Hoshor Plains Memories of the land

There was a change in the wolf's demeanour, and Cicero understood that she must have smelled that he, too, was part of Blackfeather Woods. A smile passed his lips, and he opened his mouth to say something or other, but closed it again upon realising that she was not a wolf of many words. It did not matter much to him, for although he enjoyed philosophical conversations, Cicero could also appreciate simply sharing moments. He, himself, was not a wolf of many words, after all, even if Sheogorath often was.

Cicero looked up at the silent wolf when she chuffed, and he glanced back at the bones that they had been sniffing. He liked that she was the curious type, like he himself, too. "Perhaps an unlucky wolf," he suggested, for the bones seemed large enough. But truthfully, it could be many other things, too; Cicero knew little specifics when it came to such bones, so it may as well've been a large fox or even an animal of prey, for he found no traces of a head -- from which size could be more easily told -- so far. What knowledge he had of naturalism lay in another area than deciphering bones of the dead -- a more painful and deadly one.