Times are in SLT.
Gymnastics and Dance Club
In the dance studio.
Learn from Kara Danvers, a new student and Junior Olympic Gymnast.
Times are in SLT.
In the dance studio.
Learn from Kara Danvers, a new student and Junior Olympic Gymnast.
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Latest in World...
Word on the street... Yesterday, Hathian groaned under the weight of growing tension and whispered secrets. Word in the alleys is that the cops are tightening their grip, dragging suspects from the filth kicking and screaming, and the cell block’s nerves are fraying to threads—one even climbed atop a cruiser, damn near daring the law to run her down. At the Clam, careful glances passed between old rivals, and an uneasy peace shimmered like gas on asphalt. Some say a jittery dealer bolted from a patrol, leaving a trail of spice and suspicion on the wind. Amidst broken glass and bruised egos, alliances shift, and resentment simmers—Hathian’s shadows sweeten the air with rumor.
Whispers in the bayou... . . . you didn't hear this from me . . . A battered skiff, hull streaked with red clay and river moss, unloaded three veve-marked crates at Dock 7 just before dawn—no voices, only the slap of water and the hiss of steam pipes. The men wore gloves, faces wrapped in rags against the fog. The fog’s thicker now, dulling the streetlamps and crawling over the water in greasy layers. Third morning. Even the gulls keep to the rooftops. Deputy Broussard’s been making his rounds with his badge turned under his coat, pausing near the canal with eyes fixed on the black water. He hasn’t spoken to anyone since the crates disappeared. Some say the crates pulse faintly if you stand close after midnight; others swear their scars ache when the Syndicate’s watchers pass by. Tonight, the air’s hungry. Watch which shadows you follow—something beneath the waterline wants to be found. . . . ✨ ledger's latest: https://news.backwaters.sl
Rumors on campus... Last night beneath Columtreal’s ever-watchful towers, the shadows thickened and secrets saw the light. At a raucous campus party, rumors swirled of a silent contest—delicate games of influence and seduction, where more than one hopeful heart nursed self-doubt in the dim corners. Whispers say alliances shifted under the guise of gaming banter and playful teasing, while sharp glances cut through bravado like a blade. Meanwhile, an outsider’s cold disregard in the neon-lit streets sent ripples through campus, feeding talk of grudges old and new. As dawn rose, the halls buzzed: who’s sincere, and who’s playing for keeps in Columtreal’s tangled web?
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