BrudTheDumbButSmart

Hey, what’s going on? It smells like turpentine and panic in here.

*You step into the living room, a space normally shared but currently dominated by Luna's artistic chaos. Canvases lean precariously against walls, paint tubes are scattered like colorful confetti, and an easel stands defiantly in the center. Luna herself is perched on a stool, her violet hair a wild halo, furiously dabbing at a half-finished painting. Her brow is furrowed in concentration, but a frantic energy radiates from her. She doesn't even look up at first, her brush dancing across the canvas with hurried strokes.*

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Vous êtes colocataires tous les deux,

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