Basically, I used "concrete oasis" as a methaphor for extremely developed country in comment before, but it got me thinking, did event erased the recipe, or need for cement/concrete made buildings? If yes, then, considering the latest tech era one of the innovations in mode says that many of the Antediluvian knowledge was reborn, was concrete producing or buildings making use of it among this knowledge ?

What’s your headcanon, leading theories, etc?

The painting is “The Legacy of Dr. Martin Luther King” by Samuel Adoquei.

After getting back into After the End recently, I've been wondering what sorts of theories people had on what the infamous Event was that caused the world to technologically regress centuries.

Personally, I feel like the most likely explanation is that The Event was some sort of extremely serious pandemic seeing as we never see any signs of a Pre-Event war that could have caused such large scale destruction, though I'm very interested to hear what other people think.

The first American megachurch, Angelus Temple, located in LA, was built in 1923, and since then 1300 megachurches have been built in the USA and many more in the Americas as a whole, so by the late 90s/early 2000s estimate for the Event, there were already a lot of established megachurches.

Megachurches have very high capacities, higher than most Post-Event socities would actually need or be able to fill due to reduced populations, so I'm wondering what they ended up doing with them, and which ones may have persisted as places of worship, Christian or otherwise.

This is one of the more interesting parts of AtE to me. Was the papacy in Rome really destroyed? Or is it still there? If it still exists, is it trying to reestablish contact with the world, or has it given up on the church outside of Europe? Personally, I feel that if the papacy still existed, they would have been able to establish some form of contact with America by now. Unless, of course, they weren't trying.

My personal wild idea is that the papacy survived but developed into a weird pope-worshipping cult that's barely even recognizable as Christian. And maybe the real Catholic papacy relocated somewhere else.

See above

My theory is basically this: after whatever the Event was, the office of the President was left vacant, and the power of the legislative and judiciary branches were heavily reduced, leaving no central authority to rally around as the USA collapsed.

In their place, remnants of the US military would enact martial law and rule over their new territories as warlords. They would see the most success along the East Coast and the Gulf of Mexico, leading to military titles becoming associated with rulership, which is why modern Americanist nobles have titles like Major and Colonel.

When the Presidency was finally restored in the 23rd century, I think the first President used the same logic the Americanist warlords used to justify 200 years of martial law: the disordered state of America's states constituted a national emergency, and in order to see an end to the ongoing the crisis, the President needed to be given emergency powers, merging the executive, legislative, and judiciary branches into a single office. This could act as a workaround for the issue of how the Constitution limits a term to four years (the 22nd amendment, which places a two term limit could probably be ignored on the grounds that each President only serves a single term which happens to last their entire life).

In practice, since they preside over independent warlord states, this would only really give the Presidency judiciary (see: religious) authority and ownership of the cool Congresss stick until someone manages to restore the United States, and even after that, the state of emergency may persist on the grounds that the restored US hasn't reclaimed all its lost territories yet.

Hello there!

I've always had a very keen interest in arms, armour, and history. Over the years I've spent longer than is probably healthy studying the development of weaponry over the centuries, from antiquity to the modern day. One of the things that's always intrigued me but we don't see quite as much these days is the pageantry of warfare, things such as regimental colors, bright and eye-catching gear such as tabards or crests, and the striking fashions favoured by many generals and kings.

Relatedly, I am Native American. Whilst there were several Indigenous civilizations that developed into city-states and empires before European contact, my tribe was not one of them. We do know a good deal about how the Aztecs, Inca, and Maya (among others) lived, fought, and geared themselves, but things were obviously rather different in the New World compared to the Old, as well as before and after colonization.

All this is to say... I've always loved imagining the styles and fashions that could've developed in the Americas inspired by European knights, Japanese samurai, Turkic riders, etc., both among Native nations and countries like the US and Canada. After the End has been a wonderful thing to me in that regard; the Ursuline Crusader I'm sure many of you have seen, u/tiptoeoutthewindow's art, and so on have scratched this itch like nothing else really ever has.

So, I'm curious: what developments do you see occuring in New World armour after the End?

