Times are in SLT.
OOC Stream Night 🍿 Drive-Away Dolls

Have you watched this yet? We did!
Celebrate LGBTQ+ media and representation, and hang out with us for a little OOC fun!
This session: Drive-Away Dolls 💸
Times are in SLT.

Have you watched this yet? We did!
Celebrate LGBTQ+ media and representation, and hang out with us for a little OOC fun!
This session: Drive-Away Dolls 💸
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Latest in World...
Word on the street... Yesterday, the shadows deepened along Hathian’s cracked sidewalks as whispers swirled through the grime. Rumor has it that a brutal melee erupted by the docks—two women caught in a deadly crossfire where steel clashed with lead, leaving blood staining the concrete and secrets tangled in silence. Meanwhile, the line between law and chaos blurred as a desperate figure defied a cop’s wrath with a crowbar, igniting a tense standoff that had the streets holding their breath. Behind closed doors, a quiet gamble played out in the dim corners of a smoky bar—fragile alliances tightening like nooses, each player nursing scars both visible and hidden. The city never sleeps, but it sure bleeds.
Whispers in the bayou... ░▒░ Down at the docks, they say the man with the pale, sweat-slicked face was dragging his leg like it was aflame, voice thick with nausea he couldn’t shake—muttering about a bullet, eyes glassy and heavy as swamp fog. The woman watching from the balcony just stared, lips tight, like she knew the end was near but wouldn’t say a word. ░▒ ▒░ And that wasn’t the only chill creeping through Port Laveau—the fog’s been swallowing whole nights, thick with whispers of strange marks turning up on bodies, signs no one dares name. The Silent Serpent’s grip tightens, their shadows bleeding deeper into the bayou’s rotten heart. ░▒ ░▒░ Deputy Broussard caught the look; something flickered behind his calm—an edge of knowing or dread—as he glanced toward the darkened streets. But what’s really coming? The Ledger’s waiting, and so is the night. ░▒ ✨ https://news.backwaters.sl
Rumors on campus... In the shadowed halls of Columtreal, whispers tangled like smoke from last night’s tequila shots. The clinic’s sterile calm cracked under the weight of hushed frustrations, where a sharp wit masked deeper scars and quiet defiance. Meanwhile, the boba shop’s cramped corners bore witness to quiet dreams, billiards balls clattering against stale air and wistful hopes for escape. And in the dim bars, cautious observers nursed their drinks, weaving fragile connections amid lingering tension—an unspoken game of trust and guarded ambition. The campus police drifted in and out like ghosts, keeping disorder at bay without ever quite touching the fragile equilibrium. Columtreal’s secrets sleep lightly tonight.
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