Rosemary weaved at her loom, as she did every day, pausing only for drink here and there. A girl of her age might get bored of the repetitiveness, except the constant rain had left her with little other duties. Weaving may leave her hands aching, but her bones did not feel the chill of the winter air and her fingers were not cracked from constant damage. Her brothers took care of the outdoors. For wood, food, and shelter she was never wanting. Her brothers, may they live forever, raised her from infancy, saving her life in lieu of their mother's.
"Rosemary! The cattles've gone loose, again. We need your legs, fast n'all!" Rosemary lept from her loom, forgetting her coat, eager to run in the rain. They had a decent life, but money was tight and lumber even tighter. Occasionally the rough rain would pound the mud down, lower than the posts, and the whole fence could collapse. It seems the torrential rains had, again, let loose the few livestock they had. Rosemary pushed the last calf into the fence her brothers had repaired, but she caught sight of the caora as it darted past the trees in the distance.
"Malachy, the sheep!" Rosemary shouted at the oldest.
"Go, Mhaire! You're faster than the lot o'us, to be sure!" So Rosemary ran. The mud did not hold up beneath her weight or her speed, but her long, pale legs made up for the lost ground. She bounded up the hills she knew in her heart, her hand tracing worn paths against the bark. The deluge matted her hair to her face and physical memory of these paths led her way. Occasionally the faint bleating their sheep could be heard and her feet would move of their own accord in the needed direction. Rosemary's heart beat wild in her chest, exhilarated by the spontaneous exercise. Her legs burned with acid, but Rosemary could not let the sheep go. Malachy, Kiernan, and Rosemary had only a few squares of meager crops. Their well-being depended on their three sheep and the prized wool of their one sheep. To lose this sheep would mean a week without food for her family. This only made her run harder, the cold going unnoticed despite her inadequate clothing. She lunged for the rear leg of her sheep, catching only the hoof.
Maybe the caora would have ceased it's running on a day more likened to summer, but as another clash of lightning sounded, the sheep only kicked at Rosemary, striking her in the forearm. As she stood, her knee gave under the yielding earth, forcing her unbalanced weight into a slide down an unusually sloped ravine. Rosemary's nails split as they dug into earth, clinging to meager roots and vines, but her velocity was not to be stopped. She slid until she fell to the ravine floor. She cried as her arm seared with an unfamiliar burn, but she remembered nothing but the rain as the blackness pricked at the corner of her eyes. All too soon, Rosemary succumbed to unconsciousness.