Blackfeather Woods i don't know if i am real without you

The beast had lurked beneath the surface for some time, much to Cicero's contentedness. It seemed that the outburst between himself and the ruddy wolf atop the mountain had helped, as well as keeping himself busy. The pain helped. Cicero had always been particularly partial to pain, even as a pup he had laughed when his brother would try to choke him when they played. Yet now it was not only a manner of relief and sick pleasure, but it was also a manner of keeping at bay Sheogorath, who seemed ever most present when emotions were suppressed.

A question had been bothering Cicero ever since he had returned, and he knew that he would not rest easy until he figured it out. And so he had stumbled over to the cache where he carried his poisons. His left side was still ragged-looking, his shoulder and neck marred with scabbed over wounds. He could not access those wounds himself, however, having had others tend to them instead and washing it in the stream. His right leg, however, was easily accessible and so when he reached his poison cache, Cicero had carefully peeled off the scabs from the wound. Red flesh was displayed and blood started to drip from the wound, though not at alarming rates. Cicero carefully took a piece of poison ivy between his teeth. His tongue itched with the (un)pleasant sting as he touched the leaf gingerly, a shiver running down his spine. Cicero moved the leaf on top of the wound, and soon the leaf was engulfed with blood, sticking to the wound. His tongue lapped against the inside of his teeth while he savoured the unpleasant feeling, and the boy closed his mismatched eyes as a shiver of pain and pleasure mixed as the poisonous leaf melded with his wound.

Quiet had been told to seek out Cicero for spy training. She hadn't realized that it was the same wolf she had met in the golden plains, but without the means to ask, she simply wandered the woods in search of any life. She found life alright, but bruised and battered in a pitiable way. It was that very same philosopher from Hoshor, now worse for wear; wounds weeping all over his body, the tangy smell of infected wounds making her nose wrinkle in disgust. The coywolfdog chuffed to tear the wolf's attention away from whatever he was bending over, her eyes expressing her simultaneous fright and disgust at his condition. Did they not have healers? Wasn't he a healer or herbalist of some sort?

Gaze turned towards the chuff and Cicero reopened his eyes. He looked down at the wound on his leg while blisters started to form, pleased with the effects; what long term would bring he did not yet know, but for now the wounds were looking much worse than when he would expose the poison ivy to regular skin, especially if it had fur.

"Ah, the quiet wolf," mused Cicero, and he looked at her inquisitively, even though he knew he would receive no answer. It would have been convenient had anyone told Cicero what she was looking for, but they had not, and so he had no way of knowing what she was here for.

The mottled wolf did not know her name, but he was not too far off, so Quiet let it be. She walked forward, her eyes trained on the blisters on his legs, her eyes filled with worry as she sniffed the wounds and then looked at his mismatched ones. She whined softly, then sniffed his wounds again. Was no one here to help him?

The quiet wolf remained typically quiet, of course, though the worry in her eyes charmed Cicero. He smiled at her and shook his head, as though telling her not to worry — he would be fine. "It's okay, Cicero is a doctor," he said with his typical dry humour. The pain only kept him further on edge, and Cicero did not worry that it might be fatal. If it were it would still be worth it, in some strange ironic way, and maybe someone could use his knowledge. He did not fear death; even a hunting trip might break a leg and prove fatal, even an outriding trip or spying trip could prove very dangerous. Why not, then, use the body that he had been given by the dark mother herself for the purpose of science? Or was that merely what he told himself it was?

"It will be fine, in time. It is interesting, though, is it not?" Cicero looked at the blistering wound, the poison ivy barely visible any longer as it melded to his wound. "It is good to remember many poisons work better applied to open wounds." Perhaps this knowledge would enlighten her and perhaps, in the light of this enlightenment, she might feel as disgusted with him as Pietro had been; or perhaps she would understand his thirst for knowledge or his thirst for pain; or maybe both.

Quiet didn't smile at his joke — it only worried her more. She didn't know the true reason for his self-inflicted pain, only that it wasn't something a wolf should be doing to himself. Especially if he had others who cared about his wellbeing. Quiet listened as he explained, and looked at the wounds inquisitively now. She was not a herbalist or a naturalist by any means, but she felt a morbid curiosity towards it. If he knew what he was doing, and Burke was obviously find with it...then it must be alright, right?

There was a worried frown on her face, but Cicero paid it little mind. Many were worried when they found out what he did to himself, but it never made Cicero want to cease what he did — it was research, science, and, so he told himself, needed for the bettering of his own education as well as the pack's. Yet despite the worried look on her face, the quiet wolf did approach to look at the festering wounds on his leg. "The poison ivy. It works much stronger than when applied to normal skin." There was little more that he could teach her now, for he did not know more himself just yet. Time would tell if things would change or if they would stay like this. Cicero reached his nose to the wound to sniff the festering wound. It did not smell like rot — not yet — but judging by the way it looked it would eventually.

The quiet wolf remained silent as usually. Cicero liked that about her; she would not tell a soul what she had seen, simply because she could not. "Let us look for replacements," Cicero said, slipping up in his speech a moment (a thing he himself did not realise at the time), squinting his eyes at the stinging pain that festered through his leg. He carefully rose to his feet and started to limp in eastern direction, where he hoped to find some poison ivy. He glanced backwards to see if the quiet wolf followed; if she did, he could tell her a thing or two about poisons or spying, whichever she preferred.