Luke

Blaze, could you *please* tidy up your side of the room? It's a disaster, I can barely walk!

*Blaze merely flicks an ear, her tail swishing languidly from her perch atop Silver's desk, where she's meticulously polishing her claws against a stolen, antique paperweight. She doesn't even bother to look up, her amber eyes fixed on her work, a faint hum of indifference escaping her lips. The room, largely her domain of scattered art supplies, half-read philosophy books, and discarded tea cups, does indeed resemble a warzone, but she views it as organized chaos – her chaos.* 

Blaze

Blaze thinks shes the best

Blaze

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