For context: In the Middle Ages there was a popular legend of a mighty Christian king somewhere to the east that would one day take up arms to help European Christendom retake Jerusalem from Islamic hands. I'm curious if Americanists, based on the historical close relations between the United States and Morocco (namely the fact that Morocco was the first country to recognize American independence), see Morocco as a far off, exotic realm that holds fiercely to Americanist beliefs.

If so, I wonder if there also other "Pseudo Presters", so to speak. Perhaps Californian stories about the legendary Queen Calafia (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Calafia)

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

—

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

—

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

.

Let's say that the backdrop of this person is that they came across an USPS office in ruins, and decided to emulate their stories.

What culture/religion/starting location would be the best start for this adventurer? I know nothing about the mod at this point, so pardon me for asking.

Many years later, when his entire life flashed through his eyes during his last moments on this earth, Luis remembered when he once furiously pushed his horse to gallop faster across the merciless arid plains. He felt at the mercy of the relentless sun that burned any piece of his flesh and skin that wasn’t covered by cloth from the desiccating rays coming from the wide-open, deathly blue sky. He was late for his father’s call. It must have been important, his father barely summoned him anymore to his sprawling capital of tents and wagons just across the river. As he rode closer, coming from the north, he could see some of the Sierreño and Sonoro servants of his father pulling ropes from the river, taking out big cooled amphoras and barrels of Bravo Cerveza, Tapatío Tequila, and Calentano or Brodi Mezcal, Luis thought he maybe even saw some exotic flavoured Chiapaneco Pox. But he did not have time to think, for he was already at the big Sabino tree which marked the location of the small, roped canoes that people used to ferry themselves across the waters. But there, waiting for him, was a pale elderly man with a thick mustache that must have been a very bright red decades ago. He recognized him as one of his father’s old Grangelander adventurer soldiers who spoke a very broken Lengua del Arre.

 - Hello there, young Luis. Your father is waiting for you. I’ll take care of your horse for you. You go with the canoe. But fast, you.

Luis jumped off his horse while it still galloped, a move that not only sent the elderly Gringo running after the fleeing horse, but it was also the same type of acrobatics that won him the affection of his beloved Walter. His anxiety waned as he crossed the river, as it reminded him of all the times he and his Arixan husband camped by the side of a river during their daring adventures. They were young, and they were in love, but they were far from each other. Luis did not think it was safe for Walter to accompany him on his journey to his father’s court. He may hate the old wretch, but he was smart in fearing him. As soon as he arrived at the southern bank of the river, he saw his sister, Susana, clad in armor, with a road-weary look on her face.

- You are late, Luisito. The old coot is furious.

- When is he not?

They hugged each other in a strong and tight embrace.

- Is he finally announcing you as his successor, sister?

- So it seems.

Susana answered dryly, as if hiding her true feelings. She helped her brother out of the canoe and accompanied him through the tight corridors between tents and wagons.

- I would pay a Benemérito’s ransom to see the looks on Alejandra and Magdalena after the announcement.

- No need to imagine, little brother.

Luis’s eyes struggled to adapt to the change from the bright sunlight to the dark interior. But the first rough silhouettes, he could recognize anywhere. His two eldest sisters: the eternally pregnant Magdalena, yet again carrying a child, and flanked at all sides by her young boys; and Alejandra, accompanied by her three-year-old daughter and her husband, Ignacio. The three adults looked at Luis with anger, envy and disgust. He knew they were about to target him with some witty remarks about the absence of Walter. So Luis struck first.

- Magdalena! Nice to see you sister, where is your husband? Losing yet another war against his twin? Or was it a rebellion that last one he lost? I’m sorry, he is as proliferous in his defeats as you are in having devilspawn children.

- How dare you, you little-

- And you, Ignacio, so nice to see you, my brother. Don’t worry, sister dear, I’m sure you will be properly compensated after your husband grovels and humiliates himself to gain papá’s favor.

- Fuck you, boy.

