”An’ I’ll drool over it all t’ keep y’ from it,” the beast snuffled, licking her chops as she swayed on immense paws. A few steps leftward, and down she dipped again, taking great strings of slowly-blackening offal in her maw and slurping them up with great, greedy gusto.

“You don’t knows what a seal is?” That’s enough to get Murgrind to stop eating so actively. Instead, actually, she steps over and forward, towards Häti once more. Not an immense amount, no, but enough so she’s past the carcass and got her front feet on the dark sand once more. “They’s a bit shaped like this.” One foot sinks into the sand, before pushing forward and out, making a wide, slightly curved swipe that almost looks like that of a brush-stroke. Claws dig in and carve rudimentary flippers and a short, round head. A rudimentary ringed seal, all fat around and bearing those useless-seeming flippers.

“Bout as big as you are. Fat fuckers that swim all day an’ sleep on the ice sheets. Real easy hunting’ if y’ wait ‘em out. Nowhere near as delicious as beluga, yeh, but they do quite right.” Sagely, does she nod, like she’s imparting great wisdom unto Häti.

"Naturally. Bit skinnier 'round the belly, though." Murgrind nods with such pointed enthusiasm, it's clear that the titan-sized ursine doesn't read it as an insult. Why would she? Fatness is might, and might is right, when it comes to the herculean ice-bears of the north. Her paw raises, and down it slams, turning the rudimentary scribble of a seal into nothing more than a gash in the sand, soon to be swallowed by the slowly rising tide. Then, their attention is stolen by Häti as she scruffles and moves around. Murgrind's full, now, utterly stuffed with decaying narwhal meat, and she'll be fine for five days or more.

Ink-black eyes squint down at the strange shape, with it's knobby knees and long neck. There's a thick pause as Häti makes her claim, one circular white brow rising high on the beast's sloped forehead. "What, these things the size'a penguins 're whatnot? You ain't got the jaw's to put down lil' bogeymens like this, yeh?" Not only does Murgrind think Häti can't hunt one of these, she only naturally assumed something the likes of a camel didn't exist. It's now, that the carcass is abandoned, paw raising to bat away Häti's own depiction of the animals hunt. "You ain't got the beef's fer that, y' lil ratty fuck. Scavenger's ain't hunters." A lull out of their tongue, a cheeky little move as Murgrind . . . begins to move closer.

How bearish of her to just trundle forward instead of bothering to go around when leaving the carcass she'd devoured all the succulent and tasty bits from. Some of the more repugnant chunks of offal were left, most of the skin and muscle and blubber devoured by the bear.

The great front paws of polar bears stop for nobody and nothing. This includes the little Häti. As she dips and dives between immense weapons, Murgrind only continues her slow, lumbering march with a flace that is nothing but blase. Realistically, Murgrind doesn't have much to say as to whether or not Häti clings onto her. They're a solitary beast at their deepest, unused to company. And if she were to speak true? It's a bit nice, to walk shoulder-to-shoulder with another.

"A'course I got's me a name. Wot, you'se yote's got no names?" Thick black lips shift and curl slightly, seemingly just as amused with this predicament as she is. Down the beach they trundle, as Murgrind moves forward. Onward, towards those frigid northerly wastes she so lovingly calls her home. How that bone-cutting freeze of the Diamond Beach whispers her name. "I could see 'em callin' you'se scrawnies."

Häti's nose and Murgrind's muscular side become quick friends as she can feel her body scrunch up like a slinky allowed to settle into it's natural state. There's no gave, save for the wobble of blubbery flesh that barely shifts with the entire weight of this little coyote pelting itself into Murgrind's immense bulk. It's so light, even, that Murgrind doesn't heed that pitiful attempt of a shoulder-mounting, continuing to thunder down the beach with loud, gravelly scrapes of paws across the ground.

"Guard our names?" comes her voice, ruddy and wholly befuddled at the mere idea. Brows, though white on white, raise and crease her sloped forehead, giving the little scrap of fur a sideye. "Naw. I just . . . " Socially, the bear's utterly inept, dull to the more pointed topics of conversation. Her mind's gone and glossed over the request for her name. "Well 'äti, 'm Mugrind." It's a symphonic name, turned guttural by that harsh accent she bears like teeth. "Don't thinks I got me's any sticks up there, but who knows!" ANother low, whooping laugh, more to herself than to the coyote.

"So why's you followin' me?"