Permafrost Hollows but you're just a black hole

Beautiful imagery!

Running the encampment in laps became an early habit; the dragon has restless feet. Unlike ancestors that would preen underneath the sunlight on a warm rock or tuck away in a cavern away from prying eyes, Kratos is much too eager to sink teeth into flesh and lift a leg to mark than laze.
Where he would once roam for hours in a straight line, covering as much distance as he could and never looking back, the dragon inspects the Hollows and refreshes reminders that strike it as his. Zephyr’s own frequent patrols mirrors his path, laying tracks of footfalls that differ in size and weight.
A snort exhales. Frosted air, a haunting image as head raises, dark tipped ears twitch atop his massive skull. He slows a beat, before pale gold eyes zone in on the target that scampers about their borders. Tail lashes, before it rises in an arch above his back. The chimera picks about at grasses that Kratos would pay little attention to—they are unlike the herbs that the now fuzzy reminder of a medic had plucked to heal his wounds. He barely sees her face, but he sees the invaluable plants.
He strides forth. Muscles rippling with his powerful gait as he closes the gap between owner and shoplifter. His lips peel back in a warning; drop what you have or face his fangs.