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.

Donovan passes through the plains, shimmering eyes flicking every which way, he’s looking for something to eat. Something big hopefully, though hunting in the plains means that if he can see his prey, his prey can see him. More work really. Though it doesn’t deter him, he’s a massive man, heavy muscle cording through his body — a symbol of strength in his pack, he is the Grandmaster of the Saints and he carries himself as such. Head held high and proud he pads through the area, forever scouting for something that will peak his interest. Something that can date his undying curiosity he’s been cursed with. 

Then as he steps up a rolling hill his eyes stop, just as his body does. They land on another wolf probably only a healthy few meters from him. Honey gold never leave the black of their pelt and if the other hasn’t seen him already Donovan announces himself.

“Hello.” He hums in an interested greeting. His tail is curled high over his hips and he’s sauntering over to them. Unable to stop the the smile that consorts his face handsomely he continues raking his golden eyes over him until he meets his own. “Now, who are you?” Comes his first question of the day. It rolls off of his tongue in a deep, yet smooth baritone.

Bad Moon spent his whole life being a black sheep, but the man that approaches him is something else entirely. Something villanous out of a spaghetti western, mashed with a hefty dose of Frankensteinian noire. It takes a full four seconds for Juju's gaze to sweep the full depth of this man.

It takes another four for him to respond to that smile and the curved tail. Truly, no wolf back home looks like this man. The brindling and the fur throw him off more than his size, which by polar standards was uncommon but not rare.

He's friendly from what Juju can tell. Smile for smile, but Juju remains on guard. "Hello. I could say the same for you. You can call me Juju, it's what the folks back at home called me anyway." No they didn't - they called him Bad Moon Juju, but that's something this man can learn some other time. "Who're you?"

He’s always liked the attention his odd looks got him. Even if it was bad. Like many wolves, they find him disgusting and ugly with his obvious dog heritage and it only strikes joy in his blackened soul. Especially as this male takes an honest moment to look his body over and really take in how different he truly is, both mentally and physically. Yet, he doesn’t quite know how odd he is mentally, but perhaps he’ll find out.

So finally Donovan tilts his head up at the chin and regards him with a curt nod when the other offers his own smile, the one on his muzzle never faltering. Though the curling of his lips is less malicious than it is teasing and the curious glint in his eyes only strike him as a interested passer by. 

He’s greeted politely and Donovan parrots the name. “Juju.” Allowing it to roll off his tongue experimentally. “I’m Donovan Azura of the Abbey, Grandmaster of the Saints — my pack nearby.” Then he notes something in the others introduction. “That’s what the people called you back home, no? What do you truly want to be called? It sounds almost like you detest the name? Bad experience?” He inquires experimentally coming a good few steps closer and stopping nearly four feet away.

Introductions are made and the man's smiling the entire time. Truth be told Juju finds the custom strange. His folk are severe and frost-faced, so a man such as Donovan sporting an enternal grin that seems to laugh in the face of death unsettles Juju.

He hides it well by keeping his face neutral.

"Not so much a bad experience as a bad run of luck." Juju smiles tersely. Unlike Donovan Azura the smile never reaches his eyes. Just hangs off his lips like a sorry sign of indifference. "That's quite a title you have amassed. Are there more of your kind near by? You'll have to excuse me, I've never seen a wolf quite like you." If his home had thought Juju was a bad omen, they ought to fix their peepers on Donovan. Nothing would curl their tail hairs quite the same way.

“Ah.” He hums in acknowledgment to the statement of bad luck. “Why’s that? You seem normal so far, but not everything’s true that meets the eye, huh?”

Then he nods calmly at his next words. “It is. I’ve worked hard on my pack. Would die for them even.” He can see that the smile is forced. Unlike Donovan’s which tends to always reach his eyes, but they usually have a little bit of mischief swirled into them. Are there more of your kind? Yes actually. He thinks, mind drifting to Renard — Dove. They have quite a few halfbreeds there. “Yes there are more like me. Well, moderately like me.” He muses.