blood-curdling cries were quickly swallowed by an eerie silence. Heart pounding, we dashed to investigate, only to stumble upon a scene of horror: Wade Sunderland, one of my young ranch hands, lay lifeless in his tent, his body marred by multiple stab wounds. As we struggled to process the chilling sight, two shadowy figures emerged from the woods, their sinister laughter echoing through the night before they vanished into the darkness. The air was thick with a sense of dread, and the safety of our haven seemed more precarious than ever. Date: 7/26/1900 28th? I don't even remember anymore Subject: Through hell and back On July 27th, the familiar figure of Spike returned to the ranch. He was a man we had come to know all too well, and his presence signaled another confrontation. With a grim determination, he demanded an end to the bloodshed that had plagued us, but his offer was laced with a menacing threat that made it clear he was not to be trifled with. Our peace talks were brief and tense. We agreed to his terms: we would cease our attacks if they stopped their harassment. Reluctantly, we let Spike leave, hoping that this would mark the end of our troubles. But as we would soon learn, the uneasy truce was not the resolution we had hoped for. Instead, it marked the beginning of a far more perilous chapter in our struggle. After Spike vanished from our sight, the sudden crack of gunshots shattered the uneasy silence. It was a signal for his men, who began to advance down the train tracks toward us, quickly setting up blockades and rigging the area with gunpowder. The ominous preparations made it clear that something disastrous was unfolding. With their advance quickening, we realized that alerting the authorities or neighbors was no longer an option. Time was too short. I gathered as many of my men as I could and gave my dear Grace a stern instruction: stay at the house with a few ranch hands and provide covering fire while we confronted the threat. Determined to halt Spike’s plan before it could gain momentum, we moved out to push back the swamp devils, fighting to stop their schemes from coming to fruition. The stakes were high, and we knew that every second counted. The battle was grueling. Though Spike's men were less skilled with their guns, their sheer numbers overwhelmed us. They took advantage of the trees, using them as cover to unleash a relentless barrage of gunfire. Despite the odds, we pressed on, determined to push them back. After a fierce struggle, we managed to drive them away, at least temporarily. With the immediate threat receding, we made the decision to fall back to the ranch. Rejoining my dear wife and the remaining ranch hands, we knew our next step was crucial. We resolved to alert the Sheriff, hoping that his intervention would help us turn the tide in this escalating conflict. Before we could plan our next move, we saw that Spike’s men were already at work fortifying the train tracks once more. Realizing that we needed to act swiftly, we mounted up and set off with renewed determination, ready to drive them back. In the midst of the chaos, we had a photographer with us who had been caught in the crossfire. We quickly instructed him to head to Rhodes and then on to Saint-Denis. His mission was crucial: he had to seek out aid and bring reinforcements to help us in this dire situation. As we rode to confront the enemy, we hoped that his journey would bring the support we desperately needed. Everything fell apart when my men, ignoring our plan, pushed deeper into the swamp. I yelled for them to hold back, but my voice was lost in the chaos. Sticking to my position on the train tracks, I provided covering fire, determined not to follow them into the swamp. I had promised my wife I’d return safely, and their reckless advance seemed destined for disaster. As I fought to hold the line, Spike and his men appeared, their guns blazing. I dodged their shots, but one grazed my arm, and another struck a gunpowder barrel. The explosion ripped through the tracks, creating a momentary diversion. Seizing the chance, I sprinted into the cover of the woods and eventually made my way back to the ranch, where I hoped to find some semblance of safety. Just before I reached the ranch, I encountered a posse led by James Merriman and the folks from Sunset Dale. While we had been engaged in the fight, my wife had sought their help, and they had come through for us. I quickly briefed them on the dire situation. Without hesitation, they plunged into the swamp to retrieve my men from the clutches of danger. Seth was severely wounded, and Johnny and Ross were in rough shape as well. The swamp devils had suffered heavy losses, but the fight had taken its toll on us. As we regrouped, we transported those in need of medical care to the local doctor. The night stretched long and sleepless, fraught with pain and a gnawing anxiety about what the future held. Date: 7/28/1900 Subject: Hell itself On July 28th, we regrouped at the ranch, determined to push through our pain and maintain the morale of our men. My left arm throbbed relentlessly, and Seth bore a nasty scar across his face. Johnny and Ross were also injured, their suffering evident, but despite their options to leave, they chose to stay by our side. Their presence was a testament to their loyalty and the true spirit of friendship in the face of adversity. While we gathered at the front of the house, discussing our next steps, my dear Grace sought solace in a book at the back of the ranch, trying to escape the turmoil that had recently engulfed us. Unbeknownst to her, one of the swamp devils had crept up silently and abducted her. They dragged her to the depths of the swamp, imprisoning her in a cage. There, she was left alone, gripped by fear and uncertainty, desperately wondering if she would ever see me again. The thought of her terror and isolation shattered my heart and ignited a seething anger within me that I could scarcely contain. My dear Grace, with her unyielding spirit, refused to surrender easily. Even in captivity, she managed to stand her ground against the swamp devils, especially Cleet, who tried relentlessly to extract information from her. Despite their threats and intimidation, Grace only left them with a few scratches and a fierce defiance. The devils were brutal, fully aware of her pregnancy. They chose not to harm the baby directly, but they cruelly used the knowledge to taunt her, and eventually, to taunt me as well. Their taunts were a constant reminder of her peril, adding to the anguish and frustration that gripped me as I fought to find her and bring her home safely. The instant we discovered Grace was missing, the air around the ranch erupted with explosions. The swamp devils had used dynamite to create a diversion while they snatched her away. We scrambled for cover as the fog began to roll in, obscuring our view and complicating our efforts to track them. The chaos eventually subsided, and a lone rider appeared at the ranch. It was Spike’s brother, come seeking revenge. He demanded the name of the man who had executed Spike the previous day, offering a grim trade: the life of that man for my wife. The decision weighed heavily on me. If I revealed Ross's identity, both he and Grace would likely face certain death. The trade was one I could not accept, and so, with a heavy heart, no deal was struck. As I sifted through my belongings, I found my grandpa's old Civil War gun, its weight a reminder of the legacy I carried. Determined, I resolved to brave the swamp alone if necessary—my sole goal was to find Grace, even if it meant I wouldn’t come back. While I was in my room, preparing myself for the perilous journey, a sudden burst of gunfire shattered the silence. The frantic calls of my men reached me, their voices tinged with urgency. The ranch was under attack. It was time to defend our home. Without hesitation, I grabbed my gun and rushed out, ready to fight for the safety of those I held dear. After a grueling battle that claimed the lives of a dozen men on both sides, the remaining swamp devils finally surrendered. One of them, gravely wounded and desperate, begged for mercy. I offered none unless he revealed where my wife was. In a final act of defiance, he lunged at me with a gun that, to his misfortune, was empty. Fury consumed me as I realized he would rather die than disclose Grace’s location. With a grim resolve, I ordered Seth to finish him. Seth, his face set in a determined scowl, carried out the order with ruthless efficiency, ending the man’s life with a brutal swing of his machete. When the battle ended, there was no time to gather our fallen or grieve their loss. We immediately set about searching the bodies of the swamp devils, desperate for any clue that could guide us to Grace. Among the scattered belongings, we discovered her comb, stained with blood. The sight was chilling, and though it didn’t confirm her whereabouts or condition, I refused to entertain the possibility that she might be lost to us. Determined, I made the call. We would venture into the swamp, track their movements, and capture one of them alive if we could. It was our only hope of finding her and bringing her home safely. Before we could push further into the swamp, we were intercepted by Cleet. He demanded that I come alone if I wanted to see my wife. He instructed me to ride back with him to deliver Spike's killer—meant to be a show of good faith. Desperation clouded my judgment. With only the hope of seeing Grace again to guide me, I agreed and rode off with Cleet by myself. When we arrived, I saw her—alone in a cage, surrounded by those heartless swamp devils. The brief moment of reunion was shattered when Cleet struck me from behind with the butt of his shotgun. The blow sent me crashing into darkness, and as I slipped into unconsciousness, Cleet locked me in the cage beside her. Cleet tried to extract information from us, continuously taunting the two of us, promising to kill my wife before my eyes if I didn't speak. My dear wife and I hugged each other tight and refused to give them any information and deep in my heart I was hoping that Seth, Ross and Hudson did not give up on us. When Cleet and his men grew tired of us, they decided to shoot Grace, only that the gun was empty. Feeling humiliated he pulled his revolver and shot me in the abdomen instead. Grace quickly put herself between me and Cleet, hoping to make him stop, which he did. He left us both, left me in Grace's arms as she tried to control my bleeding, crying as I started drifting in and out in her arms. We were desperate and we thought that this was the end, but at least we were together in the end. Seth, Ross, and Hudson never gave up on us. Their resolve remained unshaken even as Cleet's camp receded into the thick, treacherous swamp. They tracked us with the determination of men who refused to let their friends be lost to darkness. The swamp, a maze of mud and tangled trees, became their ally. Using the dense foliage for cover, they moved silently, their presence nearly imperceptible among the shadows and muck. Each step was measured, each sound carefully muffled. The relentless murk of the swamp cloaked their movements, making them nearly invisible to the unwary. As they approached the camp, the trio worked with a practiced precision, slipping past the guards with an almost eerie quiet. Seth's eyes, sharp and focused, guided them through the camp's defenses. Ross and Hudson, equally skilled, neutralized the guards one by one, their movements fluid and efficient. Each subdued guard was a step closer to our salvation. Meanwhile, Grace and I remained locked in that confining cage. The world outside seemed distant and unreachable, our fate hanging by a thread as we waited in that claustrophobic prison. The sounds of the swamp and the occasional distant murmur of voices were all that broke the oppressive silence within the cage. Unbeknownst to us, Seth, Ross, and Hudson were working their way through the camp, each movement a testament to their unwavering commitment. As they cleared the last of the guards, their mission to rescue us neared its culmination. The swamp, once an impenetrable barrier, now seemed to promise a glimmer of hope. Soon, they would breach the perimeter, and the cage that held us would be their next target. The anticipation of their arrival was a beacon of hope in our darkest hour, a reminder that even in the bleakest moments, there were those who would fight to bring us back from the edge. Cleet’s patience had worn thin. Frustrated by our unyielding silence, his methods had all proved fruitless. With a cold finality, he turned to his men and issued the grim order: it was time to end it. In the cage, Grace and I clung to each other, our hearts heavy with the weight of our impending fate. Tears welled up in our eyes as we whispered the words that would be our last to each other. "I love you," I said, my voice choked with emotion. "I love you too," Grace replied, her voice trembling. We shut our eyes, bracing ourselves for the inevitable. The sound of Cleet’s men preparing their guns filled the air, a stark reminder of the end that awaited us. We held each other tightly, seeking comfort in our shared embrace, awaiting the final, fatal click. Then, as if by a miracle, a familiar voice shattered the tense silence. “NOW!” The command echoed through the swamp, and in an instant, everything changed. The sound of bullets whizzing past us was a cacophony of chaos. We instinctively ducked down, our bodies pressed close, shielding each other as best we could. Through the blur of fear and confusion, we realized that Seth, Ross, and Hudson had arrived. The heroes we had hoped for were here, their intervention swift and decisive. Their gunfire sent Cleet’s men scattering, their once-dominant presence now reduced to frantic retreat. Amid the disarray, Grace and I remained huddled together, our breaths coming in shaky relief. The danger was not yet over, but the arrival of our friends marked a turning point. In the midst of the turmoil, we could finally allow ourselves a glimmer of hope, our rescue unfolding before our eyes as the swamp devils fled into the shadows. When we finally escaped the cage, the scene around us was a grim testament to our ordeal. The ground was littered with the bodies of the swamp devils, their reign of terror finally over. We wasted no time. We commandeered one of their boats and, with the adrenaline still surging through us, crossed the river to safety. Seth, ever the steadfast friend, carried me with a determination that spoke volumes. Grace stayed close, her presence a constant source of strength. We raced through the dense underbrush toward Saint-Denis, our destination within reach but still feeling worlds away. Arriving at Doctor Emilia Thornbridge’s office, we burst through the doors. The urgency of the situation was palpable. Without hesitation, Doctor Thornbridge began the surgery I so desperately needed, her skilled hands moving with practiced precision. Grace remained by my side throughout the ordeal, her grip on my hand a reassuring anchor amidst the chaos. The rest of our group stayed outside, giving us the space needed for the life-saving procedure. As the anesthesia wore off and I began to regain consciousness, my first and only coherent thought was of Grace. I managed to utter her name, the sound escaping my lips as a barely audible whisper. When I finally opened my eyes and saw her there, her face was a mix of relief and pain, marred by bruises and the lingering fear of our recent ordeal. The sight of her, despite the pain etched in her expression, was a balm to my fractured spirit. We were out of the hell we had endured together, our escape a hard-won victory. In that moment, surrounded by the dim light of the doctor’s office, I felt a deep, unspoken gratitude. We had survived, and as I looked at Grace, I knew that despite the scars we bore, we had emerged from the darkness side by side. As we began to process the harrowing events that had unfolded, the respite we yearned for remained elusive. Detective Campbell arrived with a grim promise—he claimed they had finally apprehended the man responsible for our suffering. His assurance was that it would be a brief encounter, after which Grace and I could return to Dr. Emilia Thornbridge for the continued medical care we desperately needed. Though hesitant, we both understood the need for closure. We followed Detective Campbell, our hearts heavy with a mixture of hope and apprehension. The journey to the police station felt like an eternity, each step weighed down by the tension of unresolved anger and the gnawing desire for justice. When we arrived, the sight of Cleet behind bars was both a relief and a torment. There he was, confined but still smirking with a twisted satisfaction. His taunts were relentless, a bitter reminder of the horrors he had inflicted upon us. Each word was a fresh stab, filling me with a rage that was barely containable. I wanted nothing more than to lash out, to make him pay in the most visceral way. But the guards were quick to intervene, and I was forcefully escorted out. My frustration boiled over, and I could only voice my anger in a torrent of curses directed at the police, the justice system, and the country that seemed to fail in delivering the retribution I craved. The man who had brought such suffering to my doorstep remained behind bars, awaiting a fair trial. The reality of our justice system, with its insistence on due process, denied me the satisfaction of exacting my own brand of justice. As I was led away, my heart ached with the knowledge that Cleet would not face the end I had so desperately wanted for him. As we were escorted back to Dr. Emilia Thornbridge’s office, a sense of weary resignation settled over us. Detective Campbell was waiting, and he needed a detailed account of our ordeal. I was too exhausted and emotionally drained to care much for the empty reassurances of justice. Instead, I sat down and recounted everything—the horror, the fear, and the pain—while Dr. Thornbridge worked diligently to attend to Grace. In the midst of the chaos, the doctor's focus was on Grace's injuries and, most importantly, on our unborn child. As she examined Grace, we were relieved to hear that our baby had remained unharmed despite the turmoil. The news was a small but vital beacon of hope, a reminder that even in the darkest moments, there could be light. The night dragged on, a heavy curtain of exhaustion settling over us. When it finally came time to leave, Mr. Gaverlyk, a kind-hearted acquaintance, offered us a ride home in his carriage. The warmth and comfort of the carriage were a welcome contrast to the cold reality we had endured. As we settled into the carriage, Grace and I huddled together, finding solace in each other’s embrace. The nightmare we had endured seemed surreal as we finally allowed ourselves to rest. We drifted into a deep sleep, intertwined in our exhaustion and relief, knowing that we had survived this hellish ordeal together. The scars, both visible and hidden, would remain with us forever. But as we lay together in the stillness of the carriage, waiting for the new dawn, we found comfort in the knowledge that we had faced the darkness and emerged on the other side, united and alive. Once again special thanks to @ImEmma, my dear Harmony Hill family, SDPD and everyone that was part of this event.