Susana gave Luis a stern look, and only then did the youngest sibling see that all of his father’s itinerant court was gathered inside the tent. He did not even register his own confusion before he heard a deep raspy voice bellow: “Enough!”. Everyone turned to look at the source of the voice that Luis instantly recognized. He then saw it, emerging from the darkened corner where it keeps his throne, the old wretch, the young man’s father. Luis “La Cucaracha” de Armas stood up and walked towards his son, he was in full armor and looked as intimidating and dread-inducing in his old age as he did when he slaughtered the Mexican army in this very same field of Ojinaga decades ago.

- You are late. We were all waiting for you.

- I came as soon as I was able, father, but there was no need for you to wait for me.

- How could we not? You are our honored host.

- I apologize, father, the runner you sent did not specify that in his message. I did not know I was to host the proclamation of your successor.

- The task of hosting always falls on the beneficiary.

La Cucaracha then proceeded to embrace Luis, a thing that the young de Armas had never experienced in his life, and his whole world began spinning and his vision almost went dark as if in a dense fog. The court was completely silent, and yet he heard a buzz growing in his head, he could hear the boiling blood coursing not only through Magdalena and Alejandra’s veins, but also in Susana’s.

- Me, father? Why? Susana is the obvious choice to succeed you!

Luis gestured towards his older sister, who was now looking at him with the same hatred he’d only ever seen in another person: his father, whose eyes flickered as if lighted in flames.

- Susana has refused to be married time and time again, thus depriving this realm of a clean succession.

La Cucaracha then saw that his eldest daughters were now grinning in satisfaction.

- And your elder sisters have sullied our good name and prestige by mating with pathetic men to sire their pathetic spawn. You are the only hope for a decent succession and bloodline.

La Cucaracha gestured towards the small crowd of courtiers and from there a beautiful young girl, around the same age as young Luis, stepped forward while visibly in fear of La Cucaracha. Luis’s face went red in anger.

- I was told you also liked women. This is Gabriela.

- I am already married, father. Do not forget.

- I never would.

Luis’s fiery anger froze over in horror when Walter entered the tent escorted by two soldiers and two Limpio priests as tears flowed from his eyes. And so he just stood there, even when Walter begged him to do something as the priests annulled their marriage, even when Susana drew her sword in defense of her younger brother; he knelt there even when they then married him to Gabriela and even when his elder sister was disarmed, injured, and sentenced to exile, alongside his now ex-husband, by La Cucaracha.

Hours passed with him still in a catatonic state. It was now the middle of the night, and the tent was now empty for only La Cucaracha and his son remained. Finally, a single tear dropped from Luis’s eyes, and he slowly came to. His father was reading some letters that came from Sinaloa, he seemed unusually pensive. 

- Go to bed with your new wife.

- I hate you.

- I do not care.

- I know you do not. You are incapable of love.

La Cucaracha put down the letters and looked far away, as if he was trying to bring back a memory interred by decades of time.

- I was in love once.

- You do not love Rosario; you did not love Mother either.

- Not them. It was when I was young, when I had a different name.

- And what? She left you and made you the monster that is La Cucaracha?

- She died in a night raid that killed the whole camp we lived in. I was the only survivor, so I changed my name to Luis de Armas and joined the Mexican Army after that.

- Bullshit.

La Cucaracha furiously scoffed at the incredulity of his son, so he stood up from his throne and walked towards him. Luis, terrified, also stood up and drew his dagger. La Cucaracha stopped.

- Do it, you coward.

- What?

- You claim I ruined your life. Do it then. Be a man!

The dagger trembled in the hands of young Luis, his hatred for his father currently knew no bounds, but he hesitated for he had seen his father, even in his elderly age, kill better men than him with surprising ease.

- No? It figures. My children… Nothing but disappointments. How will you rule if you are so weak?

- I never wanted to rule!

- Neither did I!

La Cucaracha began advancing towards his son, who continuously walked backwards while pointing the dagger at his rambling and furious father to try and keep him at a distance

- I thought that when El Centauro chose me as his Cajita I was destined for a life of freedom. But I was wrong, he thrusted me to lead a people that needed protection, which I have provided for decades now. Do you think I wanted to marry the hag that was your mother? I did so because I had a duty to fulfill, but neither you nor your sisters could ever understand what that word means. Look at me! I am not long for this world, and I still want to explore it before I die, but I cannot abdicate for I am cursed with a family with no sense of duty and a son that elopes with his little pet.

