The four of them flee across the cavern, dodging around ivy tendrils and grasping vines as they thunder across the open garden. Yálie quickly loses sight of his party, so focused on escape that his vision narrows to the yawning doorway ahead of them; fear drives him faster than he has ever run before, giving him a last burst of speed as a tendril slaps across the wide of his back. He kicks out with his hind legs, dislodging the vine, and screams in fear and fury as another tendril of ivy winds around his front leg. 

No!

He will not be trapped down here, doomed to become some shrub in this cursed garden; he will see the sky again, and feel the grass under his hooves. He will return to his home pastures; this cannot be his end, not when he has accomplished so little. 

A surge of righteous anger - on what authority does a weed act upon him! - fills him, and he strikes out again with a hoof to crush the seeking vine. Freed, he darts away, clearing the last few feet to solid ground with a powerful leap. His hooves clatter on stone, and he bucks one last time to knock away any lingering vegetation.

Freed, he turns back to peer into the gloomy cavern, trying to pick out the forms of his friends among the twining ivy; but he can see nothing amid the gloom and thick, heavy pollen. He can only hope they have escaped, and made their own ways out of the garden.

For his part, he must return to the surface: the ivy had taken his pack, his lantern, and whatever paltry rewards he had scrounged on their descent. If he should linger, the darkness may take him yet - and so he turns from the garden with a heavy heart, and makes for the path that will take him to the surface once more.