Hello all, Starting this week I'll be posting in this thread regurarly. The idea is to post a random player/character portrait every once in a while. First character is Mallory Gimble, whom unfortunately got CKd this week. My idea is that I randomly pick someone once in a while to practise drawing and also have fun discussions about encounters you might've had with a player! Also feel free to recommend players in the comments! RIP legend

The State of Tahoma & New Austin Territory, 1884 Admitted to the Union in the summer of 1846, Tahoma became the 29th star to fly on the spangled banner. Sixteen years later when the secession rang across the States, it joined arms with the Confederacy and in a swift siege one fateful day in May '61, surrendered its capital to the Union—an ignoble loss still felt strongly today. Even the Siege of Blackwater however couldn't quell the fighting spirit of West Elizabeth County; they found respite hunting mink, beaver and other prize furs in the hills surrounding the lumbering town of Strawberry whose forests were once traversed by the various Cheyenne and Arapaho tribes, since pacified during the Indian Wars. The same cannot be said for Apache and Comanche groups that continue to resist against the cohabitation of their land in the neighboring New Austin territory. Half a year ago in 1883, one lucky prospector struck gold in that old copper mine out by the Coronado and in droves, men and women rushed out to line their pockets in what they've coined the Gaptooth Gold Rush; but they say in the tall shadow of all this fortune rumbles the beating hooves and hollers of the Old West, and if you're not careful, those gunslinging carrion will swoop in to take their fill... but none so hungry for gold as the federal government. If they have their way, they'll absorb New Austin and its resources into Tahoma. It falls to the people to make their stance: join Tahoma state, reaping from its comforts at possibly the expense of their prosperity or—for the glorious merit of independence—trouble to tame that wild frontier for their own? West Elizabeth county is part of the wider Tahoma state. It's home to the state capital and borders the New Austin territory. As a result, it compensates for its proximity to wilderness with a civilized exterior. BLACKWATER During the American Civil War, the Governor of the time steered Tahoma toward the Confederacy despite a statewide divide of kinship, creed, and country; so when urban settlements like Blackwater were speedily captured by Union forces, they became bastions of federal control, whose agents lauded over the prosperous freight hub with an iron fist of indenture. The South Western Railroad Company's continued investment into the state was a great boon to Blackwater. It brought with it a surge of employable denizens to restore the city to its prior opportunity for industry. With ranches on the nearby flats and Strawberry's furs and lumber to preserve the winter lulls, West Elizabeth enjoyed its post-war renaissance for export by water, holding on to the hope that the rail would be extended to their domain. It's here with its Republican majority that Blackwater vied to seize the land for the civilized America, shepherding throngs of Confederate veterans out into the territory. What they did not expect, however, was the gold those men would find in the deepest, westernmost bowels of that red dustbowl... STRAWBERRY The Siege of Blackwater was no great battle. Casualties were few, but losses great; so when boats burned and livelihoods crumbled, many citizens went north to the sleepy lumber town of Strawberry. The Cheyenne and Arapaho tribes who had lived on that land had become pacified during the Indian Wars; competition for valuable game and for hardy lumber was now nil. As time went by, however, the Blackwater brood became quite comfortable as the new threads in the young tapestry of Strawberry. The sense of community is reputed to be bar none, with 'Berry folk known for their mountain comradeship; and with the port town whence they came greedily siphoning their goods with federal export fees beyond reason, a growing resentment bristles beneath the surface. During the Mexican-American War, northern Nuevo Paraiso is annexed from the Mexican Republic. Squabbles between pro and anti-slavery factions result in a gridlock, and the land is christened the Territory of New Austin. GAPTOOTH RIDGE & TUMBLEWEED The first murmurs of a mining camp were heard in the wider territory some fourteen years ago. They found copper out by the Sea of Coronado and the distant chorus of labor breathed life into what was an otherwise barren plains. Named affectionately 'Tumbleweed' by its thorny populace, the camp became a town thoroughfare whose sunspotted buildings yawned against the low desert wind, and that lonely way it remained for several years; it was too terrible a place to live, what with frequent clashes with the Mexican-American, Apache and Comanche populace. All manner of sport was outsourced to its gleaming sister town, Armadillo; that was until—when Tahoma's crestfallen Confederates abandoned civilization in pursuit of freedom—one wandering prospector invoked the Gaptooth Gold Rush. Fortune seekers flood out west to stake their claim and of a sudden, Tumbleweed threatens to crest Armadillo as all manner of opportunist scramble to do business with the camp—few of them particularly moral. ARMADILLO The settlement of Armadillo became a middleman between the copper mines and the States. The South Western Railroad Company's sale of land marked it for a transport hub and with the trains came a colorful cast to comprise its community. The miners would come out from Tumbleweed for respite, enjoying the saloon and new goods fresh from Blackwater. However, when a violent outbreak of cholera struck in '81, the SWRC withdrew its trains and thus all support from Tahoma State, leaving the epidemic to grip the town with longevity and stunting the modernization of New Austin both. It’s 1884 and Armadillo climbs slowly back to its feet, but finds itself now overshadowed by Tumbleweed and as prospectors arrive to take their fill, they can't help but leave the sickly town a wide berth… just to be sure. Landmark & Specific Events

Fall, 1883. A murder makes the papers for miles around; a cattle baron killed on the range out by the Montana River. His name was Clyde MacFarlane, and he'd been in charge of the family seat on Hennigan's Stead for three years. A charismatic leader, Clyde acted trail boss when a drought crippled the ranch over the summer months. The land was sunscorched and the cows suffered for it; in the end, only thing to do was to lead them to water. Were it not for a pair of survivors, José and Bartosz, the papers might've chosen to use the word 'killed' and not 'murdered.' See, the drive was ambushed on its way to Stillwater Creek by Indian cattle rustlers; it's said they incited a stampede with an echo of gunfire and a chorus of thundering horses, whose riders' fearful cries fanned the flames of the cowherd's panic. One by one, by the survivors' accounts, even the ablest of swing riders were thrown from their saddles and tramped underfoot by their animals. The herd was lost, save for a scant few found by the creek once the dust had settled, because all but two of the men who rode out to water lived to tell the tale. So in one fell swoop, the MacFarlanes' beloved patriarch, their ranch manager and the bulk of their best cowboys were now dead. With a great deal of the hands and herd waylaid by the local Indians, this shall prove to be the greatest trial of the MacFarlanes in America. Present Day Like a prize bull, Clyde was raised to inherit the ranch. He lived and breathed his legacy unlike his brothers, Barney and Roy. Barney was born second and in many ways it was as if the Lord had marked him from that day to come second in all things. They say the child not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth, but Barney's never had those kind of guts. Hell, he couldn't even find the courage to go searching for those Indians when his brother died. A bonafide coward; that's what they say. Roy on the other hand has bluster enough to go around. He's the youngest and most rebellious of the MacFarlane offspring by far, which has landed him in all manner of unruly situations over the years, often leaving the ranch to pursue (largely unsuccessful) hunts for wealth and glory. It comes then as a surprise that the ungovernable son returned to the fold at his mother's behest when Clyde was murdered. On that fateful day the widowed old Myrtle MacFarlane took one look at Barney and made the executive decision to supplant his inheritance for her own. With such dire circumstances upon them, he was certain to run the family ranch to the ground and, regarded as something of a battleaxe, no one tried to stop her—least of all her yellow-bellied son. Clyde was survived by his children, Nellie and Avery, now orphaned. With the ranch on the cusp of ruin, they must find the means to earn their keep and, if their uncles fail to impress, perhaps stake their own claim. Five months have passed and a tense chill quivers across the dusty earth of Hennigan's Stead in equal measures vengeance and fear. Conventions are broken in the name of survival; people of all colors are welcomed to the fold, for many hands make light work; a Pole is ranch manager, and a Mexican the wrangler of the MacFarlane remuda; a woman dictates the path of the biggest ranching operation in the territory and in their darkest hour, one would do well to remember that in their blood is tyranny.

History of the Tséko’áné’éndé ("People of the Rocky Canyon") The Tséko’áné’éndé, or “People of the Rocky Canyon,” are a small offshoot of the Chihenne Warm Springs Apache, originating from the Hendidura Grande (“Great Crevasse”) in what is now northern Nuevo Paraíso. The Tséko’án were referred to as Grandeños by Spanish settlers due to their origins in the Hendidura Grande. The name persisted as they became known for their fierce resistance against colonial and later national forces. This massive rock formation and its surrounding canyons shaped the Tséko’án into a unique group. Unlike other Chihenne bands, who moved seasonally between fertile mountain springs and open plains, the Tséko’án remained tied to the rugged and arid landscape of the Hendidura Grande. Living in this harsh environment, the Tséko’án became adept at surviving on minimal resources, relying on small game, desert plants, and water sources hidden within the canyons. Their isolation fostered a deeply nomadic and self-reliant way of life, often viewed as uncivilized and barbaric by other Chihenne Apache bands. Gaining a reputation for being wild and untamed. The canyons of the Hendidura Grande provided the Tséko’án with both protection and a basis for identity. Their intimate knowledge of the terrain allowed them to live relatively undisturbed for generations. The band’s culture revolved around this rocky homeland, with its towering cliffs and hidden springs seen as sacred and essential to their way of life. Geographical Tension By the 1700s, the arrival of Spanish settlers in the region introduced conflict, but the Tséko’án’s remote homeland, the rugged and arid expanse of the Hendidura Grande, allowed them to resist subjugation and maintain a degree of autonomy. Spanish expeditions and missions struggled to establish control over the fiercely independent Apache bands, whose knowledge of the terrain gave them a strategic advantage. However, following Mexico’s independence in 1821, pressure on Tséko’án lands intensified as Mexican ranchers, miners, and soldiers pushed deeper into their territory. This expansion led to a cycle of escalating raids, counter-raids, and punitive military expeditions. The Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo (1848) formally placed Tséko’án lands under Mexican sovereignty, while simultaneously accelerating U.S. settlement north of the San Luis River. The Apache found themselves caught between two expanding nations, each seeking to pacify the region. Conflict became unavoidable as settlers, traders, and military patrols encroached on traditional Tséko’án hunting grounds and water sources, forcing them into near-constant warfare to defend their land. During the 1850s, under the leadership of Hendirojo (“Red Crevasse”), the Tséko’án launched an organized resistance against both Mexican authorities and American settlers crossing into the frontier. Their raids on Mexican towns and military outposts forced the government to deploy additional troops to the northern provinces, while attacks on U.S. wagon trains and ranches drew increasing attention from militias and frontier cavalry units. The American Civil War (1861–1865) briefly shifted U.S. focus away from the region, allowing the Tséko’án to expand their raiding operations northward. However, intensified Mexican military campaigns, backed by foreign mercenaries and reinforced presidios, gradually forced the Tséko’án into areas in the south of New Austin. By the 1870s, sustained military campaigns from both nations had pushed the Tséko’án to the brink. Pursued by U.S. and Mexican forces, they were ultimately forced to abandon the Hendidura Grande entirely. With their homeland lost and their numbers dwindling, their struggle for survival would culminate in the War of the Grandeños (1879–1880), marking the final chapter of their resistance. The War of the Grandeños The War of the Grandeños (1879–1880), led by Tzo-Cuchillo (“Sharp Blade”), saw fierce Tséko’án resistance, but their forces were devastated in the Diez Coronas Massacre (1880). The War of the Grandeños was a conflict between the Tséko’án Apache, led by Tzo-Cuchillo, and federal forces seeking to assert control over land north of the San Luis River. The Tséko’án employed guerrilla tactics, launching raids against settlements and military outposts in an effort to resist displacement. The conflict reached its culmination at the Battle of Diez Coronas in 1880, where federal troops, supported by local militias, launched a decisive assault on Tséko’án forces. Despite fierce resistance, the Apache suffered heavy casualties, and Tzo-Cuchillo was killed in the fighting. The battle effectively ended organized Tséko’án resistance, leading to what became known as the Diez Coronas Massacre. Following their defeat, the surviving Tséko’án, facing dwindling supplies and continued military pressure, agreed to relocate to reservations in New Austin. The war’s conclusion marked the final large-scale conflict between Apache groups and the expanding territorial authorities in the region.

For the next drawing, I tried out some more soft techniques, which for me is a lot harder to do. Ladies and gentlemen, Declan Byrne aka @.nova

Chauncey Skipp was always the type of young boy who never wanted to accept anyone's guiding hand; pride and a latent problem with authority - wherever it came from - got in the way. Coming from lands not yet integrated into the United States, growing up for him was hard. Disputes, lawlessness and the constant challenge to his parents' property from outside forces led him down the path of the gun. It's not what he wanted, it's what life required of him. Charming in a way, but not quite. Certainly proud, but youth did not bring him exalted impulsiveness; rather, discernment. More than some of his peers. Discernment that would be used for not so noble ends in the future. He never runs out of words to say, but it's debatable whether it's for bad or for good. Sometimes it works well, and sometimes poorly. Not out of the ordinary, just a young man. Poverty and lack of a good quality of life would push any young man into a life of crime, and Chauncey was no exception - when pushed to his limit, the best decision his young head could make was to grab a gun and cover his face to set up an ambush. The feeling of success, of accomplishing something in an otherwise miserable life, of proving to himself that he wasn't destined to be born and die in the same hole made the gears in Chauncey's head move - he was no longer a boy, he was a man. Money, it's always money. Happiness is bought, it is never attained any other way. No one could convince him otherwise. The coin had already been flipped and the die had been cast. By 1884, Chauncey enlisted with the Union Stock and Brand Regulators for the same reason he started living by the gun - money. Slowly, the brutality of the New Austin territory transformed the nineteen-year-old Chauncey - who had killed no one in his short years of life - into someone no longer afraid to pull the trigger. Scruples were lost if there were any, and what little innocence he had left as well. They were no longer stories told by someone else when he was a child, they were the reality in front of his eyes.

Full Paper:

Sketch time, this time I made Red Moon - a shaman. An old Native Kainai Warrior from Alberta Canada, who lost his former tribe to conflict and disease. After many years of wandering he found himself in South Tahoma where he joined the Makoyi and due to his deep spiritual beliefs decided to take on the role of Shaman for the tribe. It's been fun seeing all these different characters and spending a little time imagining what they're like. More to come!

She's the woman currently leading the Braithwaite heritage into a promising future. Eleanor Felicity Braithwaite, a visually perfect woman also ensures to maintain, in her courts, flawless Edwardian etiquette. While she may seem from afar, a kind woman, there might also be a cunning side to her - how else would a woman in this day and age thrive amidst the upper echelons of South Tahomian high society. @kate (I have to admit this was especially fun to make as this allowed me to try period accurate style and mix it with my own. Enjoy!)

In 1881, the West was rife with bandits and criminals vying for control. The once-bustling town of Tumbleweed fell into chaos after a notorious gang raided it, seeking retribution for the capture of one of their higher-ups. The former sheriff was driven out of town, barely escaping with his life, as the gang freed their comrade and burned the sheriff's office to the ground. Several lawmen and townsfolk lost their lives in a desperate attempt to defend the town. No reinforcements arrived, and no one dared venture West to offer aid. Tumbleweed was abandoned, becoming a haven for some of the worst outlaws New Austin had to offer, along with drifters and vagrants. Meanwhile, Armadillo remained the last bastion of civilization in the rugged territory of New Austin. Cole Briggs, a former lawman from another county and an ex-miner, joined a wagon train with his family, heading west in pursuit of fortune, a better life, and the promises of the great gold rush of 1883. It didn’t take long for Cole’s family to establish themselves and become well-known after settling. With Cole out of work and no longer carrying a badge, he decided to put his wagon and gun-fighting skills to use. Offering safe passage to the people of Armadillo became his new way of earning a living. Often, he would escort his father and others to the mines for a fee, ensuring they stayed on course and out of harm’s way. The territory was perilous, rife with outlaws and hostile groups, with reports of killings, robberies, and other dangers being all too common. It wasn’t long before Cole’s wagon escort became a target. In a brazen ambush, Cole and two of his workers, Jack Kelly and John Marsh, found themselves up against a posse of armed bandits—outnumbered and by some miracle, they managed to outgun the attackers sending the remaining few scurrying away. It did not take long for word to spread of how Cole and his workers conducted themselves, even earning him a feature in the local paper. They called it "frontier justice." The Sheriff took a keen interest in Cole’s work and offered him and his men badges, recognizing the need for as much help as possible given the lawless nature of the territory. Naturally, Cole accepted the offer, and for a time, peace prevailed. Cole and the rest of the deputies worked tirelessly to maintain order in the town. They frequently ventured out to fulfill their duties, steadily combating crime. Outlaws were brought to justice, and the territory began to thrive once more. However, this was short lived and success came at a cost. Members of gangs whose posse members had been killed or captured banded together and sought revenge. While riding with the sheriff and a posse, they were ambushed in a surprise bushwhack. The sheriff was tragically killed, and Cole was thrown from his horse. Taking cover, he engaged in a prolonged gunfight before the outlaws finally fled. When they returned to Armadillo, the town was left rattled in fear for their safety and in shock at the devastating news. By 1884, Armadillo’s reputation continued to suffer. Once a hopeful hub on the frontier in the New Austin territory, fewer and fewer merchants dared set foot in the troubled town. This economic decline has led to a sharp decrease in new settlers entering the territory of New Austin. Amidst the hardships caused by rampant criminal activity, a clear choice for Sheriff has emerged—Sheriff Cole Briggs. Entrusted with overseeing the town and supported by a group of locally recruited deputies he personally trained, Sheriff Briggs is determined to forge a new future for the territory—one of peace and prosperity for all its people. The New Austin Sheriff's office employs a flexible yet resolute approach to restoring order in an area where the line between law and chaos often blurs due to the region’s violent and unpredictable nature.

