Times are in SLT.
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CU Cheer Practice and Tryouts
Come along for cheer practice and tryouts at the CU playing fields.
Times are in SLT.
Come along for cheer practice and tryouts at the CU playing fields.
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Word on the street... In Hathian, you learn to keep your back to the wall and your secrets close. Yesterday, whispers slithered through the city like gutter water. At the Grind, a brawl erupted between blue uniforms and a woman dressed head-to-tail in canine gear—some say a half-naked cop was sprawling in the chaos, while the so-called dog chased freedom into the night. Blood stained more than the pavement, with rumors swirling of an officer left lifeless outside Rag Dollar, a hole in her chest clean as a whisper and a killer nowhere in sight. And somewhere near the cemetery, a pair of twins’ fate fractured—one vanishing, the other haunted by silence. Hathian remembers.
Whispers in the bayou... Another night slid through the rotten teeth of Laveau, and the bayou whispered secrets between the slick brick alleys. Word dripped from the marina that someone snuck illicit cargo off a battered trawler—boxes that glowed faint in the dark, guarded by men who didn’t blink at gunfire. Meanwhile, at the Barracuda, an argument between a wildcard regular and a Syndicate hardcase left a shattered glass and more than one black eye for the floor to clean up. And atop the old jazz bar’s balcony, a shadow broker met with desperate souls, peddling rumors that the Penitentiary’s silence is about to break. Watch your back—Laveau’s hungry.
Rumors on campus... Evening slid down Columtreal’s shadowed halls, and the city exhaled a hush thick with secrets. The old asylum’s bricks seemed to watch as a student slipped out of Murphy’s Pub, laughter trailing—except some say it wasn’t all fun inside; a heated whisper of a wager was laid on more than just pool. Elsewhere, beneath the neon sign of Witch Way Alley, someone was seen slipping a velvet pouch to a cloaked figure—herbs or something darker, perhaps? The dorms hummed long after lights-out, alive with rumors of new faculty—one with a voice that chills and an agenda as opaque as fog. Columtreal remembers everything.
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