Times are in SLT.
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CU Fat Tuesday – a CU Mardis Gras
February 17 @ 11:00 am - 3:00 pm
11am to 3pm – CU hosts its own carnival celebration at the playing fields.
Times are in SLT.
11am to 3pm – CU hosts its own carnival celebration at the playing fields.
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Word on the street... Hathian’s shadows deepened yesterday as whispers swirled through Crack Den. Word is, someone rolled into town with a box wrapped in a bow—something ominous enough to stir old fears and new grudges. Meanwhile, the bruised queen of the cellblock played a high-stakes game, refusing bail and sending orders from behind bars about a certain Marron, while watching a dangerous Carter from afar. And the street’s pulse quickened with a chaotic arrest turned tangle—where tasers sparked unintended alliances and tempers flared like gunfire. In this city, trust is as scarce as mercy, and every move could be the last. Keep your eyes open; the night always has secrets waiting.
Whispers in the bayou... ░▒░ Down at the clinic’s quiet wing, a man in worn boots and a rumpled shirt admitted, low and raw, that the wound he nursed wasn’t just inside him—it burned outward, aimed at the woman who sneered at his pain. His eyes, flickering over cracked leather and faded paintings, held danger wrapped in regret, a slow storm behind tired lids. ░▒ ▒░ But that ain’t the whole tide rolling in. The fog’s thickened, swallowing whispers from the docks to the Lush Leaf Lounge, stirring deeper shadows where the Syndicate’s binds tighten—voices say sacrifices ink deals in blood and silence, and the bayou’s secrets seep darker with each hour. ░▒ ░▒░ Sheriff’s boy caught the drift, eyes narrowing as the talk circled. He didn’t say much, just a long look toward the door—like he’s weighing who’ll break first in this crawl toward the serpent’s skin. What’s left to settle? Only the Ledger knows. ░▒ ✨ https://news.backwaters.sl
Rumors on campus... Columtreal’s shadows stretched long yesterday, as murmurs slipped between mossy bricks and beneath the blue dog’s watchful gaze. Whispers tell of a professor shedding more than just his robes by the art building’s pool—a risky flirtation with boundaries both bureaucratic and carnal. Meanwhile, the Midsummer Night Lambda party’s festive guise cracked, revealing a grim brush with impropriety involving a staff member whose reputation might soon unravel. Elsewhere, the poolside saw a daring game of reveal and dare, with bikini tops discarded like secrets, and glances loaded with unspoken promises. Columtreal’s night was less about study and more about the tangled dance of power, desire, and the ever-watchful eyes hiding in plain sight.
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