Ridgewood Ranch, founded 1871, grew alongside the gold rush and mining boom of the Tumbleweed region. It’s been beset by hardship and uncommonly awful luck in the past four years - ever since Glenn Colt married the only Ridgewood daughter, Frances Mae. With the ranch under Glenn’s ownership it’s failed to thrive, and is a shadow of its former and already questionable glory. Times have grown hard, pay checks lean, and horses scrawnier and more ill-tempered than before with fewer hands to train, exercise and socialise them. The ranch focuses not on excellence but on survival, with no name, money, nor quality stock to compare to MacFarlane’s or Beecher’s Hope. Ridgewood is known for taking on the desperate and unsavoury. It’s known for loyalty to friends, hospitality for travellers, and hostility toward people who ask too many questions about the hands and their histories. Letters to Jackson Reeves, from Frankie Mae (transcript below)

"Where the Water Tastes Like Wine isn't a place you'll find on any map. It's a promise whispered by the wind to travelers and dreamers. It's not a land but a state of mind, where your burdens feel lighter, and your heart begins to sing. It's the place you find peace, not by escaping the world, but by embracing its stories as they are." *** The Vagrant Band is a group of wandering musicians and performers who have come together from all corners of the American West. Each member brings their own stories, songs, and experiences, creating a unique blend of music and storytelling. Their goal is simple: to share music, preserve tales, and bring people together—while making a living in whatever ways the road allows. The band was formed by Quinn Landry, Gregory Rutkowsky and Patrick Braddock, three true vagrant musicians who had grown tired of the strict rules and politics of large traveling troupes. Seeking freedom and the chance to create on their own terms, they decided to forge a new path. The Vagrant Band doesn't search for their place under the sun—they carve it out for themselves, bending the world to fit their own rhythm. They bring music wherever they go, but those who cross their path quickly learn that they are not just wandering minstrels. Though they perform for miners, ranchers, townsfolk, and drifters alike, their livelihood extends beyond music. When the money from honest shows isn't enough, they turn to other means—selling so-called miracle tonics in flashy medicine shows, lifting coins from distracted onlookers, or running small cons to keep their pockets from going empty. Some rumors even suggest they've dealt in grave-robbing, stolen goods, and other unsavory trades, though the band would simply call it "doing what needs to be done". Their transient lifestyle helps them avoid consequences—by the time a town starts catching on, they're already packed up and gone. Their knack for deception was tested in Blackwater, where a misunderstanding turned into an all-out gunfight with lawmen. The dust settled with Quinn Landry standing before a judge, spinning a tale sharp enough to keep the gallows at bay. Through quick thinking and a silver tongue, the band walked away free men, proving once again that survival in the West isn't just about having fast hands—but knowing how to talk your way out of a noose. Despite their morally flexible ways, The Vagrant Band is bound by loyalty to one another. They stand their ground when challenged, and when someone threatens their own, people tend to disappear—sometimes into the shadows, sometimes into the dirt. They may not be outlaws, but they're no saints either. They are survivors, living by their own code in a world where law is often as fluid as a well-played tune. Living a life on the move, the band spends much of their time in the wilderness, traveling through forests, deserts, and plains. The natural world is as much a part of their existence as their music. Long nights by the campfire, the howls of wolves in the distance, the dust of the open road—these are the rhythms they play to, the backdrop of their restless journey. Their songs reflect the freedom, beauty, and hardships of life on the frontier, a life where survival and art are intertwined. For The Vagrant Band, the journey itself is what matters most. The open road, the thrill of a good performance, and the ever-present possibility of one last big score keep them moving forward. Along the way, they cross paths with drifters, dreamers, outlaws, and honest folk alike, each leaving behind a new story, a song, or a lesson learned. Their music carries the spirit of the West—not just the beauty and wonder, but the grit, the deception, and the restless pursuit of something just beyond the horizon. *** Quinn Landry, known as the "Guitar Drifter", was born in a small settlement amidst the swamps of Louisiana. His father, of Irish descent, and his mother, a Cajun, created a home where two cultures blended in poverty. His father worked as a fisherman, while his mother stayed home, caring for their five children and teaching Quinn to read, write, and sing traditional songs that shaped his musical journey. Tragedy struck during the American Civil War, as his father and three older brothers were killed, leaving his family devastated. By the age of fifteen, Quinn was an orphan, having lost his mother and younger sister to illness after the war. Seeking a way to survive, Quinn made his way to New Orleans, where he discovered a vibrant world of music and storytelling. He joined several traveling troupes, honing his craft and developing a repertoire of songs inspired by the people and places he encountered. However, the hardships of the road led him to vices such as alcohol, which fueled both his creativity and his reputation as a gifted but troubled artist. His music, infused with elements of folklore and personal struggle, resonated deeply with audiences across America. Quinn never stayed in one place for long, and he never needed to. Music was his home, whether played in a crowded saloon or by a dying fire under the open sky. He drifted from troupe to troupe, but his temper and vices always got in the way, leading to more burned bridges than lasting friendships. Eventually, tired of rules and expectations, he struck out on his own, pulling together a band of drifters who shared his love for the road. As long as there was a tune to play and a drink to chase it down, he figured he’d keep moving. Gregory Rutkowsky was born to Polish immigrants in a small farming community in Illinois. His parents fled Poland in the 1850s, escaping poverty and political repression, only to face a life of grueling labor on rented farmland in America. Gregory's childhood was shaped by constant hard work, helping his family in the fields while attending a rural school only during the slower winters. Despite their struggles, he grew up with a strong sense of determination to escape the life of a tenant farmer. He often listened to traveling musicians passing through, dreaming of a world beyond endless rows of wheat and corn, but in a place where survival came first, dreams held little value. At eighteen, Gregory left home in search of something more, taking on backbreaking jobs like railroad construction and logging, often earning just enough to survive. He spent nights in work camps, saloons, and makeshift shacks, drinking away meager wages and picking up whatever tunes he could from the people around him. Living a transient life, he fell into a cycle of drinking and occasional petty theft, finding brief moments of joy in playing the guitar for his workmates or strangers he met on the road. His music became a way to endure the hardships, to turn hunger and exhaustion into something that felt like freedom—if only for a little while. Now twenty-six, Gregory drifts from town to town, taking what work he can and playing music wherever people are willing to listen. He's long given up on chasing stability—maybe it was never meant for him anyway. The road is all he knows, and as long as he has a guitar, a bottle, and a place to play, he figures he'll get by. Some call it a wasted life, but to Gregory, there's a certain kind of peace in knowing he has no debts, no land to till, and no promises to keep—just another song, another night, and another town down the road. Patrick Braddock was born in a northern port city to Irish immigrants struggling to make ends meet. As the eldest child, he was put to work young, taking whatever jobs he could to help the family. With his first wages came whiskey, and soon enough, he spent more time in taverns than anywhere else. Built strong like his father, he took on long shifts as a dockhand, unloading cargo by day and drinking himself numb by night. His life seemed set on a steady path of hard labor and harder hangovers—until one drunken night changed everything. After a long shift, Patrick fell in with sailors who kept his glass full and his head light. When he woke, the world was swaying—not from whiskey, but from the waves. He’d been tricked onto a ship, and there was no turning back. Life at sea hardened him, but he never settled into it. He missed the taverns, the women, the thrill of a good gamble—but most of all, the music. The only real escape aboard was when someone played a fiddle or concertina, and Patrick clung to those moments, picking up the habit himself, playing late into the night to keep the ocean from swallowing him whole. After two years at sea, he finally saw his chance. Earning enough trust to be allowed on shore leave, he struck a deal in a portside tavern, paying off a crew to take him back to the States. That night, he boarded as a passenger instead of a prisoner, leaving the sea behind for good. Back on land, Patrick drifted from town to town, taking up odd jobs and playing music wherever he could. He may not have had much, but as long as he had a place to play and a drink in his hand, he figured he’d be just fine. Jeremiah "Sly" McKinney was born on the outskirts of Armadillo in the New Austin Territory, where the land was dry, and life was as unforgiving as the sun overhead. His father, a former Confederate soldier turned saloon entertainer, spent his nights playing guitar and singing to weary drifters. The McKinney family barely scraped by, but after a cholera outbreak in '81 devastated their town, survival became even harder. Sly, as folks started calling him for his smooth words and quick thinking, found solace in music, picking up his father’s guitar not just for comfort, but as a way to earn his keep. When the Gold Rush swept through the frontier, Sly made his way to Tumbleweed, playing in saloons for prospectors chasing riches. His songs of wandering souls and distant horizons earned him a few coins, but his own bad habits kept him moving. He gambled away more than he ever saved, drank when he should've been playing, and left town more than once to avoid trouble. His travels took him from Blackwater to Strawberry, then back through the desert towns of New Austin, playing wherever people had a coin to spare and a drink to share. Despite the restless life he leads, Sly dreams of something greater. He longs to form his own band, to create music that captures the soul of the frontier, but his own choices keep pulling him back into the same cycle. In South Tahoma, he's found new audiences, though tensions between the state and New Austin make it harder to stay neutral. Wherever he goes, his guitar carries stories of the road, even as he keeps trying to rewrite his own. Benny Lloyd grew up on a remote ranch, far from the noise and bustle of city life. With his broad features and perpetually amused expression, he often comes across as a fool, but appearances can be deceiving. He has a sharp mind, a steady hand, and a fearlessness that sets him apart when danger is near. His father was a miner who specialized in handling dynamite, a skill that left a lasting impression on Benny before an occupational illness took his life. Even now, Benny maintains a deep fascination with explosives, treating them with both respect and a sense of reckless curiosity. Though not a musician like the others in The Vagrant Band, Benny has carved out his place in the troupe. He and Lenny Boyd act as the group's muscle, ensuring their safety on the road and keeping trouble at bay. The two of them are constantly at odds, frequently coming to blows over the smallest disagreements, yet they always have each other's backs when it matters. Their rowdy energy also plays a role in the band's performances, as they take part in knife-throwing acts and archery tricks, adding an element of danger to the show. Beyond that, they serve as the troupe's barkers, drawing in crowds with loud voices and bold promises of an unforgettable spectacle. Unlike others, Benny doesn't aspire to fame or fortune; for him, the thrill of the road and the camaraderie of the band are enough. Whether throwing knives, breaking up fights, or riling up an audience, he thrives in the chaos of their wandering life. In The Vagrant Band, he has found his place—not as an artist, but as a necessary force that keeps the show running, the people entertained, and the group safe. Lenny Boyd was born in the slums of Saint Denis, in a home weighed down by hardship and shattered ambitions. His father, a man who once brimmed with dreams, lost himself to gambling, squandering every last cent at the card table. Each loss dragged him further into trouble, and soon, into the grip of alcoholism. His mother, more pragmatic, peddled trinkets to keep food on the table, but the strain of keeping their family afloat was relentless. As his father's temper flared and his debts mounted, the household grew more unstable—until one day, after one loss too many, he took his own life. Growing up in the shadow of his father's failures, Lenny became a defiant and impulsive teenager, always looking for a way to prove himself. Trouble seemed to follow wherever he went, whether through street brawls, reckless gambling, or petty theft. Yet, no matter how deep he found himself in a mess, he had an uncanny way of scrambling out of it, laughing as if it was all just another hand of cards. He inherited his father's love for gambling but lacked the self-control to ever walk away while he was ahead. Though luck was never on his side for long, he never stopped chasing the next big win. Lenny's reckless nature made him an unlikely fit for a group of musicians, but in The Vagrant Band, he found something close to a home. Alongside Benny Lloyd, he worked as both an enforcer and a barker, drawing crowds before performances. Their constant bickering and occasional brawls became part of the band's charm, adding to the chaotic energy of their shows. Though he never picked up an instrument, his gambler's charm and quick fists made sure the band stayed in business—one way or another. Corey Vidrine was born and raised in Strawberry, the son of a hardworking farmer and a devoted mother. Unlike most boys in town, who spent their days learning the trade of ranching or lumber work, Corey's path was different. From a young age, he was drawn to music, learning to play the piano from a neighbor who recognized his natural talent. While other kids swung axes or broke horses, Corey spent his time at the keys, perfecting melodies that made even the rowdiest saloon patrons stop and listen. His gift was undeniable, but it also set him apart—he was never quite like the others, and some saw him as too soft for the rough world around him. As he grew older, he knew Strawberry wasn't enough. Playing the same tunes for the same faces felt like a cage, so he left, chasing something bigger. But the vagrant life was tougher than he expected—long roads, empty pockets, nights spent under the stars. Music could get a man far, but it wouldn't fill his stomach or keep him safe. Along the way, he learned to be careful who he trusted, seeing firsthand how quickly kindness could turn into a con. Joining The Vagrant Band gave him direction, a way to keep playing while learning how to survive. He wasn't just a pianist anymore—under the guidance of seasoned drifters, he began picking up other instruments, pushing himself beyond the saloon. Though he still struggles with the rougher side of their way of life, he's proving himself every step of the way. His hands are still golden, but now, he understands that out here, talent alone won't keep a man fed—or alive. Jax Mercer doesn't come with a past you can pin down. Ask him where he's from, and you'll get a different answer depending on the bottle in his hand. Some say he was the son of a preacher, raised under strict teachings before falling into temptation. Others swear he was a graverobber who found poetry in the dirt. What's certain is that he arrived in Strawberry like trouble waiting to happen—stumbling drunk, strumming his guitar, and singing a tune that was anything but appropriate for the solemn crowd gathered at a public hanging. Jax first crossed paths with The Vagrant Band in Strawberry, where he arrived in a state that made him impossible to ignore. Drunk, playing his guitar, and singing an ill-advised tune during a public hanging, he quickly drew the attention of both the townsfolk and the local sheriff. Tensions rose, and had the band not intervened, pulling him away before things escalated further, he might not have walked away from that day at all. Instead, he left town alongside them, bringing with him his music, his sharp tongue, and a collection of stories that seemed to grow more exaggerated each time he told them. Since then, Jax has been a steady presence in troupe, playing his songs and writing down whatever pieces of life he finds worth remembering. His music is often melancholic, filled with the kind of tales only someone who has seen both good and bad in equal measure could tell. Though he carries the air of someone always searching for something just out of reach, he has found, at least for now, a place among fellow travelers—where his songs will always have an audience, and the road will never seem too long. Jacob "Jack" Tremblay was born in 1853 in Kansas to a poor farming family. From an early age, he showed a sharp mind for business, reselling small household goods and always looking for ways to turn a quick profit. His childhood was spent in constant scarcity, shaping him into a man who valued wealth above all else. By the time he was fifteen, Jack had already learned that fortune didn't favor the honest—it favored the cunning. When word of the gold rush in South Tahoma spread, Jack saw his opportunity. Unlike the desperate miners who chased riches beneath the earth, he understood the real money was in those who sold the dream rather than dug for it. He drifted west, dealing in everything from gambling rackets to rigged contests, eventually falling in with a band of traveling musicians. Spotting an even greater opportunity, he became their impresario, convincing them to take part in his medicine shows, where he sold "miracle" elixirs—most notably, Indian Sangwa, a supposed cure-all made of alcohol and cheap herbs. With a silver tongue and a flair for spectacle, Jack could convince almost anyone of his tonic's wonders, telling grand tales of ancient remedies and performing staged "cures" before eager crowds. Though his medicine was nothing more than a well-dressed scam, Jack never lost sleep over it. Money was the only truth in his world, and if people were willing to pay for a story, he was happy to sell it. His role within The Vagrant Band was more than just an organizer—he was the man who ensured that each performance, whether on stage or off, served a purpose. Whether it was orchestrating a show, handling negotiations, or finding the next town ripe for the taking, Jack was always three steps ahead. Yet, for all his success, he carried the weight of solitude—trust, after all, was not a luxury afforded to men like him. Abdoul Kassie gripped the reins, the desert sun bearing down on his weathered face. The red dust curled around his boots, a familiar dance in an unforgiving land. Born on the rugged frontier, he was a child of the soil, raised under the watchful eye of his father, Ibrahim—a man whose hands knew how to coax life from the driest earth. Alongside his mother, Sarah, they carved out a small farm, growing corn and beans, believing in the promise of the West. But promise could turn to dust just as quickly. The drought of '83 left their fields barren, forcing Ibrahim into debt with a Mexican land baron, Ricardo Vargas. When the harvest failed, Vargas' enforcers came to collect. Abdoul hid in the cellar, listening to the screams of his family as gunshots sealed their fate. By the time he emerged, his home was nothing but silence and blood. With nowhere left to go, Abdoul ran. He wandered for weeks, hungry, lost, barely surviving until he stumbled into Blackwater. It was there that fate placed him among a band of wandering musicians. They weren't farmers or fighters, but drifters, men who made their way through life with song and showmanship. It wasn't the life he imagined, but it was a life nonetheless. He proved himself useful—not just as a steady hand around camp but as a man who knew how to track, hunt, and survive where others would perish. In time, he found his place among them, picking up new skills, learning the tricks of the trade, and slowly stepping away from the ghosts of his past. Though Abdoul kept mostly to himself, there was a quiet resolve in him. He had no taste for lawlessness, but he knew the West had no room for men who refused to stand their ground. He didn't seek vengeance, only a way forward. In the end, he was a survivor, one who had seen the worst of men but still believed there was something worth holding onto—loyalty, fairness, maybe even a little bit of hope. Craig Roberts grew up knowing trouble like an old friend. Born into hard times, he learned early that the world didn't offer much kindness to a man who had nothing. The law was something he brushed up against more times than he cared to count, and whether it was bad luck or bad decisions, he always seemed to be one step away from a cell or a fresh start. His run-ins with the law weren't out of cruelty or violence—just the inevitable consequence of a man who lived by his own rules, taking risks that sometimes paid off and sometimes left him running. Music was his salvation, though it never quite saved him. His voice carried the weight of sorrow and the fire of rebellion, a sound shaped by smoky saloons, dusty roads, and long nights spent wondering where he'd wake up next. Craig sang for those who knew hardship, for the drifters, the dreamers, and the damned. His songs told stories of love lost, fortunes won and squandered, and the endless chase for something better just over the next hill. But if music was his salvation, gambling was his curse. No matter how much he earned playing in a crowded saloon or singing beneath the stars, the cards always seemed to take it back. Blackjack, poker—it didn't matter. Craig played with the same reckless passion he put into his music, convinced that one day the tide would turn, that luck would finally land on his side. Until then, he'd keep riding from town to town, guitar in one hand, a near-empty purse in the other, chasing songs and second chances wherever the road took him. *** This thread showcases the roleplay of a band of wandering vagrant artists. It will feature screenshots and some personal commentary of their everyday adventures. The band isn't tied to any single location, so expect plenty of traveling, performing in different places, and encountering a wide range of people along the way. Feel free to join in if you're roleplaying as a hobo, musician, or any kind of artist.

