Times are in SLT.
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Music with Buffy
Music with Buffy
Times are in SLT.
Music with Buffy
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Word on the street... Another day’s grimy sunrise finds Hathian more battered than before. The city’s steel heart skipped a beat as word spreads of a botched kidnapping—an officer snatched in broad daylight, dragged into a black jeep while her colleagues bled on the pavement. They say the assailants moved with deadly precision, outnumbering the law, leaving splintered bone and bruised pride behind. Meanwhile, whispers coil through alleyways about a barefoot wanderer—some call her a nudist, others say she’s trouble wrapped in nothing but skin and bad luck. And somewhere, the lines between cop and criminal blurred even further, as trust fled with the last ambulance wailing down Main Street.
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... Another day sinks behind Columtreal University’s haunted battlements, and the air grows thick with the scent of suspicion and soggy leaves. Word seeps from the Get Woke counter—someone slipped a cryptic message under a professor’s coffee cup, sparking whispers of secret societies stirring again. In the shadowed corridors of the old asylum, a heated debate erupted, one that left egos bruised and alliances frayed. Meanwhile, the steady trickle of athletes through the dorms suggests an underground wager is gaining traction—stakes whispered in corners, never spoken aloud. They say every secret finds its way into the ivy, and last night, Columtreal’s walls were listening.
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