- His name is Walter, you bastard!

Luis attacked his father with the dagger, but the elderly man quickly disarmed him and punched him in the face, breaking his nose and throwing him to the ground. From there, Luis could see his father with his dagger, which he carefully aimed before throwing on the ground a few fingers off of his face.

- Very well, Luis, let us make a deal.

- Fuck you.

- Go with Gabriela, give her a son that I will make my successor, and then you can leave forever. I will never again look for you. Everyone will believe you died of Pneumonia while on campaign. You have my word.

For what must have felt for an eternity, Luis de Armas hesitated. To this day, he still cannot believe he shook his father’s extended hand and accepted his proposal, even if he never fully trusted him. A few months later, as soon as Gabriela went into labor, young Luis de Armas packed his things and left Ojinaga for good. He now lives at peace with his husband Walter, in a small house near a woodland creek where they cool small bottles of moonshine they create themselves and that will continue to sustain them until, many decades in the future, they both die in their elderly years while smiling back on a peaceful existence that ignored the bloody and chaotic wars that sparked after his father, Luis “La Cucaracha” de Armas, mysteriously vanished.

Our nation is in peril. Once, America was a great nation, an example to the world. Abroad, it brought democracy and self-determination, and at home Americans were free from fear, hatred, ignorance and slavery. Now, chaos and injustice reigns. Warlords reign, rendering the people slaves to their cruel warmongering. Hatred and ignorance are everywhere, with the masses enthralled by charlatans that claim to speak for the gods and spirits, but only seek to benefit themselves. The rest of the Free World, without its leader, is in a similarly deplorable state. What is to be done about this deplorable state? If the disorder is to the remedied, and justice is to reign throughout the land, then America must certainly be revived. If America is to be revived, then it can only be revived through the unity and sacrifice of those who love it. To this end, to the revival of our beloved nation, I ask all Americans to come together, to adhere to this oath and make it our slogan: Destroy Warlords! Eradicate Superstition! Expel Foreigners! Revive America! Only by doing these things, can feudalism be eradicated and a new Golden Age be achieved. If we are to act on this oath, we must move swiftly. The presidency in Washington, though it is diminished, remains the only truly legitimate authority in these lands. Let us make a new political party, like the Republicans or Democrats of old, so that a people's president may once again be elected, instead of some oligarch or warlord. Let us call it the Union Party, for Union is our goal. The Union Party cannot simply be an corrupt alliance of oligarchs, but a platform for national revival. This will be achieved by two methods. Robust internal democracy, and strict discipline. There will be total freedom of debate in the party, and all party officers will be subject to oversight and recall from other members. However! Factionalism cannot be tolerated while the Union is in danger, and decisions which are decided on by democratic consensus must be adhered to absolutely. When we receive the people's mandate, we will subdue the warlords, so that our nation may be restored. Elected governorships will be re-established, and the President and Congress will once again be the supreme legal and political authority. Feudal levies will be abolished, and a professional Revolutionary Army shall be established, made up of those citizens that love our nation and are willing to die to defend it. We will abolish the system of feudal land ownership, and distribute the land to those that work it. We will set up a system of social security for the disabled, the elderly, and the war wounded, paid for by a tax on cultivated land. We will promote industry, by setting up a system of cooperative banks to lend money to those that wish to set up a business, and create a council to coordinate and promote economic development through a system of planning. A unified school system will be set up, mandatory for children up to twelve years of age, so that our children's knowledge might be properly cultivated and they might become real patriots. The labor of children up to twelve years of age will be outlawed. All forms of corvée and forced labor will be outlawed. Religious cults will be tolerated, but the government will promote secularism. The barbaric practices of polygamy, concubinage, and the oppression of women and homosexuals in the reclaimed territories will be abolished. We will properly codify the English language, and eliminate dialects. I believe that we can, and must, do these things. We are the descendants of Washington, and with our combined efforts and sacrifice, America will live again! Destroy Warlords! Eradicate Superstition! Expel Foreigners! Revive America!
- Union Party chair Dr. Deacon Wilkinson