Times are in SLT.
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King Street Summer Sendoff
Block party on King St. Got the end of the summer blues. Come join us for food, booze, tunes and …..
King St, between Hathian Highway and Hangmans Pass Road
Times are in SLT.
Block party on King St. Got the end of the summer blues. Come join us for food, booze, tunes and …..
King St, between Hathian Highway and Hangmans Pass Road
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Word on the street... Yesterday in Hathian, whispers curled through the smoke like snakes. Someone’s sister vanished near the cemetery—last seen on Halloween, snatched away in a scuffle shadowed by tall figures and cruel laughter. Some say you can still hear her voice echoing through those tunnels at night. Meanwhile, word is a notorious pair tried turning the Poison Apple into their own indecent stage, their arrest list longer than the bar’s drink menu. And on the streets, a rain of rocks greeted the badge, a brutal warning that the city’s gangs are done taking orders. In Crack Den, trust is currency—and last night, it lost all value.
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... Beneath the veiled arches of Columtreal University, yesterday’s fog clung as tightly as secrets—thickening the air between lecture hall and lantern-lit alley. Tongues wagged in Get Woke as an unexpected shipment stirred the coffee shop’s sleepy routine, the baristas muttering about packages wrapped too neatly for mere beans. Meanwhile, in Witch Way Alley, shadows wriggled longer than usual, and some dared to whisper about a midnight gathering—a hush-hush ritual, they say, meant to tip cosmic scales. And in the oldest dorm, hushed voices debated a faculty member’s sudden interest in forgotten records, stoking suspicion of unburied truths. Sleep lightly, Columtreal; omens walk your halls.
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