Three Sentence Ficathon

The wind brushes over her face, makes her hair dance about her face, and she can feel it, smell it, almost see it as the trees bend and bow. The stirring in her heart, the tenseness in her muscles, every bit of her is ready to go. How can one resist the temptation of adventure, the harshest but most benevolent mistress, when the tide turns against all you hold dear?