Permafrost Hollows radioactive

A summons ahead rings loud and clear—one that sought no trouble, yet posed interest. It is enough for the dragon to quicken his pace. Each stride lengthening until he reaches his potential. Massive as he is, Kratos is far from the swift speed of his mate, Zephyr. Part of him suspects that he would see the silver here, having beaten him despite Kratos being closer when the howl sounded.
There is no Zephyr, however, only a woman on their boundaries. One that lowers her stance as if suspecting a brawl to take place. Kratos simply snorts, an arch of his tail showing dominance over the lone wanderer. He lacks aggression—though only in a way that he could, for he reeks of piss and brawls and fire.  Not unlike how she stunk of grime, blood and deer.
You the one who called? He questions in lieu of a greeting.