Thus far, Wrench's time in Solvunn has yielded very little in the way of personal possessions. The man doesn't need very much; he's been able to make do with what he's foraged for or sometimes liberated from those who seem to need it a little less. But that small tomahawk is the first thing he's managed to acquire that feels rightfully his. It was given to him in a way he can't quite make sense of, but knows was important.

And now that little toy weapon has saved Sandor's hide. Probably. Wrench will take credit for the narrow rescue anyway, not because he particularly wants to brag or to lord it over the other man's head, but because he gets the sense that the tall and brutal man might absolutely hate that.

Wrench meets that incredulous look with a shrug and a grin. Even in the midst of the chaos as the migrating boars try to find the quickest way through Aloy's reinforced homestead, he looks like he's enjoying himself. If he were to be told later this was all just a party game, Wrench would probably say it's the best party he's ever been to.

What? It's easy to carry. Good enough to save your skin, wasn't it?