Sunny warmth pushed against Gale’s shoulders as he sprinted forward, accompanied by the distinctive smell of roasting meat. Of charring meat, of burnt hair and boiling fat. He didn’t need to look behind him to know that one of their number had fallen- the stench, and the panicked cries of those left, was more than enough evidence. 

He was forced, rather unwillingly, out of his grove by the voice of a young woman calling them to safety, and the trees snapping behind him. Much to Gale’s surprise, one of the younger looking of the group was managing to pull off a sizable monologue while still running for his life. To be entirely honest, Gale was more impressed by the lungs on the boy than anything that was actually coming out of his mouth. Being able to both run and ramble like that was a talent. 

Whoever the child was, he was evidently trying to take over the role as leader, regardless. Something Gale doubted would go unchallenged. There were others talking- one screaming about Lewis Carroll and monsters, most notably- but Gale had already started tuning them out for the most part, focusing on navigating the meadow.

The idea of dying in such an anticlimactic way wasn’t something he was particularly a fan of.