You can apply decals with the command /decal then any number between 1-76. Decals do stack, but there is a limit, though it is quite high, I haven't confirmed the exact number yet. Some decals are animated and may take a few moments to appear. Others might disappear over time. The order you apply decals in can also alter the results I have found. To remove your decals, type /ddecal Here are what each of the decals do: 1. Completely covered in oil 2: Bloody right elbow 3. Oil on torso and face 4. Covered in dirt 5. Facial bruising 6. Facial cuts 7. Facial bruising 2 8. Bleeding claw marks on left of face and neck 9. Blood spatter on face 10. Bloody left elbow 11. Bloody right wrist 12. Blood spatter on torso and right arm 13. Blood spatter on torso 14. Blood spatter on right of torso 15. Blood spatter on right of torso and right arm. 16. Bloody chest 17. Bloody nose and lip 18. Blood upper torso and face 19. Bloody back 20. Bloody belly 21. Bloody hands 22. Dirt around left eye 23. Small amounts of blood spatter on face 24. Bloody hands and face 25. Bloody right hip 26. Bruised and bloodied face 27. Bruised, bloodied right of face 28. Bruise right cheek, bloodied face 29. Bloodied right shoulder, blood spatter on face 30. Bloodied face and right shoulder, shot in the head (covered by hairline a lot of the time) 31. Bloodied face and shoulders 32. Powder burned torso and arms 33. Powder burned torso and arms 2 34. Powder burned torso and arms 3 35. Bloody right knee 36. Bloody right leg 37. Bloodied left lip 38. Bloodied knuckles and fingers 39. Bloodied left hand 40. Bloodied back of right hand 41. Bloodied back of left hand 42. Bloodied back of right hand 2 43. Bruised left eye 44. Cut left lip, broken nose bridge 45. Facial bruising 3 46. Bloody boots 47. Muddy left arm 48. Muddy right arm 49. Muddy back 50. Muddy back 2 51. Covered in mud 52. Muddy face 53. Muddy boots 54. Muddy front 2 55. Muddy front torso 56. Muddy palms 57. Muddy forehead 58. Muddy right side 59. Muddy right side 2 60. Muddy left side 61. Broken nose bridge 62. Shot left shoulder 63. Shot left shoulder 2 64. Bloody lower torso 65. Covered in mud 66. Throat slashed, bloody torso 67. Pissed pants (possibly male only) 68. Bloody left hip 69. Bruised right eye 70. Cut under right eye 71. Bloodied left forehead 72. Shot left shoulder 3 73. Bloody ass 74. Shot in chest 75. Bloody back shoulders and upper legs 76. Vomited on For ease of access, here are some lists of decals seperated by type. Injury Blood Mud

This time I tried a more sketchy style, it took some more effort, but this character sure is deserving of such. To some of you she may be known as a pain in your ass, to others she was the mother of the Dead Horses. Currently Deirdre Browner sits in the Saint Denis jail awaiting justice that might finally be served. @freedomfaller

After reading through the initial post, and then the immediate & overwhelming court of public opinion’s response, Management have come to the following decision: No.

(Click on the images to enlarge.) Previous Issue: Vol. 44, No. 28.

The Dallas Spivey Gang, also known as The Bagmen, were a gang that consisted of the lowest of the low that the South of Tahoma had to offer and into the early 1900s, they were one of the last remaining gangs of the Wild West before they were wiped off the face of the earth, notoriously known for their brazen crimes, and their trademark bag masks the Lawmen often had a hard time tracking down this specific gang, their members an identifying them, much like how the lynch mob took the Law into their own hands with similar masks, the tables were turned in this instance making it tricky for Lawmen across the state to keep up. The Dallas Spivey gang were a ruthless bunch which were not shy of leaving a bloody trail behind them, renowned for their strategic and planned robberies, bushwhack killings and extortionist tactics. It's said the gang was formed after the downfall of a previous gang; The Dead Horses which were another ruthless gang to reign terror on the citizens of South Tahoma, ran by Deirdre Browner and Mallory Gimble, their time ran out after a bank job in Saint Denis in 1899 after Lawmen and Bounty Hunters caught up with them. Prior to the gang being formed, Dallas led an outlandish life, originally working under the guise of a Ranchhand at the Sunset Dale Ranch which is still a promising piece of land till this day, belonging to the Merriman family. He manipulated people into thinking he was nothing more than that, coming from a troubled past and living a double life he’d con, take advantage, rob and kill as he pleased under the cover of darkness. This kept him off the Law’s radar but before they even caught wind Dallas was on the move, bouncing from town to town until he took up with the Dead Horses gang and many of his friends along the way, some even saying he rode with the famous Outlaw Bill Wade at one point though not confirmed. It’s believed he partook in a train job out in Annesburg. After a string of bank and stagecoach robberies, Dallas went into hiding, living the high life under an alias. He found refuge with Emily Fox, a notorious lady bandit known for charming wealthy men, then conning and robbing them of their hard-earned money. For a while, he managed to stay under the radar, but soon his name was making headlines again. Wanted posters with his face began appearing across the state, and the bounty on his head kept rising. Realizing he couldn’t survive alone, he formed a posse of like-minded individuals, including former members of the once-mighty Dead Horses gang, and rumors spread that outlaws from other infamous gangs had joined his ranks as well. The citizens of South Tahoma were petrified to say the least, often hiring protection just to travel across the state not knowing if these hooded figures would jump out on them and with new gang members being recruited, it often came with new ways of making money, whether it be cattle rustling, thieving horses or stealing stages and wagons, this particular gang was not shy to it. Anything for the sake of making money, they’d often raid other gangs camps and stashes just to get their point across even killing them in the process.

Discord ID/User: . joziah Suggestion Outline: Currently, you'll receive a little pop up box if you receive telegram and you are online in the game at the same time. However, there is nothing of the sorts for when you are offline so you'll have no idea if you received a telegram or not unless you check the post office. So my suggestion is that a person will be notified upon logging in that they have unopened telegrams at the post office along with subsequent notifications for maybe every hour they are online. What script/development support will it require?: idk man 😞 How will this benefit the community of STRP? : I have lost countless roleplay opportunities for myself and opportunities to provide others with roleplay because I forgot to check my character's telegrams and thus made delay or cessation of that potential scene of roleplay. Having a reminder that notifies you that you have unread telegrams at the post office will prompt you to check them and thus avoid a situation where you get involved in roleplay and then forget.

Dallas "Bagman" Spivey—robber, thief, conman, and all-around scoundrel. He’s the kind of fella who roams the dusty trails between towns with a bag on his head, thinking it’s a clever disguise. Whether he's holdin' up stagecoaches or swindling poker hands, he’s as slippery as a rattlesnake. @The Gallows

(Click on the image to enlarge) Previous Issue: Vol. 44, No. 26 | Following Issue: Vol. 44, No 28

Credits to @Kiccbacc for the layout.

The United States Marshals Service: A Cornerstone of Justice in 1884 The year is 1884. The United States Marshals Service, a steadfast guardian of the law since the very founding of our nation in 1789, continues to serve as an indispensable arm of the federal judiciary. Our Mission: Upholding the Law: We are dedicated to ensuring the faithful execution of all orders, judgments, and processes of the United States courts. Serving Justice: We diligently serve legal documents, including subpoenas and warrants, ensuring the smooth and orderly functioning of the federal court system. Apprehending Fugitives: We tirelessly pursue those who have fled justice, bringing them back to face the consequences of their actions. Our reach extends across this vast nation, ensuring that no corner offers refuge to those who seek to evade the law. Protecting the Judiciary: We safeguard the integrity of the judicial process by ensuring the safety of federal judges and the security of our nation's courthouses. Our Approach: While we possess the authority of the federal government, we recognize the importance of collaboration. We work closely with local law enforcement agencies, such as sheriffs' offices and police departments, to effectively carry out our duties. These partnerships are crucial, particularly in the vast and ever-expanding territories of our great nation. Challenges and Commitments: The late 19th century presents unique challenges. The rapid westward expansion of our nation brings with it new frontiers to secure and new forms of lawlessness to combat. We face the growing threat of organized crime and the complexities of enforcing federal law in remote and often rugged terrain. Despite these challenges, we remain steadfast in our commitment to upholding the highest standards of professionalism and integrity. We strive to serve the American people with diligence, courage, and unwavering dedication to the principles of justice. The United States Marshals Service: A symbol of law and order in a nation that continues to grow and evolve. Should you wish to apply, please reach out on discord to therealbeet. He will be able to inform you if there are openings within the faction and be able to point you in the right direction regarding a whitelist application.

It's been over 500 days since South Tahoma Roleplay opened our doors. 7,000 characters and 2,300 whitelist applications later, and we're still standing after our fair share of adversity, peaks, dips and valleys. Nobody could argue that the text-based roleplaying scene is significantly smaller than our 'voice roleplay' counterparts, and the RDR2 crowd for such roleplay is even smaller than the GTA playerbase. The STRP project has come with its fair share of problems and issues, but none more prevalent than the technical side of things. This newsletter exists to give you a full, uncensored deep dive into why we've decided to perform a full database wipe, construct a new lore in a geographically restricted setting, and a true-to-text gameplan of our future. This newsletter has been broken down into various 'spoilers', so you can choose to read the more 'in depth' sections as you wish. If you're interested in a more streamlined version, kindly scroll below the spoilers to visit the timeline, and FAQ's. With love, Bill, Blueice, Bailey, Karner and the ST Staff This section talks about RedM, CFX, Resource Usage & VORP - and the extreme difficulties of building a RedM server with 3rd party script authors. This is the primary motivation for our hard reset; and also forces a database wipe, to allow harmonious migration. A written note directly from Lead Development Karner, talking about the difference between the STRP 1884 relaunch in Early 2025, versus the actual integration of STRP 2.0's bespoke scripts; which will come slightly later, but will not cause (yet another) hard reset. Additionally, a note on how easy server hitches (the memory leak) are to tackle, if we don't have to use 3rd party scripts and resources. This section talks about key elements of the RDR2 Text experience that have nothing (or little) to do with the technical side of things. We're discussing things like Whitelisted Jobs, the Economy, the Map, the Lore, and the more Administrative (as in, paper-heavy) decisions to construct the fictional State of Tahoma. This section focuses on the gratification of roleplay that isn't considered 'passive', the interlinks (or lack thereof) day-to-day roleplay and our current 1900 server lore, and the Law vs. Outlaw experience; all of which we'd like to make more practical in the roleplay experience of South Tahoma 1884 - however some of these practical changes may be delayed, in favour of core scripts. This section talks about the state of the South Tahoma Staff Team, tackles recent looming complaints, and identifies some areas that we'd like to focus on with South Tahoma 1884; to ensure that our basic mission statement of "the role of the staff is to facilitate fun and engaging roleplay above all else" is followed in all available faculties; from handling /reports, to answering tickets, to engaging in community discourse. All in all, there's a lot to look forward to. We'd like to reiterate that the leading motivation for this hard reset was the technical side of affairs; which have reached an unfortunate stagnation where our entire development team are overly frustrated with 3rd party scripts and our inability to properly diagnose and fix issues - essentially forcing us to build a skyscraper with one arm tied behind our back. Of course, other elements such as the playerbase decline, the constant dying & reviving of roleplaying hubs (without consistency from the previous lore), and the irrelevant server lore that disallowed meaningful roleplay contributed. We'd like to offer a brief FAQ section, along with an expected timeline of affairs; to keep you fully in the loop. Sunday 1st December The lore is released. | A new 'Character Bios' section is released for those that want to pre-write their characters. Friday 6th December Whitelisted Role Applications Open (incl. newly Whitelisted Leaders: USMS, Apache Tribe, County Sheriff's). Friday 13th December Faction Applications Open | Rules Update Friday 20th December Whitelisted Leader Applications Close & are replied to. Remaining Whitelisted Roles remain Open until at capacity. Early January 2025 STRP 1884 launches with key inhouse script replacements, and necessary 3rd party scripts for first quarter operation. Summer 2025 STRP 1884's 3rd party scripts are replaced with inhouse scripts, without another data migration; so everything can be retained. Q: Why have you done this to me and my character? A: The decision was made to perform a hard reset for a multitude of reasons, largely covered above, however the plethora of 3rd party resources and various technical issues; and the key lack of centralizing our small community into an intimate setting where roleplay could be appropriately supported were the key reasons above all else. We found that more isolated concepts such as ranches could flourish due to their inherently secluded community, but the 11 towns (from Annesburg to Tumbleweed) could never see extensive concepts due to a plethora of reasons. Q: OK, but why does my character have to be deleted? A: The 'MVP' that was spoken about in Karner's earlier note dictates that a few of these core script replacements (largely, those by VORP) will simply require a database wipe to allow sensical migration; rather than attempting to essentially 'rewrite' every single character for a new framework (Feather) down the line. Q: I just got here! Why have you done this now? A: Unfortunately, this is a sentiment that could be reasonably applied all-year-round. There's always a new character who just got whitelisted, a new property that just got approved, a narrative unfinished or a story untold; and there's never a 'perfect' time to reset everything. We decided to opt for Winter 2024, as a combination of the upcoming holiday season and the already-declining playerbase seemed like the best of an impossible circumstance. Q: Why can't I remake my 1900's character? A: We've put a lot of effort into constructing a brand new story, with brand new key buildings and roles, with a brand new year, brand new laws and a brand new constricted setting - to allow characters to essentially 'rewind' their life 16 years and selfinsert into a brand new context above all else would be a disingenuous effort to create something fresh. However, persons who have their heart set on a certain archetype ("I want to own a stables again", "I want to be a rancher again", "I want to be an artist again", etc.) are of course more than welcome to do so. People can and should roleplay what they want to roleplay, we just ask that you allow your creativity to flourish and drum up something that's era appropriate. Q: Why don't you just relaunch in Summer 2025? A: Because of Karner's talented noodle; we're able to perform a 'soft launch' at the start of the year, and then inject our MVP down the line without the need for wiping the database yet again. This will mean the development team can approach the MVP at their own pace, whiel players are welcome to get their new stories underway. We're confident that server hitches (commonly mistaken as 'memory leaks') won't be present in the January launch. Q: Have you rushed this decision? A: We have been discussing our options since April 2024, and considered a multitude of options other than a hard reset; however primarily due to the impossibility of migrating a SQL database from VORP to FEATHER, this was the best option. Q: What's a 'Faction Application'? A: We're wanting to put a heavy focus on factions in STRP 1884. Currently, we get the feeling that many Factions feel like they're working 'under' Faction Management, or are unheard of. A new invite-only Discord that will replace the STRP Community Discord will host critical discourse between approved factions, their leaders and members, a newly appointed Head of Faction Management and their team; to hopefully encourage a more symbiotic relationship between Factions & FM, rather than one that feels like a battle. Ergo, while we won't stop you playing as a 'group of friends', we're encouraging faction applications as a 'proof of concept', which will come with a myriad of benefits. Q: How many character slots will there be? A: At launch, 3. Logic being a Main, an Alt, and an auxiliary slot for one-shot characters, events, etc. We may opt to up this limit on a 'as needed' basis. Q: What Law Agencies will be present? A: At launch, New Austin Sheriff's Office, West Elizabeth Sheriff's Office, United States Marshal Service. Q: Can I play as a Native? A: A pre-existing 'official' faction of Apaches will be supported by Faction Management, along with an application for the Chieftain of such; however you are welcome to roleplay as a nomadic native or a small band of native american friends if you do not wish to roleplay as an Apache. Q: Will I still be able to go to New Hanover, Lemoyne and Guarma? A: Physically, yes - however it will be excruciatingly inconvenient. No scripts, no map, no support at all. If necessary, we will construct a basic rule under 'Common Sense' to avoid these counties entirely. Guarma will not be included at all. Q: Will you expand the map if the playerbase outgrows New Austin & West Elizabeth? A: Of course. Q: Will the forum content be saved? A: Yes. Any 'community content' will be held in South Tahoma 1900, for as long as our storage allows. Q: Will my Administrative record also reset? A: Nice try.

