Pegs did stop harassing the heroes for a couple of years- and hellish years they were. He was profoundly bored, for starters. Although he appreciated his foster mothers’ varying arts, he had neither the drive nor desire to follow any of the disciplines they specialized in. And as much as he loved flying, he felt his life needed some purpose beyond it.
Worse than the boredom, however, was the rage.
Without the regular outlet of hero-bating, the fury inside Pegs’ heart steadily accumulated, burning hotter and hotter, until there was nothing that did not set his temper off. He hissed and bit savagely at anything and anyone that got too close to him, sometimes following it up with a fierce kick for good measure. He knew he shouldn’t behave in such a way- it made him miserable to be so horrid to everyone- but he didn’t know how to turn it off… and soon the misery would fester and become more rage. The hurt in his foster mothers’ eyes made him ashamed, and he took to hiding in far-flung locations, spending all his days in bitter solitude. While this kept him from physically hurting anyone, it did nothing to cool the anger that pumped through his body like super-heated blood.
Finally, a little more than two years after he’d given his promise, Pegs snapped.
***
There was probably no avoiding it in the long run (not with the way his internal pressure had been mounting) but it’s quite possible that it might have been delayed a little longer had it not been for the specific scenario he witnessed.
Pegs was out for a flight, soaring low across the edge of a sea, when his sensitive ears picked up the sound of crying- feminine crying.
Now it must be said that Pegs had something of a soft-spot for women. How could he not, after being raised by so many? That, combined with the story of Meddie, his blood-mother, made him particularly responsive to females in distress. He banked his wings and headed inland towards the crying.
He soon found its source- a young woman with a tangle of tentacles in place of legs, trapped in a shallow pit. It would have been easy enough for a normal human to scramble out of, but the girl’s lower limbs were obviously not meant for climbing. Pegs eyed the pit, but decided there was not enough room for him to land in it without crushing the girl. Instead he landed next to the upper edge and peered over.
“Oh!” gasped the girl, momentarily forgetting her distress. “Oh, how lovely!” Pegs, who had spent his life surrounded by deities who both embodied and inspired beauty, returned the sentiment: the monster was absolutely stunning. Her tentacles were a gorgeous bronze-green, with just the faintest iridescence, mottled with a rust-colored pattern that continued up past her trim waist into the smooth olive of her skin; her hair was deep red and done in dozens of thick, elaborate braids that hung to her elbows; her eyes, dark brown with neither pupils nor whites, were luminous with tears. Just then, her finely formed features crumpled.
“Oh, oh! Flee! You must flee, before he returns!”
Pegs cocked his head to one side to indicate curiosity, but the girl failed to understand. Instead she groped along the floor of her prison until she found a small clump of dirt, which she flung half-heartedly at him. He dodged it easily, and lowered his head closer to her, attempting to lip at her fingers to give her some comfort.
“Flee!” She sobbed, and he noticed her teeth were ever-so-slightly pointed. “Flee quickly, or he’ll hurt you, too!”
Hurt him too? Pegs narrowed his eyes and re-evaluated the girl. He realized that what he had assumed was a natural pattern on her skin was, in fact, dried blood.
His heart exploded with fiery rage and he reared up, screaming silent fury. As he came back to all fours, he heard a sharp intake of breath behind him. He whipped his head around and saw what could only be a hero.
The man was tall and well-built, just shy of his prime. He wore a much-dented breast-plate and matching arm-guards, all decorated with an olive-branch motif. In one hand he held a piece of dried meat that he was obviously making a quick meal of. The other held a long spear- a spear with dried blood on its head.
Pegs didn’t even think- couldn’t have, even if he’d wanted to. The anger had control of his limbs, and he surrendered himself to it utterly. Quick as a snake, Pegs wheeled towards the man and lashed out with his hooves, striking him squarely in the temple. He felt the hero’s skull crush beneath the force of the blow, and the man dropped like a stone. Pegs stood over him, trembling and blowing hard, waiting to strike again should he see the slightest movement.
There was none.
Finally, feeling strangely disconnected from his own body, Pegs leaned down and grabbed the spear with his teeth. He dragged it over to the edge of the pit and let one end extend down. At first the girl let out a small shriek and cowered as far from him as she could, but when she realized nothing was attacking her she slowly uncovered her face and turned it upwards toward Pegs. He tossed his head, once, to emphasis the spear, made a motion as though he was pulling it out.
The girl understood, and although her hands trembled she wrapped them around the spear’s shaft, and held on with all her might. Slowly, painstakingly, Pegs managed to pull her out, and once free she collapsed into a shaking, crying heap at his hooves. Still numb, he knelt down beside her, stretched out a wing, and folded it over her battered form.
He did not notice her blood slowly staining his feathers.
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