He could never really say he was the arts and crafts type. Sure he liked to look nice, liked things to be shaped-up, organized, messed with till it was pretty; but did that all really signify artistic promise? Though many had told him his former pieces were good, he dismissed the compliment time and time again, arguing that it was merely for show. But deep within he really did enjoy something other than fighting. And so the ocelot sat outside with a makeshift pottery wheel, archaic in its construction and not too gracious looking, but if it got the job done, then it fit the bill in his eyes. A drab lump of clay was slapped against the surface by a now caked paw, the other one pressing against the pedal of the contraption as it got to spinning, clay-coated former dragging along the sides of the formless substance. What would he make? Perhaps a simple pot to put flowers, or even fallen bamboo in - a little decor for his now empty room. As the clay began to take shape, heightening and softening into a slim, tall vase, he cursed under his breath, muttering "where would I go about finishing this ..." until an idea popped into his befuddled head. Coating it in the glaze it needed to keep its sheen, he then pestered a fire elemental user, berating them for quite a bit before they finally agreed to act as the vase's own kiln. Once it was fired up, he left it out to cool in the shade, a proud little grin spreading across his dark lips. "Oh," he says aloud, pausing as he looks around his surroundings. "If anyone else wants to try making pottery, I have some leftover clay we could all use." Maybe he'd be kind just this once.