Mar me mot

Before he has to call out to Locke, the piebald raccoon appears with shiny trinkets in paw. A pinched brow and humored huff leaves Ursus as he holds out the material he doesn’t know the name of (it’s wire but he’s a wolf so). “Help me make snares and you can keep whatever you find,” Ursus offers the trade because clearly he was the pack mule in their friendship, and Locke knew it.

Locke sets to work, carefully hooking the ends of the wire and then sliding the other end through so that when an animal goes through it, the hole would tighten and catch around their neck, body, or leg. Satisfied that Locke was sufficiently helping, Ursus begins to look for more to use when the patter of tiny paws on the floor draws his gaze toward the entrance of the cavern. A brow of intrigue raises as she approaches without fear or hesitation, speaking to him as if they’d known each other for forever.

“Not a hunter of treasure, but I see how you could think that,” he replies with indifference, letting his gaze rove over her tiny form without shame. She was tinier than Senua and that alone was impressive. “I found some stuff I can use for snares which is what Locke here is helping me craft now,” Ursus nods over toward the raccoon who merely chatters gibberish in response without halting his movements.

“What’s a little umbra like yourself doing out here?” He ask in response, gaze still lingering in more of a predatorily way than he realizes.