Silver Creek one fish, two fish

It's nothing, he says, still smiling until his lips press together in a thoughtful purse at his question. He appraises him again with a quick glance -- did he not want to join a pack for the winter? Every day the nights grew longer and colder. Slowly but surely, the Earth tilted away from the sun on its axis, an indescribably vast and viscous pendulum.

And then -- did he not want to join Kingslend specifically? Did he know of Kingslend? No, he couldn't, because he didn't even know which forest they lived in ... but in Wymond's mind, as dissonant as the Locrian mode, he couldn't help but take it as a personal slight.

Wouldn't it be something to consider, joining them for the colder months? He asks, then relents, they're over there, you'll smell the border if you go far enough in the trees. His nose traces a perfect arc toward Déorwine Central. He should know -- he's been lurking around its edges for a while now as they went from nebulous to defined. 

You're not from around here, then. Me neither.