He was more worried than he should have been, perhaps. Phoenix Valley had never shaken him to his core, and although leadership had been rather forced onto him when Iskata died and Deuce took off on him, the cyclops had never been afraid of being an authority -- he'd just never been too keen on having to bother with it. Naturally, now that he had spent over a year as leadership in Phoenix Valley, not only had he gotten used to being the authority figure, but the seasons were changing again and nothing had changed. There was a need for something new, something different, and he was aware of it. How could he have spent the rest of his life running a pack full of loonies and dreamers, anyway? Surely they hadn't expected him to do so. His members knew he didn't fit in with the rest of them. And with the war raging and his maniacal half-brother just a hop and a skip away, it had been time to finally get moving.

Dawali had been kind and eager to switch. The Kalona had warned him of what to expect and how things were generally run, and although the cyclops still couldn't fully wrap his head around the concept of spirit animals, he didn't try too hard to. After all, he was far beyond fixing now, and any ghosts that stupidly wanted to try would fail in the end anyway.

The land reeked of strange scents and sights he wasn't familiar of. Sure, Jefferson had strolled through the tribe once or twice and had amiable conversations with Ember, but he'd never gotten a tour and now walked AniWaya feeling as if he'd just been interviewed and accepted at the borders, much like he had done so many times in Phoenix Valley. It was like the tables were turned but he was still in charge -- and likely didn't know anyone of the tribe outside of Ember and Hemming. The brute would get used to it, though -- there was no turning back now.

He wandered through AniWaya Village and found the ceremonial fire, burning as always. Dawali had mentioned something about it being sacred, but the cyclops twitched and ear and thought little of it. How strange, these tribal traditions. Here was as good as any to make his introduction, and on two feet the scarred and disfigured Kalona lifted his head to the sky and released a long, resounding howl of attention. It echoed much different than anything Dawali could have mustered, a roughness in its sound only a monster like Jefferson could create.