Times are in SLT.
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Computer Science W/ Professor Danzig, Phyton basics with Renpy
June 11 @ 11:00 am - 12:00 pm
Learn Phyton creating videogames, fun and easy.
Times are in SLT.
Learn Phyton creating videogames, fun and easy.
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Latest in World...
Word on the street... The city’s pulse skipped a beat yesterday, caught between twisted loyalties and whispered threats. Rumors took hold—first, a rogue gang almost turned medics into unwilling donors, swiping supplies and threatening a rescue worker with a blade, only to get pinned beneath a patrol car in the chaos. Then, whispers spiraled about a gruesome message left on a doorstep: an eyeball sent to torment a missing man and send a chilling warning. Meanwhile, beneath the neon haze, a pair played a dangerous game of trust—silent gestures, stolen kisses, and plans to escape to shadowed rooftops. In Hathian, even celebration wears a mask, and every smile hides a blade.
Whispers in the bayou... ░▒░ Down at Laveau’s cracked pier, they say the man with the smudged shirt watched from the shadows, lips curling as the woman in the red jacket took her slow, lazy drag. His grunt cut through the humidity—too late, he said—but he never stepped closer, just lingered like a predator sizing prey under the swollen moon. ░▒ ▒░ And that wasn’t the only thing stirring—the fog’s thickening, swallowing secrets with it. Whispers spin of Syndicate moves near the old asylum, where voodoo and violence weave tighter, the bayou’s pulse quickening as the Silent Serpent tightens its grip on all who breathe Port Laveau’s cursed air. ░▒ ░▒░ Father Delacroix, eyes narrowed behind the church’s cracked stained glass, caught word of the night’s shadows. He said nothing, but his fingers drummed on the altar—waiting, watching. What price will this darkness demand next? ░▒ ✨ https://news.backwaters.sl
Rumors on campus... Columtreal’s shadows lengthened again yesterday, and the rumors churned like smoke through the ivy-draped halls. Whispers tell of a desperate soul slipping into the hot tub before vanishing into a house, while a certain woman’s erratic barside antics—vodka in hand, skirt askew—hinted at something unraveling beneath that cool exterior. Meanwhile, a hooded stranger, wearing a mask of false identity, tried peddling questionable wares at the campus café but was chased off by sharp eyes and new cameras. And the bruised man with claw marks? They say his tale of a cursed creature dragged half-mad was as real as the blood staining his shirt. Columtreal never sleeps.
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