Petulance thrives on discontent. As a hatchling, it sulks in corners, curling in on itself with a low hiss that dares you to come closer. Each stage of growth exaggerates its grievances—limbs flailing, claws stamping, voices multiplying into a chorus of complaints. Lacking the will to strike, it expends all it has merely to endure, scratching and snapping not from hunger but from wounded pride. Though fierce and stubborn, Petulance is not without charm: it craves acknowledgment above all else, and once soothed, it clings with surprising devotion.