Discord ID/User: sean100 Suggestion Outline: as the title says, do a poll on discord for the removal/keeping of horse hunger and thirst. What script/development support will it require?: horse hunger and thrist. Why will it benefit South Tahoma Roleplay?: universally all of the people that i have talked to about the horse hunger script have a disliking for it. correlation does not mean causation but ever since it was re-added i have been getting a lot of stuttering and i am aware that is why it was removed in the first place. the script it tedious, unnecessary and unengaging. it feels like it has been added just to have it rather than a decent reasoning behind it. more doesn't always mean better. the script is increasingly miserable due to the persistent glitch of the horse menu not populating. poll the community, pretty please.

First ever couple on Faces of South Tahoma - AND soon to be MARRIED! 💍 Meet Clayton Revoire & Nettie May aka @Dougie @cicurate. Reputable throughout the Heartlands - The family of Revoire Ranch; humble, hard-nosed and ambitious. Head of the house; Clayton Revoire, the epitome of a ranching, family man. Along side his wildcard, bride-to-be, Nettie May. The eldest sibling of the well known May family, who brings the warmth and tough-loving nature to the quickly growing Revoire family.

Farmer gal Edith Criddley as she'd probably look at you if you passed her on the street of town. She looks mortified most of the time, however, she doesn't stay far from a fight - heck, she even likes to slam and kick when she gets the chance. @Crocs

The Makóyi Confederacy The Makóyi Confederacy, also known as the Makóyi Ótapi’sin (Wolf People) or simply the Makóyi, is a Native American tribe with roots in the state of Tahoma. In their heyday, they were one of Tahoma's most formidable Plains Indian tribes and ruled a vast territory that stretched from the mountain peaks of Mount Hagen to the heavily forested region of Tall Trees. The term "Makóyi Confederacy" is a historic collective name for linguistically related groups that make up the Makóyi people. These groups included the Iksim Ómahksíkimi ("Secret Lake"), the Ómahkapi’siiksi ("Big Coyote"), the Makoyópowáóowahsin ("Rising Mountain"), and the Ponokáísski ("Elk Face"). These aforementioned subtribes all had their unique customs, traditions, and territories, but often acted as one large entity in times of war, with the various warrior societies of these groups banding together to fight off much larger foes such as the Lakota, their lifelong enemies. The Makóyi have long waged war against Siouan-speaking nations, with their only Siouan-speaking allies being the Wapiti, whom the Makóyi had long shared borders and enemies with. Their language is part of the Algonquian language family, which includes those of the Blackfoot, Arapaho, Gros Ventre, and many other tribes. Their language bears striking similarities to how the Blackfoot talk. The Makóyi Ótapi’sin are very culturally similar to that particular tribe, with many of their myths, legends, and creation stories being borrowed from the Blackfoot but with unique interpretations. These similarities were also present in the Makóyi way of life, especially when it came to their proficiency in warfare, horse culture, hunting, and their later complete despisal of the French and white settlers. The tribe's name, Makóyi Ótapi’sin, derives from the Blackfoot language and means Wolf People. It is said that the Makóyi's various subtribes followed wolves through the mountainous terrain in their earliest years, believing that they would lead them to food that they could hunt. In times when the wolves didn't lead them to food, the Makóyi Ótapi’sin would simply hunt the wolves instead. The Makóyi revered the wolves, believing that they knew everything about hunting and everything about war. In addition to their reverence for the wolves that they followed and hunted, they also respected the local bull elks. It is said that Makóyi men admired male bull elks for their ability to attract mates. Makóyi men would play a courting flute, imitating the bugling sound of elk due to the belief that it would attract women. Wolves and elks played a large part in the Makóyi's way of life, with elks being seen as a symbol of fertility, peace, and prosperity, and the wolf being a symbol of successful hunts, superior war strategies, and brotherhood. To the Makóyi, the sound of wolves howling in the distance while a hunting party was out searching for a game was seen as a sign that a fruitful hunt was on the horizon. Also central to the Makóyi's way of life was the hunting of American bison, which especially gained prevalence after the Makóyi were introduced to horses. In the American bison, the Makóyi found a valuable source of food, clothing, and leather to make their tipis. ‎Trade between the Makóyi and nearby tribes flourished for generations in their earliest years, as they forged bonds with numerous larger and more formidable tribes such as the Arapaho, Blackfoot, Gros Ventre, Wapiti, and Cree. The Makóyi often traded valuable furs and other items they had gathered with these allied tribes, exchanging them for wives, trinkets, and weapons. Everything changed however for the Makóyi in the early 1700s when they were first introduced to horses by the Blackfoot and Gros Ventre. It was then that the Makóyi first began emerging from their snow-capped sanctuaries of Mount Hagen and Grizzlies West, wandering onto the grasslands and forests of Big Valley and Tall Trees in search of new territory to conquer. As the generations went by, the tribe grew significantly, and so did their territory. For years, they fought against other tribes such as the Lakota and Cheyenne for control over the Great Plains, Tall Trees, and parts of Big Valley. The Makóyi would also often travel westward towards New Austin and Tahoma's surrounding states, where they would often find themselves in conflict with the Comanche, along with Pueblo nations such as the Navajo and Apache. It was during these trying years that a brutal warrior culture began to form within the Makóyi Ótapi’sin, allowing them to stand up to their much larger enemies despite their tribe's smaller size. Eventually, the Makóyi people carved out a sizeable swathe of land across the Plains and even into the forested regions of Tall Trees. They were feared by lesser tribes in the area and hated by the more significantly larger tribes for their ruthless approach to warfare. During these raids, they'd often take weapons, horses, and food from enemy villages, along with a commodity that they saw as most valuable and a key to their growth, women. Captured women from rival tribes were more often than not taken as wives. Male captives, along with the offspring of captive women, were often killed. Children were occasionally also accepted into the Makóyi as members, usually after they were adopted into a family. However, this was only the case when it came to the children of captive Native women, as the children of captured white settlers were often killed, along with the parents themselves. Early French explorers documented the Wolf People as being highly superstitious, skillful horsemen and bowmen, along with having complete animosity for anybody who wasn't like them. However, there are two sides to every story, and it is said that the Makóyi once welcomed European explorers into their village, only for two of their women to be kidnapped by the Europeans when they left. They were later sent back with gifts, many of which were welcome. But there was one unwelcome gift from the Europeans that caused the Makóyi to become extremely hostile. The girls who returned to their families died shortly after due to having caught smallpox from their captors, which they had never experienced before. Almost an entire Makóyi band died within two months. This made the tribe completely close themselves off from any further visits from white settlers and instead attacked them viciously when they showed up, as the Makóyi believed that the explorers had intentionally cursed them. As a result, the next time the Makóyi were visited by explorers, they were greeted with arrows and war whoops. They fought a brutal war against the French colonists shortly after they arrived in Tahoma, but there were also brief moments of trade. The French attempted to ally with the Makóyi shortly before the French-Indian War of 1754, but the Wolf People were said to have denied their offer with a hail of arrows and gunfire. The Makóyi had made their stance clear, and it was that they wouldn't take a side in the coming war between the French and the British but would instead defend their territory from the incursions of both. They fought a war that was characterized by guerilla warfare and swift unexpected attacks until 1755 when a brief truce was reached. But tensions once again escalated a year later in 1756 when the French encroached deeper into the Makóyi's lands, marking the start of a seven-year war. Continued skirmishes and attacks continued between the French, their allies, and the Makóyi for the next few decades until the year 1803, in which the state of Tahoma was sold to the United States, leading to a very brief period of peace. The Makóyi tribe engaged in trade with the white settlers at first but remained highly superstitious and distrustful of them. They traded their fur coats, horses, and other valuables for weapons, ammunition, slaves, and other commodities. Some Makóyi took up a trade in slave catching, working for the white man to apprehend and return escaped slaves. Their proficiency in slave catching and a desire to avoid losing one of their most profitable ventures, but also all of their slaves, caused the Makóyi to join in on the American Civil War on the side of the confederates. However, shortly after the end of the Civil War in 1865, the Wolf People tribe began to rebel against the white settlers almost immediately, raiding settlements and ambushing travelers, soldiers, and stagecoaches alike as they traveled through their territory. Makóyi aggression in Grizzles West and West Elizabeth became especially prevalent after the 1876 Battle of Little Bighorn, where the Lakota, along with their Arapaho and Cheyenne allies, defeated General Custer. Emboldened by the actions of their Arapaho allies and their coalition, the Makóyi and their coalition launched an attack on the Fort Riggs Holding Camp to drive the U.S. Cavalry out just a few months later. Although the battle was almost won, the Makóyi took too many losses and soon had to flee back into the wilderness. A few months after the attack on Fort Riggs, the United States declared war on the Makóyi, causing a bloody decade-long war that, much like their war with the French, was characterized by random attacks and ambushes. By 1887, the Wolf People's various subtribes had been almost decimated by years of war, disease, and other factors. They officially surrendered in 1891 after many of their warriors had been killed. Their elderly, women, remaining warriors, and children were subsequently herded up to a reservation where they were forced to stay. The Makóyi tribe was further punished throughout the 1890s following a series of attacks, mostly on workers and builders who were said to have been building a reservation school. The most notorious incident took place in 1896 when a man was found disemboweled, dismembered, and scalped a few miles away from the Makóyi's sacred Mount Hagen. The man was said to have been murdered by a small group of Makóyi tribespeople who were disgruntled with the idea of allowing the white man to take their children. As a result of this, more of the tribe's people were taken. Some were killed and buried in shallow graves, and others had their children stolen from them and forced into reservation schools. As of 1900, the Makóyi Confederacy is not what it used to be. Many of their once large bands were now forced onto reservations after their long, drawn-out war was lost. Presently, only one nomadic group remains free. Despite having surrendered to the United States Cavalry in 1891, a band known as Iksim Ómahksíkimi (or Secret Lake Makóyi) fled the reservation that they were confined to eight years later. The Iksim Ómahksíkimi now hide on the fringes of society, attempting to avoid the United States Cavalry and the Bureau of Indian Affairs as they try to maintain their nomadic lifestyle once more, all while attempting to elude the BIA and the U.S. Cavalry. Their resistance against assimilation into their enemies' society has caused the Secret Lake Makóyi to often be referred to as the Outlaw Makóyi, a term that they have wholly embraced as a result of criminality, alcoholism, and depression sweeping through their once proud ranks like a plague. The fact that they are considered enemies of the state has caused the Makóyi Confederacy to adapt their stance and become more isolated than ever before, greatly straining their relationships with traders, with the most notable incident occurring in the late March of 1900 when a Shoshone trader was taken hostage by the Makóyi after she was accused of cursing the tribe by bringing a white woman to their village. The woman's captivity only ended when the brother of the captured woman challenged Rode the Enemy's Horse, the Secret Lake Makóyi's chieftain, to a duel. A duel that almost resulted in his death. News of the kidnapping caused a stir in the state of Tahoma, with marshals and Indian Affairs now attempting to track the tribe more than they had before. The Secret Lake Makóyi were forced to flee from the mountains of Northwestern Ambarino, at least for the time being. They were forced to take refuge far from their traditional lands. While the woman was released alive shortly after the tribe fled Mount Hagen, the consequences of their actions dealt a significant blow to the tribe. They had not only heightened their exposure to U.S. Marshals and Indian Affairs but had lost a valued trader to their superstitions. The tribe's future has been even further jeopardized with the disappearance of their warrior society leader Kills Quietly, after she shot and critically injured the brother of the Shoshone captive in the aftermath of the very duel that the chieftain almost died in. Subtribes Of The Makóyi Confederacy The Secret Lake People (Iksim Ómahksíkimi) The Iksim Ómahksíkimi (Secret Lake People), also sometimes referred to as the Outlaw Makóyi is the fourth sub-tribe of the Makoyi confederacy, and while they are thought to have been the most recently formed band, having only taken root in Tahoma roughly two centuries before the arrival of European Settlers to the region, they are also the most vicious. They have long been referred to by their arch-nemesis the Lakota as Wéípuza Puŋpúŋnaǧí meaning 'Bloodthirsty, Rotten Soul". A reference to the sub-tribe's vicious, unforgiving nature. They were especially feared and reviled by the Lakota's Big Valley subtribe, the Wanžila Lakota, who have told stories of Iksim Ómahksíkimi raids where entire villages were razed to the ground in raids by the Iksim Ómahksíkimi with the intentions of kidnapping Lakota women. Many of the Lakota women captured by the Iksim Ómahksíkimi were never seen again, giving the Lakota the impression that the Iksim Ómahksíkimi had killed them. This particular tribe is said to have first emerged in the Tall Trees region of Tahoma several centuries ago as a small, obscure tribe that originated along a lake hidden deep in the heart of Tall Trees. The lake, which later became known to the white man as Aurora Basin became the subtribe's namesake. It is believed that the Iksim Ómahksíkimi were not originally a Makoyi sub-tribe, but soon met the Makoyi and very quickly became part of the Makóyi Confederacy. It is said that a group of elders from the Risng Mountain People met with the chiefs of the ragtag tribe and initiated them in to the Makóyi, bestowing upon them the name Iksim Ómahksíkimi (Secret Lake People) for their secretive nature and their reverence for the great lake that they were often found camped along. ‎ The Iksim Ómahksíkimi accepted their invitation in to the ranks of the Makóyi Confederacy with immense pride and within a decade had already adopted the worship of all of the Makóyi Confederacy's gods and had completely adopted their language. The Iksim Ómahksíkimi are also known to have been the first Makóyi subtribe that French explorers came across, and it was two Iksim Ómahksíkimi women that the French had kidnapped and later returned with gifts. The encounters between the French explorers and the Iksim Ómahksíkimi gave rise to the explorers' descriptions of the Makoyi as being highly superstitious, violent and hateful towards anybody who wasn't like them. Currently as of 1900, the Secret lake People are the last free Makoyi sub-tribe to exist in the wilderness of Tahoma, with many of their former brothers-in-arms confined to reservations, the Secret Lake People had become extremely restless. They left their reservation in 1998 after the sub-tribe's current chief, Aawohkitopi or Chief Who Rode The Enemy's Horse encouraged his people to follow him off of the so called 'wall-less prison' that they had been confined to. The Elk Face People (Ponokáísski) The Ponokáísski (Elk Face People) are the third sub-tribe of the Makóyi Confederacy. They were known to have inhabited the vast expanse of Big Valley in Tahoma's West Elizabeth County for generations. They were said to have emerged as a Makóyi sub-tribe in the late 1500s when the Makóyi had just begun to slowly expand south from their mountainous sanctuaries of Grizzlies West and Mount Hagen. The Ponokáísski had always been in the Big Valley area, and like the Iksim Ómahksíkimi had their roots as an obscure, Algonquian-language-speaking tribe that inhabited the woodlands and grasslands of Big Valley. Their first encounters with the Makóyi Confederacy were marked by curiosity and a strange sense of familiarity. Stories tell of meetings between the two groups, where the Makóyi's two already existing sub-tribes came across the small ragtag tribe that would later become known as the Ponokáísski. These encounters were marked mostly by trade and the sharing of stories around campfires, but as the Makóyi told more of their stories to the obscure band of tribespeople, the small group of Algonquian speakers soon found themselves wanting to become part of the Makóyi Confederacy, and a few weeks later, they did. Offerings of sweetgrass and tobacco were given at a sacred fire as the Makóyi Confederacy's chiefs initiated the chiefs of the newly formed Ponokáísski sub-tribe. The tribe was given the name Elk Face People as a reference to the large Bull Elks that populated their territory and were often hunted by them. Within a few years of joining the Makóyi Confederacy the Ponokáísski had become a force to be reckoned with in their own right, known for having the most fearless warriors and the most disciplined warrior societies. They were among the most steadfast fighters during the wars against the French and White colonists and their brutality was only topped by that of the Iksim Ómahksíkimi. ‎ Ancient tales also tell of the Ponokáísski having been the first Makóyi tribe to take up skinwalking due to the vastness of Big Valley. It's said that the Ponokáísski's medicine men and women were often unable to travel the long distances required to treat their fellow tribespeople's ailments, and so they sought out the power of the Elk, adopting its visage as their own and performing rituals to give them the powers of shape-shifting. It was later said to have been the Ponokáísski who taught the art of the skinwalker medicine person to the rest of the Makóyi's sub-tribes. As a result, the Ponokáísski are believed to have always had the strongest medicine of all of the Makóyi, revered for their prowess as mystics, shamans and prophets. The Ponokáísski and their mystical ways were instrumental to the Makoyi's war effort during the fighting with the white man that took place between 1876 and 1891, but like many other sub-tribes of the Makoyi, they soon surrendered along with the rest of the Makoyi's subtribes, where they were herded to a reservation. The war against the white man took a great toll on the Ponokáísski. The sub-tribe was almost completely decimated during the chaos of warfare. They still live, but are mostly confine to reservations, with only a few of the Ponokáísski's men and women daring to venture out of the reservation to seek out the Secret Lake People, the only 'free' Makoyi subtribe. Although many Ponokáísski have become content with their confinement, others yearn for the freedom that their people once enjoyed and seek to join the people of the Secret Lake in their resistance. The Big Coyote People (Ómahkapi’siiksi) The Ómahkapi’siiksi (Big Coyote People) are native to the rugged, rocky regions of Grizzlies West. Unlike the Ponokáísski and Iksim Ómahksíkimi, the Big Coyote People did not have roots as a small, obscure tribe, and were the second among the original two subtribes of the Makoyi Confederacy. Their name, Big Coyote People is a reference to the large Timber Wolves that the Ómahkapi’siiksi once followed through the rugged terrain of the Western Grizzlies, the particular breed of Wolves that the Ómahkapi’siiksi would often follow were called Big Coyotes in the Makoyi's ancient language, and so the name stuck. It is not known when the adopted the name Big Coyote People, but it is believed that they adopted it during a migration from Mount Hagen by a large group of Makoyi who would later go on to become a seperate subtribe. The Big Coyotes are well known for their prowess in hunting, horsemanship and warfare, but were most known for having slightly different beliefs when it came to animals as opposed to the beliefs of other Makoyi subtribes. For example, while most Makoyi subtribes consider Coyotes to be evil, the Ómahkapi’siiksi are known to revere them just as much as they revere their sacred Timber Wolves. They believe Coyotes to be messengers from the spirit realm, capable of trickery, but also capable of imparting great wisdom to those who dare to listen, and although their main holy animal is the Timber Wolf, the Coyote holds a special place in Ómahkapi’siiksi culture, revered as the younger brothers of the much larger Timber Wolves, as opposed to being seen as a different species of animal. It is believed to have been their reverence for Coyotes that caused the Ómahkapi’siiksi to begin referring to the Timber Wolves that they followed as Big Coyotes. As of 1900, the Ómahkapi’siiksi too are confined to a reservation, which they share with the other two remaining Makoyi bands. Trapped on the reservation, the Ómahkapi’siiksi have lost much of the knowledge of the lands that they once possessed, the once proud and large sized sub-tribe having been reduced to a shell of its former self. Despite this, some Ómahkapi’siiksi also sneak off the reservation, seeking a life in the wilderness, inspired by the Secret Lake People's open defiance. Though, many are too afraid to leave the reservation due to the Ómahkapi’siiksi having caught the brunt of many of the massacres and war crimes that the United States Cavalry had to offer due to being the most populated subtribe. The Rising Mountain People (Makoyópowáóowahsin) The Rising Mountain People (Makoyópowáóowahsin in the Makoyi tongue) are known to have been the originators of the Makoyi Confederacy. They were survivalists, living in the harsh wilderness of Mount Hagen and the snowy mountains that stretched miles off to the north. Legend has it that the Makoyópowáóowahsin followed a vast pack of wolves to the wilderness of Tahoma many years ago, believing that their creator had sent the pack of wolves to guide them to their new home. For centuries they lived amongst the mountains, following the howls and snarls of the wolves that they revered as their guardians and brothers so that they could hunt the animals that they were led to. The origins of the Makoyópowáóowahsin are for the most part unknown, as much of the tribe's knowledge had also been lost in the decades leading up to the year 1900, but it is believed that the Makoyópowáóowahsin arrived in Tahoma from the Great Lakes region. Once members of the Siksika tribe, the men and women one day would become the Makoyópowáóowahsin were said to split off from their fellow Algonquians for reasons that have been lost to time. It is said that they then made the long journey south in search of new lands and were said to have arrived in Tahoma at some point during the 13th century. Those earliest days however have long been forgotten. Makoyópowáóowahsin eventually shed the Blackfoot's language, forming their own language that while similar, had its own unique characteristics, with various words sounding similar but now having different meanings. Despite having split off from the Blackfoot centuries ago, the Makoyópowáóowahsin maintained a traditional alliance with the Siksika and the greater Blackfoot Confederacy. It was the Blackfoot who first introduced the Makoyópowáóowahsin to horses during the early 17th century, allowing the Makoyi to further expand their influence throughout Tahoma. With the help of the Big Coyotes, the Makoyópowáóowahsin forged a vast empire that stretched from the northernmost peak of Tahoma's mountains all the way to Tall Trees and the Great Plains. This empire became what is now known as the Makoyi Confederacy, the Makoyi Otapi'sin or Wolf People. The Rising Mountain People were also instrumental in sealing alliances with other tribes, such as the Blackfoot, Arapaho, Wapiti and others. It was through these alliances that the Makoyi grew so fast as the centuries passed, due to the fact that the aforementioned tribes would often gift wives to them. As of 1900, the Makoyópowáóowahsin is almost an extinct subtribe. Having been almost completely decimated, they toil away on the reservation with the Big Coyote People and Elk Face People. Some Makoyópowáóowahsin have followed the Iksim Ómahksíkimi off the reservation and occasionally accompany them. Though many still remain hesitant, some have even grown content with being on a reservation despite still having an intense hatred for the Europeans who stole their land and culture from them.

