She always loved her little clay figures. The skill required patience, a trait which she never had. Nonetheless, she was adamant that her figurines would surpass anyone else's in the clan. As her claws pummeled the tiny clay sculptures, kneading them into small, barely discernible shapes, she was filled with a love that propelled her to continue with her craft. In a way, kneading these clay figures was a way for her to broadcast her affection without acting too forthright. The thistle was always the subject of her dedication, and she would tirelessly make more and more if only to see a smile flicker across his dark, serious face. Worn out paws and cracked pads were, of course, a small price to pay for his happiness.