Fox's Glade boniface

he did not have the time to think, much less react. bodies came for him in a whirl of drawn up silver snow, and teeth met his face, his shoulder.
despite his instict, he does not fight back. he drops to the ground with a long stream of high-pitched, fitful whines and screeches. he is outnumbered. he does not have his own men! he realizes quickly that this must be a fight of the mind, and not of the body.
god works in strange ways.
stop! who are you! his breath falters as he attempts to yank himself out from under the sets of jaws. already he tastes his own blood on his lips. what is the meaning of this?!