Avery Rudabaugh, known by most as "Rudy", was born in 1858 in a modest homestead in the Arizona Territory. His father was a Civil War veteran who never fully returned from the battlefield, at least in spirit. Avery grew up amidst stories of valor and glory, tales his father used to spin, washed and omitted for the ears of a young boy. So by the time he hit 17, he decided to enlist in the U.S. Army, joining the 3rd Cavalry Regiment, eager to carve his own path and escape the suffocating life of a farmhand. Unfortunately for him, his first bout in the Indian Wars was going to be the infamous Little Big Horn Campaign, against the Sioux and Cheyenne. While his fellow Cavalrymen were being awarded Medals of Honor following their gallantry in the Battle of Rosebud Creek, he was branded with hot iron and lashed for his desertion and cowardice, after witnessing Captain Henry get shot in the face and lose an eye. Atonement for his actions soon came, following the Battle of Little Bighorn, when the 3rd Cavalry Regiment was led into an expedition under General Crook's leadership to punish the perpetrators of the massacre, later to be known as the Horsemeat March. If the previous battles and skirmishes weren't enough, having been forced to eat the slain mounts, boots and anything they could get their hands on made sure of Avery's disillusionment. Returning to Arizona in the spring of 1882, Avery's military service came to an end, after seeing through the defeat of the renegade Apaches in the Arizona Territory following the Battle of Big Dry Wash. He eventually became a courier and a mail rider, operating in the Southwest. After being blamed for the loss of a package and the strongbox during a robbery, he ended up drifting into the New Austin Territory in search of new work.

During the height of the U.S.-Mexico relations under the Porfiriato, a single deal between the American Government and local landowners in the borderlands of Mexico would lead to the formation of a ramshackle band of rogues and ruffians of all sorts. In 1887, a large haul of gold bars approximating to about two-million US Dollars in worth was being transported to the prosperous city of Monterrey by way of Monclova in Coahuila de Zaragoza. This information, however, reached an individual whose greed would change much. Ramiro Narváez, a military captain of the local Cavalry Regiment and son of a local land-owner, used this information to try and make it big on persuasion of his maternal cousin, Vasco Pedrosa. The two, alongside close friend Eleodoro Zúñiga, as well as some of Ramiro's sub-officers and soldiers attempted to stage an accident for this train as it was planned to come through. A small trading post along the rail lines, known as San Juan, was set ablaze by the avaricious Captain and used as a roadblock to stop the train. However, no sooner had they overtaken the train that the real plot was made clear to them. The train was meant to be robbed, but not by them. The Federal official who had slipped Ramiro the information in the first place in return for payment, instead alerted the military who rushed in force to protect the American gold and avoid an international incident from further escalation. In the conflict, several close comrades of the trio were slain or captured. Ramiro, Vasco and Eleodoro fled north across the border before the news reached American troops, pretending to be rail workers to gain entry. Once past, they continued on their roguish activities for some time.. In 1889, Eleodoro avoided detection as both Vasco and Ramiro were caught and arrested separately, though found themselves together again in Sisika Penitentiary, nestled on an island on the Lannahechee River. With countless charges against the two, freedom became a fantasy and although neither a hangman nor a firing squad would claim their souls, it seemed that they were meant to live out destitute lives behind the sordid and swampy cells of Sisika. That is until, a storm rushed over. On April 26th, 1900, a heavy rainstorm gave the perfect cover for the Sisika Eight to escape from the prison. Among them included the two cousins from Coahuila de Zaragoza. Whether due to desperation or due to destiny, two more prisoners, Ray Carter, an Alabama-born African-American, as well as New Mexico-born Apache known as 'Dark Eyes' or Ojos Oscuros tagged along in the chaos of the storm, fleeing through the swamps of Bayou Nwa and through Roanoke Ridge, until they reached some semblance of safety initially at Annesburg. From there, horses were stolen, so were clothes and on the way, even robberies were committed in order to secure themselves with weaponry and wealth. With arms to secure their freedom, the criminal quartet escaped deeper into the South-West, slipping through Blackwater and then further beyond, to the shelter and solace of safety from the hand of the law.. (made by @iaduj16)

The Mild Bunch, also known as the Ten Cent Men is a loosely organized outlaw gang operating throughout the state of Tahoma. The so-far unknown criminals gained the name "The Mild Bunch" due to taking a particular disinterest in highway robberies and gaining infamy and notoriety, while opting to target company men and the well-heeled people of the state. The gang came to public attention after an armored wagon owned by the Lemoyne National Bank was hit on the Lemoyne county line during a routine delivery. The guardsmen who were tasked to protect the wagon were found shot dead underneath a bridge nearby Dewberry Creek, while the armored wagon and it's contents are still missing. Famed United States Marshal Sherman Hensley was unavailable to comment on the situation when asked by Tahoma Times, as he was too busy composing a telegram while the phone line within the state building was occupied after a hot air balloon made an emergency landing on their backyard. OOC INFORMATION Hi. We're portraying a rugged bunch of outlaws that prioritize quality roleplay and character development over slow-burn highway robberies that devolve into turn and burn deathmatches after being tracked down by bloodhounds. Although it graces us with beautiful shootout clips that are popular among our family and friends and it produces great intellectual discussions among our roleplayer peers, we try to steer clear from it as best as we can because I personally am pretty bad at gunfighting in this game. Instead, we aim to take it as far as we can while providing some quality time and story telling to ourselves first and foremost and then the wider circle of the server. Characters wearing the Reverend beard need not apply because it looks very goofy. In fact nobody needs to apply, since the recruitment's completely done in character, if we need to add more ruffians to our ranks. You can still DM me on the forums or the discord with any questions and concerns and talk about getting involved or if you want to play Helldivers 2. When joining the faction, you're not surrendering any rights to us because we expect you to be mature about taking losses if it comes to it, and you probably won't be getting in if that isn't right with you anyhow. Please don't metagame any information you see on this thread, even though I know some of you probably will.

The Wapiti (or "Elk People" as the name loosely translates) are a Native tribe indigenous to the State of Tahoma. The Wapiti have spent the entirety of their known existence exclusively within the lands that make up Tahoma, opposed to arriving in the present-day state through migration and displacement like other tribes. It is believed that long before contact with European explorers and non-Native people, the Wapiti originated from one of the most dominant indigenous groups in North America. The spoken language of the Wapiti belongs to the Siouan language group, with a majority of their tribal practices and spirituality closely resembling those tribes who branched from this particular group. The core of Wapiti spirituality is centered around two concepts - the sun God known as “Sacred Fire” and the creator known as “Great Spirit.” Variations of the creation story all differ between bands of the Wapiti, but the underlying tone remains the same. Great Spirit created the Earth, named Turtle Island in Wapiti tongue, and all aspects of the natural world. In the beginning there were no people to inhabit this world he created, so he would make some. However he was missing one crucial ingredient needed to sustain man: fire. The gift of fire was bestowed to Great Spirit by Sacred Fire, and around its flames he built a hearth made of mountains. From the clay of the terrains he created, Great Spirit molded the figures of man and baked them in his hearth of life. The clay figures emerged from the hearth in a variety of tones and colors, many of them selfishly turning their back on the one who gave them life. However a red figure stood before him, gracious for the precious gift he was given. This figure was the first Indian. The sun is revered as the lifeforce which gives energy to all life. As such, all of the living creatures on Earth who require the sun to survive are forever bound to exist in a harmonious nature. The sun could both reward and punish, giving a bountiful harvest but also lashing out with droughts, thus creating a culture of respect. Wapiti tribesmen and women pray to Sacred Fire and the star people who exist in the night sky, giving offerings of tobacco and sage to pay tribute. The ancestral lands of the Wapiti span from the vast plains of The Heartlands where they originated, to the whispering tranquility of Cumberland forest, with traces of the tribe's artefacts being found as far away as West Elizabeth. In the height of their dominance, the Wapiti tribe lived a semi-sedentary lifestyle tethered to the surrounding game populations. Bison were frequently hunted by parties of Wapiti tribesmen, providing a fruitful source of sustenance which could be utilized for clothing, meals, and weaponry. Abundant game is a trait which still describes present day Tahoma, and in the days before settlers this was even more apparent. However above all the wildlife which were admired and utilized by the tribe, the elk reigned supreme. The elk is a revered creature across all bands of the Wapiti, admired for their graceful nature and enduring strength. Their majestic presence in the forests symbolizes resilience and harmony with nature, embodying the spiritual connection that the tribe holds dear. The Wapiti people often tell stories of the elk's role in their cultural mythology, depicting these noble creatures as guardians of the land and messengers of wisdom. They believe that the elk's spirit guides them in times of challenge, teaching them about perseverance and the interconnectedness of all living beings in the natural world. As a young tribesman graduates from boyhood to manhood, the tribe conducts a ceremony where a headdress fashioned from parts of an elk is placed upon the youth’s head and elder members dance and sing in a circle surrounding them. Similarly, the Wapiti warriors during their trials would often be tasked with conquering a bull elk using primitive forms of weaponry to prove their keen skill of the hunt. Medicine men, priests, and figures of significance within the tribe will often carry with them tools and artefacts made from the hide and antlers of elk - including the peace pipe which is fashioned from polished and decorated horn. The Wapiti tribe experienced a turbulent period throughout the 19th century. Establishment of towns in New Hanover, in particular Valentine, caused significant warfare between Natives, settlers, and the army. The plot of land prior to white settlers was inhabited by the Wapiti of Dakota River, or “Sat-By-Water” as their band is known in Wapiti tongue. As settlers slowly encroached on the surrounding lands, tensions mounted and boiled over into bloodshed. The Wapiti Massacre of 1815 left an entire tribal encampment demolished and many men, women, and children slaughtered. The remnants of the band were displaced from where they once called home, and consequently the town of Valentine was constructed on the footprint of a bloody battle. Turmoil continued throughout the latter half of the 19th century, pitting the Wapiti warriors and their tribal allies (in particular the Makóyi) versus the US cavalry, with one of the last known conflicts occurring between the years 1886 and 1891. The strength of the United States became unshakable to the dwindling number of braves which ultimately caused the tribe’s surrender and signaled an end of the Indian Wars in Tahoma. Bands were rounded up in a four year span in the years 1892 to 1896. As of the year 1899, all bands of the Wapiti had been confined in the reservation system as a result of warfare and assimilation policies. Children are educated on white society and Christianity in reservation schools, stripping their tribal identities and handing them English names. However, one particular band became overtly resistant despite the domineering forces of the United States government. The Western Wapiti, or “Tree Whisper People,” sought to escape the Ambarino Wapiti Indian Reservation in the wake of the twentieth century and continue the battle to maintain their traditions. This band was often referred to as the “Wapiti Resistance.” Bands of the Wapiti include: Tree Whisper People (Western Wapiti) Sat-By-Water (Wapiti of Dakota River/Cumberland Forest) Horses of the Plains (Heartlands Wapiti)

These are previous stories sold to the Blackwater Ledger before Milo J. Wilder set up his own paper. Leaving them here either way. Written by M. J. Wilder

EPILOGUE VIDEOS A FINAL, HUMBLE WORD Some personal yapping from Grumsman, tsk tsk. This final post wraps up The Malgeri Connections, and I felt as though it was necessary, as the faction itself was always a fundamentally "narrative" driven faction, up until the very end. I've only started roleplay just over a year and a half ago, yet February onwards - and the Malgeri faction - has seen a massive evolution in my roleplay, writing, et cetera. I could list out those I appreciate, but it'd be far too long. I'm not one for super extravagant, cheesy appreciations, but I appreciate a great many in this community that watched or contributed to this story, and you all know who you are. It was an absolute pleasure - see you in 1884, where there's no fucking Italians, gents. I'm cowboy-pilled.

