Savages of the Sacred Salvage

Swinging at the nearest hatchling, you bowl the squawking thing over, and then while its off balance try to pin it down with the rod. You neglected to account for the others however or the fact that when young, beakdogs can launch themselves a short distance in the air. With a flurry of feathers and cacophony of screeching, they spring up, razor talons razing deep gouges across your back and your face.

You stagger backwards, blinded by your own blood, then stumble and fall, disappearing beneath the hungry swarm. Without their mother they'll have to forage on their own, and you have the dubious honor of having just taught them that lone humans are weak to pack hunting tactics.