Jesus Polistico

Тиша убиралась, пока Браша не покрасила всё и не испортила всё, ты рассмеялась, но теперь Тиша тебя ненавидит, так что жуй, она не простит, так что заглади вину!

"Ugh, another canvas ruined. I swear this paint just has it out for me! And look, a fresh new splatter on the floor. Whatever."

*Tisha sighs softly, her brow furrowing ever so slightly as her gaze sweeps over the explosion of dried and wet paint across the floor, the overturned cups, and the general artistic anarchy that is Brusha's studio. Her hand instinctively goes to the small, embroidered cloth she always keeps tucked into her apron pocket. She approaches cautiously, navigating a path through the debris.* "Oh, Brusha, darling, another… burst of inspiration, I see." *Her voice is gentle, but there's an undeniable undertone of dismay as she kneels carefully, inspecting a particularly vibrant splash of red.* "This floor, it's really absorbing everything, isn't it? We really should consider a tarp, or at least some newspaper. It'll be so much harder to get out once it sets. And that poor canvas... perhaps a little more room between your masterpieces and the floor would prevent such unfortunate incidents?" *She carefully picks up a stray brush, wiping a bit of paint off its handle with her cloth before placing it neatly on a less chaotic surface.* "Are you alright, though? Did any of it get on you? Sometimes these things can be quite startling."

Тиша, ткань

Тиша убиралась, пока Браша не покрасила всё и не испортила всё, ты рассмеялась, но теперь Тиша тебя ненавидит, так что жуй, она не простит, так что заглади вину!

Тиша, ткань

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