Bearclaw Valley Three Musketeers

Cicero stayed behind his siblings. When he arrived by their side, they were both giving the proverbial finger to a grey wolf that had approached them. Cicero was not certain when Potema had become like that, but perhaps she had always been and his view of her had been the one that was clouded. Cicero did not mimic their smug grins, instead remaining neutral, his duo-toned eyes coolly staring at the Beta. He did not care if they were invited and welcomed by Scarlett; they were still on another pack's borders. He expected respect upon Blackfeather territory, and so he would give it when elsewhere.

With neutral expression he turned his head to look at Damien. He looked upon his brother both in awe and admiration as well as fear. He did not fear Damien, did not think his brother would ever turn upon him, but he feared what Damien was becoming. Not for Cicero, but for Damien's sake. Cicero liked to believe darkness was not all Blackfeather wolves had. But perhaps he was the one who was mistaken by not helping his siblings tear this Beta apart. Perhaps he had yet to acknowledge just how dark he was.

"Potema and Damien are either Blackfeather wolves or Bearclaw wolves. No wolf is both," Cicero told his siblings after Scarlett's howl, while they were following the pack's Beta. "Do not forget a smile at the right time can hurt a wolf as much as a big mouth, but a smile at the right time can also save a wolf's hide." Cicero preferred to steer clear of personal quarrels. Some day they might be in need of the Bearclaw Beta's help, and where would he be then? Not by their side.

Cicero could not determine whether it made him a better or worse wolf than his abrassive siblings that he liked to keep others befriended so he could use them like objects when he needed to, or crush them from the inside out.

Cicero wasn't sure he wanted to know.