Churning storm clouds turn the day into twilight. Sweat washes the blood from her fur and then freezes. The cold crisp air burns her throat and lungs, but the burning soon subsides. Her limbs ache with fatigue, but the aches fade as well. Tikki lopes and runs. The trail is clear before her—the scents, the signs in the snow—drawing her onward. She will never stop, never pause, till she has her cub again and the elves have been repaid.