After spending a week or so in Bearclaw Valley, Meldresi's scent was starting to wash off Cicero, although it was not yet gone entirely. A lifetime of living in a dark forest and sleeping beside one's mother rubbed off on one, after all. Cicero was not sure whether he liked his life in Bearclaw Valley more than his life in Blackfeather Woods. He felt like he did not belong here, as though he was a festering blight upon the beautiful lands of the sweet and gentle Scarlett. She seemed eager to have him there, but her reasons were unknown to Cicero.
Feeling like spending some time exploring the lands surrounding the Valley -- while he was here, anyway -- Cicero took a trip to the northwest. The adolescent passed the Creek he'd met Kove at a while ago. It seemed so long ago now. Then he arrived at the frays of large rolling plains. Cicero stood at the plains' edge and watched over. His mismatched eyes stared out into the distance, and when he was sure that there was no one around, Cicero began to search for herbs -- medicine or poison, he did not care, for it was more of a pasttime-spending and part of his exploration of this area than trying to be useful -- along the southern frays of the plains.
Spartacus had spent sometime in Frostfire Ridge, exploring every nook and cranny whenever he wasn't patrolling, hunting or sparring with his packmates. He sought to prove himself to the leader of the Ridge, Tezcacoatl, to let him know, let him see that he was worthy of becoming a Frostfire wolf, that he was not a worthless piece of shit the King had happened to pick up. No, he was a Gladiator and he would prove himself when he earned the Warrior trade.
But his family had always been a victim of wanderlust, and it plagued him now, tugging at his gut, like an invisible hook pulling him forward, pulling him into the unknown where he loved and belonged. Initially, Spartacus attempted to resist its alluring spell, but in the end, he gave in. After all, it would only grow stronger and stronger and stronger until he gave in, better to get it over with and get on with his life in Frostfire Ridge.
So, the Gladiator set off North until he arrived at the edge of the plains, he had never been here before, so, naturally, he was eager to explore it. Ebony paws brought his charcoal form forwards, padding gracefully between the tall grass. As he walked, leathery nostrils flared, bringing an unfamiliar scent towards him.
Cicero's scent was not the only one that was different. When he turned his head and noted a dark shape in the distance, he vaguely remembered it as one of his previous pack mates. Cool expression rested upon Cicero's features as he regarded the male, though he could not place a name with the face. He did not remember who the wolf was, nor where he remembered him from. But they had met at one point in time, and at that time his alegiances and his scent -- as Cicero's was now -- had been different.
The adolescent turned to look upon the wolf and said: "Cicero knew this one, once, in a different place." Although he said it as though he spoke to himself, Cicero stared at the wolf, searching for his eyes -- perhaps trying to establish a connection, pose a question, wonder aloud whether the wolf remembered knowing Cicero, too. Perhaps 'knowing' was too big a word for whatever connection they once shared, though.
Spartacus's white eyes alighted on the teenager with a black and white coat and mismatched eyes. He remembered him, however vaguely, and knew that the boy was from his previous pack in the south, Blackfeather Woods. He said nothing, but simply regarded the child with cool pale eyes and an impassive expression. As far as he was concerned, he had left on good terms with Blackfeather, he was not a traitor, he had not abandoned them, he simply went with the flow.
The boy spoke, and Spartacus's ears swiveled forward, calmly listening to the other speak. There was something strange in the way the adolescent spoke, but he refrained from pointing it out. The kid's parents hadn't told the boy to correct his way of speaking, why should he? As far as he was concerned, the two of them were only of blood relation, nothing else. Cicero was only his nephew by blood, he didn't feel any unclish feelings for the boy.
"Blackfeather Woods," Spartacus said with a polite tilt of his head. "You're Meldresi's kid, Cicero right?" The Gladiator knew that Damien knew he was Bane's brother, therefore, their uncle. But whether or not the shadow child would share that information with his siblings was his own problem.
Cicero nodded when the black wolf asked if he were of Blackfeather Woods. Although he did not resent him for leaving, Cicero wondered as to the wolf's reasons of leaving, but he did not actually ask for it. It did not matter. The youth nodded to confirm that he was Meldresi's child, Cicero. He did not remember the black wolf much; did not even remember his name.
"Cicero does not remember black wolf's name," he admitted, one of his ears swiveling forth. "Does black wolf live around here these days?" asked Cicero, curious for the information. One never knew when that information might come in handy.
There had been a time when Spartacus thought Blackfeather Woods would be his permanent home, unfortunately, that was not happening. There had also been a time when he aimed to become a Dark Brother of the Dark Brotherhood, but those times were gone. He did not wish to murder someone or spy on other packs just because some coward was too craven to do it themselves. He did not want to do someone else's dirty work. It was dishonorable, and he did not murder those who did not deserve it no matter what. Some might think him foolish, but to him, it was normal.
Perhaps his time with the Romans had changed him for the better after all.
"Kenneth," he offered the boy with a gentle tilt of his head. The wolves of Blackfeather did not need to know that he had changed his name now, it would endanger him if they ever seeked revenge on him for leaving (why would they do that though?) and besides, he felt as if he had been Kenneth there in the Woods, but he wasn't that black bastard here anymore. He was a Roman here in the North. He was Spartacus Mavortis the Roman Gladiator here, and Kenneth Gloom the exiled bastard in Blackfeather Woods.
"Yes," he gave a shrug. "The North is my home."
Kenneth. Cicero mapped the name for future reference, although he did not expect to ever need it. But he knew that information was power, and so he always gathered as much information as he could. Kenneth did not mention what pack he belonged to, which lead Cicero to believe that he did not wish to share that particular tidbit of information. It was interesting, but Cicero merely nodded at the information given, not pressuring Kenneth further.
"Was Blackfeather Woods too dark for Kenneth?" Cicero asked, his voice cool, "Or were there other reasons for Kenneth to leave?" Cicero did not sound like he cared: he didn't. If Kenneth wanted to leave, then he was free to as far as Cicero was concerned. He wasn't one for holding grudges over silly things. He was merely curious if the pack's darkness was what had driven Kenneth away.
After a brief conversation, the two wolves parted ways again, and Cicero explored a bit more until he eventually headed home.