Hoshor Plains everyone's tea and the receipts

The sea's been at right the entire time, but at some point Juju departs from the ocean and heads south. The going's rougher than he anticipated. He's used to snow and valleys. This place is tangles and groves.

Much of his weight's gone. Melted right off like snow under eternal summer. Not far, the one-eyed erudite shaman Ikatua, more withered than a six hundred year old oak, claimed. Not far to South shores. We see you, maybe come spring. You bring back skull, and you become man. Curse might lift. No, not far at all.

It was far. About 1770 miles. 2735 kilometers. In wolf-metrics, probably the distance of three or so healthy lives.

Juju would never make it to the fabled southern gulf, but he doesn't know it.

He just keeps plugging on.