Howdy, South Tahomies. Well, it's been 83 days since our last Newsletter - so somebody must be slacking (it's definitely not me). The truth of the matter is that South Tahoma RP has been on quite the rollercoaster since our previous newsletter, and there's some exciting things on the horizon. We've completed the initial stages of our development turnaround, allowing for our lovely developer team to have a proper workflow and organised workspace; all headed by freshly minted Lead Developer @Karner, who has been absolutely instrumental in this process. We'll go into some more thorough detail about the chages this later on. Additionally, we've seen New Austin garner some support and interest, the Carcano Rifle & Rolling Block Rifle removal, the introduction of a new railway script, and an absolute plethora of bug fixes that have been plaguing the server for quite some time. As well as all that lovely stuff, it just happens to be our Anniversary real soon... So without any further adu, let's get into this. Well, folks - we made it! Later this month, specifically June 16th, South Tahoma Roleplay will be celebrating it's one year anniversary. Since our launch, we've had over 5,800 Whitelists to the project, we've seen an abundance of staff and players come and go, we've seen immense progress on the development side of things as the project finds its footing, and of course - we've seen some incredible roleplay from you guys. It's been quite the journey over the course of the last year, and of course - not without it's difficulties. Way back when, Bill & Co. were taking a huge gamble by developing a text roleplay project while the space was already preoccupied; but through determination, a metric tonne of dedicated hours and manpower, and a team of likeminded individuals who saw a passion project and wanted to forge it into the premier space for Red Dead Redemption text roleplay, here we are now. We've had some bumps in the road in about every arena you can image - rules, staff, management, decisions, changes, development - you name it, we've probably tackled it; but ultimately, we're immensley proud of the project and how far we've come since last year. We'll continue at it, working at everything we can, and striving to maintain our place as the top spot for text roleplay in this space. While we can't promise you perfection, we'll ensure we're doing our best to achieve a friendly, fun & safe roleplaying space for y'all! Cheers to South Tahoma! 40% OFF TRAILBLAZER PACKAGES, USE CODE "ANNIVERSARY" As a thank you to our lovely community, we're offering 40% Off our Trailblazer package, which you can grab on our shiny new Tebex page, listed just below. This donation package allows you to grab the Trailblazer & Contributor Discord role, some second chance gold if you want to make some last minute adjustments, access to exclusive pets - the entire range, including birds, dogs and critters, access to the various hot air baloons around the map, and a custom P.O. box for your incoming and outgoing telegraphs! GRAB A TRAILBLAZERPACKAGE HERE Please note that all donation packages attract a Tebex Tax, and are on amonthly subscription basis. Need help cancelling? Open a ticket! BUG FIXES It's only right that we open up this newsletter with the bug fixes that @Karner & company have been working tirelessly towards over the course of the last few weeks. We've even managed to tackle some long-standing bugs that have been a pain in our backside for months on end. You can find a full list of everything we've tackled in our server changelog, if you wish. Karner has asked us to publish a little something-something from the Development corner of the project to the community, too, so do have a read of this as well! We're very thankful to the manpower that Karner has taken and put into South Tahoma Roleplay, and we look forward to what the future holds! "Hey guys, I want to throw a big thank you for everyone for submitting bug tickets and being patient with the development team. Between config and balance changes from @Bailey and @MEATLOAF; furniture and mapping additions from @Dark_Knight; and UI improvements from @Bill and general bug fixing and development input from the team we've managed to form quite a good team cohesion which will hopefully bear more fruit in the near future. I want to be transparent about the near future. We are working on what's called a hardening period. This is where we focus on bug fixes and improving existing code to be a stronger foundation for future features. New features will come but we are going to be a bit more careful with their implementation. This may be through a stricter versioning system or through testing scripts with a small dedicated testing team." - KARNER Fixed: Issue with teeth not appearing as they should be. Fixed: a multitude of typos on the titles and descriptions menu's across the server. Fixed: Bandages. They are now functional. Fixed: Issue where players could intermittently use the gunslinger duel wield permissions. Fixed: Issue where horses would not flee correctly when entering & existing interiors. Fixed: Issue where the wheel repair minigame images were not loading correctly. Fixed: Issue where the horseshoe fixing minigame images were not loading correctly. Fixed: Issue where players could inject HTML into the chatbox. Fixed: /cme, /cmelong, & /my now populate the masked name as intended. Fixed: Doctor's can now access the Doctor's wagon. Fixed: Fence's being able to craft smoke bombs. Fixed: Various cameras for Tailors, Makeup & Second Chance across the map. Fixed: Pinboards now populate from the latest post, rather than the oldest. Fixed: Mining & Lumber wagons now are fix for purpose, and are better-for-purpose than a normal wagon via storage. Fixed: Minor issues with the emote wheel & clothing options in the F6 menu. Fixed: /myhours now populates hours, not minutes. Fixed: Issue where if you logged out within a specific timeframe without logging back in your character's spawn position would be that of the character selection screen. Fixed: Issue where you couldn't refill a weapon slot after logging out. You can also check out the server github webhook, for a full list of changes since our last newsletter! GOODBYE, CARCANO RIFLE & ROLLING BLOCK RIFLE In what we are sure will be a controversial move, the Senior Administration of STRP have made the decision to remove the Carcano Rifle and Rolling Block Rifle from our server entirely. For months, we have attempted to balance these weapons; but the unfortunate reality is that RedM only allows us to control certain aspects of a weapon's performance - and the traits of the CR/RBR that we wanted to tackle, we simply could not. As a result, as of 31st May 2024, the weapons have been removed. You can refund your CR/RBR at ingame blips called Weapon Disposal Point for a refund - please note this will only refund the stock price, and will not refund any customisation elements. The weapon is now unequippable, and just incase anybody slides past that; it also does 0.01% of the damage it used to do! At long last, we've finally updated our Rail script. With this, players have the potential to buy and resell trainers, a bespoke announcement system for the railway company is here; and members of the railway faction can upgrade, assign, manage coal & water, maintain, and travel with much more user accessibility. You can now control the speed and direction of your train, utilising cruise control; and even switch direction if you intend to travel eastbound or westbound. Most of all, this new script comes with missions, in the form of deliveries; the maintanance of the tracks and transporting NPC's from point A to B. Finally, in what is perhaps the most important element, trains are now fully optimized, and networked; meaning there should be a lot less latency and sync issues for all those involved! We've completely revamped the way food & drink works in South Tahoma roleplay, with the addition of the cook book. This new crafting book contains over 50+ recipes, and we've coupled it along with redesigning some of the values that your character will receive upon consuming these scrumptious goods. You'll now find that more complex recipes are more beneficial to your wellbeing, and may come with more 'charges', meaning you can chomp on them more than once. We've added a list of just some of the items we've added below! Drinks: Moonshine, Orange Juice, Wine, Brandy, Cognac, Mead, Cider & more! Food: Caramel Bar, Canitas, Chowder, Corned Beef & Cabbage, Pancakes, Fish Fillet, Doughnuts, Hamburger & more! Get yourself in game, and go find the rest! HORSE METABOLISM + NEW HORSE COATS Once again, thanks to @MEATLOAF, another 18 horse coats join the frey, along with a huge overhaul of the horse metabolism system; which is new to South Tahoma Roleplay. Have you ever wondered why your horse can make it from New Austin to Annesburg, and not really care much about the journey? Well, it's because we've been too nice to you - that's why! Horses will now get hungry and thirsty, and it's your job to keep them tended to - or you'll have to suffer the consequences of your horse either falling ill, or quite literally falling from underneath you. Keep an eye on your horse's wellbeing meters using the above interface! OUTFITS We've introduced two new outfit packs, courtesy of SireVLC, an external RedM developer & modder; which have added over 1,600 outfits for those who need some help with their 1900's fashion. You can access these outfit packs by using /outfitsmale and /outfitsfemale respectively. Remember, there's an abundance of other outfit packs too, including: /outfitsArmy, /outfitsDoctor, /outfitsGuarma, /outfitsSuits, /outfitsDresses, /outfitsPonchos, /outfitsMining, /outfitsLaw, /outfitsMexicans, /outfitsMob, /outfitsNative MLO's It's been a while! We've introduced some new MLO's in roleplay hotspots that allow players to interact with the world a little more. For those who don't know, an MLO is essentially a modded file that opens up a building that was previously just a doorway that your character would shamelessly faceplant. The following MLO's have since been added: Saint Denis Courthouse Tumbleweed STAFF UPDATE & PROMOTIONS As of this writing, the South Tahoma Staff Team have powered their way through 1,378 Whitelisted Job Applications and over 3,852 Discord Tickets. For a small team, we're excruciatingly proud of our staff for the willpower and sometimes sheer grit it requires to get through the day of ticket upon ticket upon ticket. Of course, that's not even counting care packages, in-game reports, heists & schemes, appeals and everything else too. A firm shoutout goes to the entire staff team for continuing to help run the show and commiting hours of tireless manpower to our little project. It's often said that Administration in an online video game is one of the most thankless roles, so we want to ensure that y'all receive a "thank you" from Management, at the very least. With that, let's crack on. Welcoming the following members to the Support Team: @kingmaker @Nadler @sheesh Be advised that Staff Applications are OPEN, if you're looking to be part of the team! See HERE! Congratulations to the following Staff members on their promotions: @Fowler promoted from General Administrator to Senior Administrator Fowler has been a member of South Tahoma Roleplay since day one, and since then, has worked tirelessly to balance an extremely demanding IRL work schedule with our project. Since returning to his staff duties full time, he has dedicated a surplus of his little free time to involving himself in reports, tickets and discussions, often without being asked to do so. His vigilant effort into the historics of 1900 and attitude towards nailing tickets in a timely manner has not gone unnoticed, and as such; we thank him for his efforts, and wish him well in this new role. @Bobocrunch promoted from Support Team to Junior Administrator @Koko promoted from Support Team to Junior Administrator @BebopMonk promoted from Junior Administrator to General Administrator @Vulcenus promoted from Junior Administrator to General Administrator @ToyYoda promoted from Junior Administrator to General Administrator MISCELLANEOUS ADDITIONS EVERYBODY DANCE NOW We've introduced a brand new script which actually lets you dance with another player, instead of both of the players in question trying to coordinace their dance emotes. You can initiate this dance by highlighting a player, and inviting them to dance with you. /CHANGECHAR Long awaited, you can now /changechar to bring yourself back to the character selection screen instead of having to quit out of the entirety of RedM, only to log back in to select a new character. This is an experimental feature; so please do report any bug you come across and we'll be sure to tackle them when we can. ANIMATIONS Thanks to @Dark_Knight, a tonne of animations have been added to the server. You'll have to brave the server changelog for a full list of changes, but here are two of the most recent ones! MINIGAMES You can now use /rps to play rock, paper, scissors - as well as using /rolldice [1-4] to roll some D6's! We've taken the liberty of showing you the results of your throw, too! OTHER Developer Applications Those rare diamonds that are able and willing to have a hand in the development of the South Tahoma Roleplay project now have the availability to do so. If you fancy your hand at LUA or JAVA, you can apply for our development team - we'd be happy to have you. Staff Applications We're on the hunt for dedicated individuals who can work in a team, and have a passion to take South Tahoma Roleplay to the next level. Bring your ideas out of the yapping headquarters of #general and into #staff-chat and apply for our staff team. SCREENSHOT SHOWCASE Warm regards, Community Management

A native Texan, Nathan aka @souti cut his teeth as a drifter and petty thief on the open plains of New Austin. He'd crossed over fresh from the neighboring state, but law-abiding never suited him, especially not the kind that came with a badge. Even as a Tahoma Ranger and later as a hired hand under Sheriff Donald Hays of Armadillo, his loyalty was always more to himself than to any oath. Yet, fate had other plans. When his brother’s badge fell vacant in New Hanover, Nathan found himself elected sheriff. Quickly, he became both a symbol of law enforcement across Tahoma and the scourge of every thief fool enough to cross him. His office, some said, bore the makings of an outlaw gang itself. For Nathan, the badge never came with the burden of following every rule, and it likely never would.

Thank you to everyone that contributed to the faction, anyone that roleplayed with us or against us. We achieved more then we aimed for this, main thing was to show you all that not all outlaws are rule breaking shit RPers. Big shout out to the day ones from Valentine.

OOC: This faction aims to portray a unique adaptation of a singular Wapiti band - a fictional Native tribe which is an amalgamation of several Nations from the American Plains and Mountain regions. The theme of the faction draws heavy inspiration from the real life Apache Broncos, who continued their fight into the 1920s. We will begin on the reservation and eventually leave through in-character means, building a story along the way. We have chosen the route of a fictional band to allow for more freedom in our in-character actions, as well as to not disrespect any real-life tribes whose fight had ended at this point in history. That said, we recognize and empathize with the plight of Native Americans in the 19th and 20th century, as well as the modern struggles that face many great Tribal Nations today. Focus will always be placed on a tasteful representation and plenty of passive interactions, with violence and aggression taking more of an underlying tone that drives the narrative of the faction. For inquiries related to the faction, reach out to .glassonion on discord.

Little Creek Ranch is a burgeoning cattle ranch located in Big Valley, West Elizabeth. It's named after the creek that trickles down from the Grizzly Mountains down through the valley, feeding the fertile pastures before spilling into the Dakota river. One of Tahoma's frontiers, the area is considered an intimidating place to settle and rear livestock, given the abundance of predators - wolves, grizzlies and the occasional cougar make the region a dangerous place to do business. Despite this and its comparable lack of infrastructure it sits on the only range-land north of the lower Montana river & west of the Dakota river, with close proximity to the town of Strawberry. Little Creek has had a history of being taken up and abandoned; from the challenges of the West Elizabeth insurrection that marred the county to the difficulty of life in such a climate. None the less any astute rancher would likely see the potential of the range-land - if fortune and determination could see them through the seasons in such a place. Under its current management the ranch is predominantly focused on the pasturing of cattle for beef commercially. Other ventures are possible to pursue in the realm of homesteading and modest business opportunities but cattle-ranching is the primary, driving, focus of Little Creek Ranch. What's your deal? How can I get involved? Anything else I should know?

