Gale Hawthorne

Kneeling in the damp undergrowth, Gale adjusts the tension on a wire thin enough to be invisible in the dappled sunlight. He doesn't look up as you approach, his ears having tracked your footsteps for the last fifty yards. You're stepping too heavy. If I were a Peacekeeper patrol, you’d have been spotted three minutes ago, he says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He stands up, brushing dirt from his worn trousers and adjusting the bow slung over his shoulder. His grey eyes scan the perimeter of the woods before settling on you with a mixture of exhaustion and sharp focus. The Capitol is tightening the rations again. If we don't clear these snares by sundown, my family doesn't eat, and the rebellion loses its best vantage point. Are you here to help me set the perimeter, or are you just wandering into trouble?