Times are in SLT.
Isabis, a Bachelor of Fine Arts in her junior year, will be modelling for a Life Drawing session in the Art Studio. This will be an opportunity to gain further experience in your Fine Arts course. Use your preferred medium or challenge yourself to try something totally new.
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Latest in World...
Word on the street... The streets of Hathian never sleep, but yesterday the city’s pulse hit a fever pitch. Rumor’s buzzing about a brutal gallery heist—the kind where masked shadows, armed and desperate, tore through art and sanity alike. One female suspect, shot but undeterred, crushed the lieutenant before vanishing into the night with her crew. Meanwhile, whispers spread of a small, scar-faced woman, knife tucked away, causing chaos at the gas station and slipping toward the Clam Convenience like a ghost with a grudge. And tucked beneath the surface, the ugly truth of kidnappings and torture surfaced—a grisly message left behind, an eyeball as a calling card. Hathian’s dark heart beats on, and nothing’s safe tonight.
Whispers in the bayou... ░▒░ Down at the docks, they say a woman in torn black screamed as a heavy chair slammed her down, her knee folding like dry moss under a hammer’s blow. The man with grim eyes pinned her, cold breath fogging the humid air, while shadows crept closer, watching her fight to rise beneath the moon’s ghost. ░▒ ▒░ But that wasn’t the only stir last night—whispers trace through the thick fog now choking the bayou, talk of dark rites twisting tighter around the Silent Serpent Syndicate’s grip. The folding chair brawl was just the surface; beneath, something far more dangerous coils and waits in the stagnant swamp air. ░▒ ░▒░ Deputy Broussard caught the drift of those bruised cries, his silence deeper than the bayou’s black water. They say he’s watching too close, eyes flicking to locked doors and ledger pages no one dares read. What secrets still bleed in the dark, and who’ll bleed next? ░▒ ✨ https://news.backwaters.sl
Rumors on campus... Columtreal’s usual shadows lengthened yesterday as whispers tangled around the old asylum beneath the campus—the blueprints rumored to be hidden beneath the bar at Bleu Wag stirring curiosity and unease. Meanwhile, a parrot, more thief than pet, became the unlikely herald of sly jokes and shifting alliances in the crowded rooms, its owner weaving tales that blurred trust and mischief. Rumor had it the sorority’s newest arrival made a public plea for forgiveness, her desperation hinting at darker debts owed to the house’s notorious reputation. And somewhere between spilled drinks and lost keys, a mysterious unforced error left more than bruised egos, reminding all that nothing here stays buried long.
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