Silver Creek one fish, two fish

Still, he haunts the creek, and comes to know it well, its affinity for moonlight, its sterling darkness inside and outside. He wakes up curled among the undergrowth, shivering, amphibious darkness ... grey light filtering through the threadbare canopy.

He watches the viscous passage of the rainclouds and then the trees, swaying, to the trees of King Elk Forest. Kind of small, though, kind of middling, not as spectacular as they'd looked in the sun only a few days ago. Oh, well ... 

Let them worship the Elk, he reasons. But there's no one -- really, no one -- that knows Him better than I do. That's our secret.

The stranger watching the creek is brown-haired but Wymond is almost certain that he isn't Déorwine. He thinks he can tell this from almost thirty, forty paces away. Anyways, the stranger appears to be deep in thought, weeping, or fishing, looking small and lost under these second-rate trees, under this cold and oppressive sky, Wymond can't believe that he looks like this too, so microscopic in the grand scheme of things. In truth, every time he looks at another wolf, this unpleasant feeling claws at the pit of his stomach. The world was always eating them all up.

For what it's worth, you're hunting awfully close to pack land. Though his knowing smile implies: don't worry, I won't tell anyone.