Fire crackled on the hearth. The dogs lay about his feet. The sheep and cows were penned for the night. The bees had been bedded for the winter some moons ago. The pastureland lay calm and still under a thick blanket of snow. Goblins had not been seen for some time.
Beorn smiled.
Outside, a full moon would be rising, white and round and cold. Too cold for men to be about. Cold enough that bears lay deep, deep beneath the snow, deep beneath the earth, sleeping until a warmer sun should rouse them.
Beorn's golden eyes glittered.
He sat beside his fire, still, a white bone knife in his hands tracing patterns into soft pine under the warm red light of his hearth.