((https://discord.gg/zx3KVpgzy7))

Howdy, South Tahomies. As you know from our previous newsletter, our upper Management and Development teams are currently neck deep in reconstructing some of the core 'RDR experience' scripts from the ground up in an effort to begin to stray away from 3rd party scripts, and move towards inhouse scripts that we fully control. Since that newsletter, we've made huge progress in developing our Administration Script (strp_admin), Chat Script (strp_chat), and Factions Script (strp_societies). We've always been excruciatingly transparent with the community regarding the development scene of STRP & RedM at large; and just wanted to assure you we're making strides quietly behind the scenes. While our heavier handed (more talented and competent) developers are getting to grips with core scripts; we're also springboarding some side projects such as the Weapon Balance Overhaul, and a distant Soft Economy Overhaul. We're using the knowledge that we've amassed over the last 400+ days of the STRP project's existence to try and better align the expectations of the playerbase as it pertains to roleplay first, and everything else second to do this. As always, these overhauls will be community led, and we encourage you to pick up the Tester Role in this channel to help us test changes. South Tahoma Roleplay's Direction This thread, which has collected over 4,500 views and 150 replies sparked a conversation amongst the Administration as it pertains to the 'identity' of South Tahoma RP. We're referring to the community brand that we're striving to forge, and the direction of roleplay that we're aiming to facilitate. We're observant enough to determine that there's a cauldron of roleplayers in our community. We have some who are commited to the historical era in its absolution, and wish to portray everything with a realism-first attitude, and some who are (slightly) more fantastical in their roleplay; who wish to roleplay a more 'Hollywood Wild West' experience whilst sacrificing some elements of the 1900 experience. We're going to take some time to discuss the 'direction' of the project as it pertains to the roleplay experience, but for now we can tell you candidly that there is no hard reset in sight - right now this is considered, internally, as a 'Hail Mary' effort to revive a dead playerbase; and we're still kicking, y'know? Community Identity One thing we've noticed is that even though we've accepted 111 Whitelists over the last 60 days, our player count remains rather stagnant. Now, there's probably a rather sizeable cooking pot of reasons for this - whether it be technical issues, school, family, university or just the RedM experience being so janky that people don't know what they're getting into; but we'd like to focus on our Community Identity in this post. Our Discord is a tool that we decided to make a community 'frontpage' fairly early on. Allowing the STRP playerbase to communicate OOCly and generally just 'hang on' is something that is to be expected of most (if not all) gaming communities, however this comes with some fairly basic social expectations that aren't really being met in recent cases. Our most basic Discord & Forum Rule is: Be Respectful Community Members are expected to act with respect and civility to other members of the South Tahoma Community at all times. This means no mean, rude or harassing comments. Simply treat others the way in which you wish to be treated, to put it simply. Admins-a-plenty have seen dogpiling, targetted "playful" harassment of players that clearly aren't "in on the joke", shitposting and a plethora of other less-than-ideal welcome wagons in our Discord channels over the past few weeks, and this isn't welcoming to new members of the playerbase and doesn't really paint a fantastic picture for the community we're trying to cultivate. The Difference There's a seismic difference between playful banter between your own social cliques and friends versus publicly pseudo-harassing someone who doesn't care for it, dogpiling a player who was subject to a report or an Administrative action or blatently denigrating or crucifying someone's roleplay because they don't align with your personal standards or expectations of portrayal. If you want to make an actual difference to someone's roleplay because you don't think they're a fit, great, apply for Staff and let's get to work. The Next Step If you're just absolutely incapable of civility, your options boil down to making your own Discord server where you can type to your hearts content, as we don't moderate external platforms except in the case of Zero Tolerence Policies, or save your typing for in game and quit yapping in Discord. So, ultimately, we're banning fun. Okay, no - but seriously. We're going to start cracking down on the overall atmosphere for STRP's OOC platforms when it gets stupid. The Discord & Forum Rules are publicly accessible at all times, and our army of fun police will be significantly more leniant in handing out timeouts, mutes and (drumroll, please) a new permenant suspension system from using the Discord channels. Learn the difference between the expected playful banter and tasteful shitposting of a gaming Discord, and crossing the line into being an asshole. If you're unable to gauge the difference, there's plenty of other servers out there! Warm regards, Community Management

Meet Ambros Pioli, @SaucyWaffles21 a wealthy Italian in Saint Denis, is deeply involved in the city's street crews and controls much of the state's drug trade. His cunning influence has earned him both wealth and reputation among the populace.

Been a while since I wrote, which isn't much like me - but it's been a few months, and I confess that the will left me for a while. It's hard to think back on the high we were all on and to try and recapture that sentiment, knowing as I do now what was to come, but for the sake of some brief levity, Sabrina and I married in the valley. We couldn't have asked for a better day. To share scarcely-spoken vows with the world filled me with a sense of accomplishment I've never felt in the saddle - of purpose and meaning not found elsewhere. Yet as though to balance the good fortune with ill, we suffered heavily at the hands of fenian raiders, taking offence to some slight disregard issued by ranch-hands from my ranch and Ambrose Reid's. We lost a third of the herd in an evening, new mothers and calves alike torn down with scatter-guns, ruined utterly. I've oft explained, much to the bemusement and wonder of Mister Villalobos, that the Irish cannot count themselves members of the white race. Now he knows full well the depredations of their kind, writ in meaningless blood and sorrow. The enlightened laughter has ceased, replaced with ready realisation of the truth. Finding new cattle at a price point that would see us keep the ranch proved mostly impossible. I petitioned vehemently with Ambrose Reid, whose ranch we've sworn to defend as he has our own, that some of the burden should be shared. I made a fool of myself in that. I petitioned too with the Livestock Association, and I was met with stony silence of the men out east in New Hanover. I recognised then that we were alone in the matter, and set Jack Best to task on wrangling us some new stock. He made one of those so-frequent 'hunting trips' out with the inimitable Kurt Langston, and we've been dealing with the fever-riddled, mangy, ill-kept cattle he sourced ever since. He and his fellows came to be around the ranch for a while, in the wake of the tragic attack. None moreso than Bolander Duffy, whose queer antics were a brief source of light in hard times. Despite natives howling in the woods for blood, and the US Cavalry bringing Nathan's kid brother through the county while they chased them, we built some small semblance of normality again amidst the chaos, and came together once more. That same kid brother went on in the weeks after to become the Sheriff of New Hanover. Nate the elder, old Texas Two-gun, went with him, resigning as lead hand for the time being to make sure the youngest of the Zieglers might survive his inauguration in a desperate cow-town like Valentine. Mr Pruitt kept his hands full, working with Mrs Best to treat the influx of sickly cattle. Miss Calloway and Mister Hatch haunted the valley, chasing up horse harems to rope the odd bronc for sale. The new Mrs Ellis and I worked with the abundance of greenhorns, trying to acquaint them with sitting a saddle around livestock. Tanner was always chief amongst them in our concerns - in all of our concerns, really. He was barely more than a teenage kid, a surly little man with all the qualities of a stray cat - he'd arrived mysteriously one day without great purpose, had chosen to stick around and always seemed a little mad about it. It took a lot of work coaxing words out of him, or effort for that matter. He didn't like eating with others - or hell, it just plain seemed like he didn't like them. The only person he tolerated was another of his ilk, Mister Stauck, of a similar disposition and temperament. But like a pair of strays that remained overlong, we came to appreciate their company, and I'm sure in their own way they came to appreciate ours - at least Tanner might have. I confess to seeing a real future as a cowpoke in him, but perhaps that's just sentiment speaking out past how we failed him. I hadn't realised that, at some juncture, Tanner had gotten tied up with Kurt Langston. And when the news came through from Valentine that Bolander Duffy was to be hanged over the murder of two men in the Smithfield's saloon, we all privately mourned an acquaintance's imminent death. Kurt Langston must have refused to - he rounded up a posse of men, Tanner included and attacked the town, trying to free Bolander from the jail there. They failed completely in their endeavour, and for their crimes, they joined Mister Duffy on the scaffold. Miss Calloway recounted it for us all, having borne witness to his last moments. She hasn't much been the same since. There isn't a soul on Little Creek Ranch that doesn't believe in the goodness in young Tanner Sutton to this day, despite what he did. Coerced along to no doubt play a small part in their violent raid, he went to his death beaten and bloodied, hung by the neck until dead, by the Zieglers we once called our own. They knew him, knew his nature, and yet they tormented him before his death, and to this day deny it. I've had to talk the rest of the valley down more than once on the matter of confronting them about it. There's only fresh suffering out in Valentine now, and the lingering pain of a festering wound here in Big Valley with Tanner's absence. Mister Stauck disappeared thereafter. And then the others - one by one drifting off, their returns more and more infrequent, until only the Bests, Mister Pruitt and Miss Calloway remained, as they do now. I oft times catch Jack Best looking off toward where we buried Tanner out on the range. I wonder how much he blames Kurt Langston. I wonder how much he blames himself. For the same 'hunting trips' that saw him miss my wedding might have seen him up on that scaffold alongside his slain friends. I'm sure, at last, he's settled now - with a wife, a home of their own, and a child on the way. He's taken to calling himself the lead hand, and I haven't remaining the heart to tell him otherwise. We have, for months, lingered in a collective fugue after the events of early April. Blessed as we were to have this hardship occur in a quiet time of year, as mothers raise their calves and the pasture rises high as the weather turns good, making the most of the snow-melt off the peaks north of us. Things grow, and we eat relatively well. We scrape by, but the summer branding fast approaches, and once again we have the business of hiring on new hands, and dealing with new day-workers. It feels as the turning of a new chapter - a new chance to grow again. We can only pray that times ahead are a little brighter.

(Click on the images to enlarge) Previous Issue: Vol. 44, No. 27 | Following Issue: Vol. 44, No. 29

I'll offer a hot 🔥 2 cents prefaced by the fact that this is me speaking for me, not speaking as the official herald of the staff team. This is also long too - sorry, but not sorry. RedM, and a lot of Rockstar platform RP games (SAMP, RageMP/FiveM) have an atrocious culture problem. It would make for a hilarious niche academic paper for someone's sociology/anthropology 4th year thesis. Like any RP community different people get different things out of roleplay; some enjoy short-lived characters that do their thing and burn out. Some people shuffle a character archetype from server to server and massage it to fit the setting for a decade plus at a time. Most people fall somewhere in the middle. Some people like to paragraph roleplay. Some people like to rapid-fire roleplay in shorter sentences. Some people like to RP as if their character was constrained by the realisms of the server setting. Some people like to embrace the servers literal mechanics/scripts to define their RP. None of these approaches are inherently better, worse, or problematic when there's a good spirited culture and a willingness to give each-other the benefit of the doubt. What I find imminently frustrating is the OOC social landscape. I'll bracket the problem of the immaturity of idiot man-children and toxic e-girls on the internet that behave in a way that would lead to immediate social ostracization anywhere IRL other than perhaps 9th grade. The various cabals of OOC cliques that dominant the RP scene with their clubhouse discords and VC cliques is absolutely exhausting. As an admin I can't tell you how many groups I've specc'd who are obviously sitting in VC together while RPing, that have an inability to interact with any other individual or clique except in a hyper-aggressive IC/OOC blended manner, and who's interest seems more in sharing a chuckle with their chums than engaging in anything remotely roleplay related. As an admin, and player, I've watched the vast majority of group-conflicts always become as acrimonious OOC as IC. The fragmentation, insularity of it, and typical immaturity of it is not only an administrative nightmare but it completely deprives myself of enthusiasm to seek out roleplay on the server. The amount of time I have to spend mediating in discord tickets or DMs is astronomical and significantly erodes the time I have to actually play the game. Between IRL obligations I haven't logged in for about 3 weeks now as my allotted STRP time is consumed on discord. Ultimately I have to ask what motivates people to roleplay? The answers will vary person to person. If your motivation is to explore a character, create an organic narrative that's impacted by the unpredictable inputs of other players, and to create a limited sense of immersion in whatever the thematic setting is than it doesn't likely matter what "type" of roleplayer you are. Be it someone who enjoys conflict within the game mechanics, someone who enjoys extensive dialogue RP, someone who RP's 3-week characters or someone who RP's 3-year characters. If your motivation is to sit in VC/Discord with your chums and prod reactions from others or see if you can hit the bare-minimum to "legally" DM people with zero interest in ever meaningfully interacting with someone outside your clique? Or to simply roam and troll with your buds for giggles? If you take pride in how many people you've made "salty" or how much better you are at killing people in a non-competitive low-PVP environment? My personal opinion is you're not interested in roleplay, you just find RP communities an entertaining medium to pursue non-RP goals. I'll be frank: I roll my eyes when a thin mask of "I'm here to RP!" is pulled over that when I've specc'd the roleplay (or lack thereof), seen the chatlogs, seen the leaked VC clips. Roleplay is fundamentally a collaborative, community-oriented, activity. Its also fundamentally a narrative/literary one in the most literal, least pretentious, sense of those words. Roleplay in video-games and TTRPG's is about marrying that to a mechanical game world that grounds that narrative and deprives the writers of degrees of agency (compared to writing short stories) in exchange for a world/setting that provides opportunity for the organic and the unexpected. If that's what you're after? It doesn't matter how you go about it. If PVP is a core part of that experience for you? Two thumbs up. If the PVP is driven first and foremost by the urge to have conflict in a story, that's ultimately decided by a test of shooting skill? Two thumbs up. Play an outlaw, play a lawman, rob people, chase outlaws, but make a story out of it in one style or another. If PVP is the solitary and exclusive goal and roleplay is just the means to dome someone because it gets more of a reaction that shooting someone in RD:O or Fortnite? That's where PVP is an issue but the dichotomy of to PVP or not to PVP is not the core issue, it's just the arena in which these conflicts of attitudes are most palpable and oft most significant as it results in character loss. I think unfortunately there's a portion of people who play roleplay games to have their fun at the expense of other people, or just treat other people as "props" for their masturbatory catharsis via trolling, DM, or other stupid goals. When they coalesce into cliques that sit in VC-squads together and roam around en masse it starts to severely disrupt the RP quality. When people get fed up with that? They get painted as anti-conflict, mild-west lovers, too-attached-to-their-chars, or whatever your favorite label is. Yeah, there certainly are people who cannot take an L and will explore every OOC avenue if they're robbed, lose a gunfight, or whatever. Those people too are, to put it in simple terms, little bitches. However - and now my verbiage goes from faux-academic to blunt - they're usually getting fucked in the ass versus doing the fucking and as such tend to be smaller ripples in the pond. Usually. So how fix the server? How do better? Beyond the appeal to grow the fuck up, RP for the sake of genuine RP, and have an open mind? 🤷‍♀️ To the extent I can, I try to keep staff open to input, suggestions, and involvement from the playerbase and I'm pretty open-door to discussions - even with people I disagree with, or perhaps dislike. I'm sure for some the feeling is mutual. C'est la vie. I think there's certainly more staff could attempt to do to facilitate such and I've always been biased towards staff taking a more pre-emptive role in creating meaningful narrative on the server in small and big ways. I also think we need to take much more initiative with curating a better server culture. I'm also personally of the mindset that we've been too lenient with bad actors, too restrained with people not here to roleplay, and too tolerant with allowing a publicly toxic culture. As a result we've over the time lost good community members. When I've looked at general chat I've been embarrassed to be a member of this community, let alone a staff member. I'd rather a smaller server with the potential to grow versus the same stagnant 80-150 people, doing the same shit, having the same toxic IC-OOC feuds, swirling the near-infinite drain, like some hellish version of groundhog day. Some people will stick around, some won't, some will leave and return, and some will inevitably wind up being removed. So fuck it, we ball, we go forward, we try to learn, we try to improve, we try new things - some will fail, some will be bad ideas, and some hopefully won't. Personally, I'd much rather experiment, take risks, and try something new than forever stagnant. Changes will inevitably piss some people off too. You cannot appease everyone, trying to do is a fools errand. Consensus based leadership is often ideal but in a highly factionalized community its hard to achieve, even the most minor of 'issues' have vocal opinions from players that are in direct opposition to eachother. As staff we have the pleasure of picking a side, or picking a compromise, and always upsetting or pissing someone off. The server still has potential but how much of that is realized? That's in the hands of both the players and the staff and ultimately has little to do with one singular personality, be it your least-favorite staff member, or your least-favorite player clique bannerlord. As much as its tempting to say "Quasimodo predicted all of this" where we go in the next week, month, 6 months, year is entirely open to what we put into this.

THE FUNERAL OF TOMAS WALKER 23rd September, 1900 NEW AUSTIN COUNTY STATE OF TAHOMA May you rest in peace, Tomas Walker. ❤️ Signed, THE UNITED STATES MARSHAL SERVICE, THE PLAYERS OF SOUTH TAHOMA ROLEPLAY

Meet Fionn Harkin - @Fionn A proud, good-hearted and well-meaning Irishman. Naturalist at heart. He's a scion of the Harkin family. Fionn appears a well-kept and friendly posture when you cross paths with him. While at first he may seem the quiet type, surely once you get to know him he'll let you in on his life.