[piosenniel]

Battle was something that did not sit well with the skinchanger. He was a bookish sort, given to the study of animals, birds in particular. Fighting was something he tended to avoid if at all possible. But there was nothing to be done about it . . . the Corsairs had sprung a sneak attack on the Elves and their Lossoth helpers. Blood was already being spilled . . . a number of the Lossoth and Elves had fallen into the frigid waters and were in danger of drowning because others of their companions could not get to them through the press of battle.

Rôg had no weapon. He was no bowman and to be honest the only blade he’d ever wielded were the knives he used for cooking. A lance . . . no . . . nor a club, either. He did have the little sling he used for hunting small game. But a quick look at the well padded, well armed Corsairs drove that idea from his mind.

And besides that . . . as a man he really didn’t relish the thought of killing other men . . .

Still, he didn’t like the thought of his friends getting hurt and killed, either.

By this time Rôg had managed to circle round behind the Corsairs’ advancing line. Less fighting in the rear . . . safer . . . but then again he could see the bowmen sending their barrage of arrows toward his companions. Perhaps if he just harassed them, knocked them about a bit . . . disrupted their attack . . .

Aaah! But how to do that. He was already slipping and sliding about on the ice and snow like some ungainly gooney bird on loose sand. And what would he use for weapons . . . He looked down at his empty hands and the snow at his feet. The insane desire to giggle nearly overtook him as he thought of making snowballs and lobbing them at the Corsairs.

In the distance he could see a number of the Lossoth friendly to the Elves fall beneath the blades of the advancing Corsairs. An image came to him, of the great white beast with the toothy smile that Bear, his Lossoth guide, had told him was his family’s spirit animal. They’d seen one out on the ice flows, hunting seal. Slow moving, massive, paws the size of large dinner plates with long sharp claws. The face of the snow bear had an intelligent air as the beast turned to look at him, considering whether the expense of energy to chase after the two humans was worth the meal to be gotten. The bear had risen up on his hind legs to get a better look at the two men who were viewing him. Almost twice the height of a tall man . . . the very size of him was intimidating . . . they had driven their sled away quickly, leaving the bear to his previous pursuit of a tasty seal.

The change took longer than his more familiar forms. Once it was complete, Rôg was surprised how gracefully the massive body of the bear moved over the snow and uneven ground. The pads moved silently over the ice without slipping. He swung his great head from side to side, taking in the figures of the Corsair bowmen. His lips drew back from his long, sharp yellowed teeth in a feral smile. Bears it seemed did enjoy the hunt and relished the kill, he realized . . . and he found himself thinking how delightful it would be to hear the crunch of his prey’s bones as he bit down hard on a leg or shoulder . . . and the marrow, so sweet . . .

Rôg shook his head to bring his thoughts back from the brink of red, ravening madness . . . He loped up silently behind the archers that were still firing and gave a low rumbling growl. Lunging forward, he reared up not quite to his full height and began knocking them down like so many clay pots with brutish swipes of his immense paws, throwing many into the air as he did so.

And those foolish heroes who chose to face him down, he simply knocked flat, swatting aside their blades and bows and spears – his cavernous maw clamping down on their skulls, crunching them as easily as a squirrel does an acorn.