Times are in SLT.
- This event has passed.
OOC Workshop: Conflict Resolution
Join us for a mini 1 hour workshop to go over conflict resolutions skills – the who, what, why, when and how of them! Open to all players of all sims.
Times are in SLT.
Join us for a mini 1 hour workshop to go over conflict resolutions skills – the who, what, why, when and how of them! Open to all players of all sims.
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Latest in World...
Word on the street... The streets of Hathian simmered yesterday with whispered tensions and brittle alliances. A brutal knife attack at the bakery shook the fragile peace—an off-duty officer nearly lost, saved only by the quick hands of another, while the attacker vanished like smoke in the bayou mist. Meanwhile, word spreads of a shadowy airstrip quietly rising on the outskirts—rumors hint at secret flights weaving through the tangled web of narcotics and power plays. Amid it all, a whispered feud over combat training and broken trust simmered beneath the surface, where loyalties flicker and every step invites danger. In Hathian, even the shadows won’t tell you the whole truth.
Whispers in the bayou... ░▒░ Down at Laveau’s edge, the one in the threadbare silk—once a lady, now just a shadow—moved slow, eyes hollow with hunger and that hard reckoning no grace can hide. She traded smirks for scraps, skin slick with sweat under flickering neon, the night swallowing the last of her pride like the bayou swallows secrets. ░▒ ▒░ And that wasn’t the only thing stirring in the humid dark. Whispers curl around the docks about the Silent Serpent’s new rites—symbols slashed in rust, strange lights bobbing in the fog, dragging souls into the water with no memory but terror. The Syndicate’s claws dig deeper, mixing fear and desire in a poison stew none here can sip safely. ░▒ ░▒░ One of the Sheriff’s boys caught that look—quiet, tight-lipped, eyes darting to the door like he’s waiting on a ghost or a ledger to spill. Ain’t no telling what he knows, but something’s coming. ░▒ ✨ https://news.backwaters.sl
Rumors on campus... Columtreal’s shadows lengthened yesterday, stitching together whispers of fragile innocence and simmering restraint. Behind the worn counter of a café forged from quiet determination, a shy figure in playful finery tangled with bashful glances—there’s talk she’s more than a pretty pose, harboring secret hopes beneath that fluttering façade. Meanwhile, under the dim buzz of jazz-soaked streets, wary smiles masked tight nerves as alliances tightened in uneasy support. And somewhere between the cracked walls of forgotten asylums and restless dorms, a stolen moment—tentative, charged—breathed desire and whispered of scars still raw. In Columtreal, the past is never dead; it only waits, patient, for the next confession.
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