killer croc the dragon born

Part I: Dead Weight

The wind didn't reach this deep into the tomb.

The air was dry, old. The kind of stillness that seeped into your clothes and made your skin feel too tight.

The Dragonborn sat cross-legged on the cold floor beside Ralof.

His fingers idly toyed with a loose band of leather from his belt.

Ralof lay a few feet away, wrapped in the remains of a cloak, face half-hidden behind makeshift wrappings. His chest rose and fell too slowly.

The gash across his face had stopped bleeding hours ago. That was the good news.

The bad news?

Everything else.

There was no way forward. The back chamber ended in stone. No secret levers. No loot.

He'd checked.

Twice.

The only way out was back.

And Ralof couldn't walk.

The Dragonborn chewed his lip, scanning the room again.

His inventory—bag, 1× cloak, 3× ruined torches, 1× slightly bent dagger, 0× healing potions.

He sighed.

Then stood.

And began tearing apart the broken coffin lid that the Deathlord had risen from. The wood was old, dry, but solid enough.

Next, he grabbed the shattered remnants of the bandit's shield they'd passed earlier and peeled off the iron boss.

He was building something.

It wouldn't be pretty.

But it would drag.

An hour later, the makeshift stretcher lay beside Ralof.

It was a rough triangle of broken planks, shield scraps, and the Dragonborn's cloak, stretched tightly across the frame.

He stared at it.

Then at Ralof.

Then down at his own arms.

"Strength 10," he muttered.

Then grimaced.

"Let's hope that means something now."

He crouched, slid his arms beneath Ralof's shoulders, and began to lift.

Ralof groaned softly.

Not words. Just pain.

"I know," the Dragonborn whispered.

"I'm sorry."

He laid Ralof across the crude frame and tied what ropes he had around the Nord's chest and legs.

When he was done, he sat back, breathing hard.

He looked at his hands.

At the cracked blisters forming on the palms.

And realized—

This was going to suck.

Part II: The Tomb Remembers

The first corridor was shorter than he remembered.

And darker.

The sconces they'd lit on the way in had burned out long ago.

The only light now came from the soft glow of fungal moss and the faint shimmer from his conjured dagger—the only spell he could still afford to cast.

The Dragonborn grunted as he dragged the stretcher forward, Ralof's boots scraping over cold stone.

Each pull felt like yanking dead weight uphill through wet mud.

His shoulders burned.

His arms ached.

But the worst part wasn't the pain.

It was the memory.

There'd been a trap here.

He was sure of it.

A pressure plate?

A tripwire?

He squinted into the dark ahead.

There—yes. Something glinted. A thin thread across the floor.

Tripwire.

Linked to the walls?

He crouched down, nearly slipping in the damp.

Then crept forward, eyes level with the thread.

Spikes.

Rust-colored and waiting, built into the walls just past the wire.

One tug, one misstep—

Ralof would be skewered.

He looked back.

At the stretcher.

At Ralof's bandaged face.

At his own blistered hands.

And then… he untied the stretcher ropes.

Lifted Ralof in stages.

Tense. Careful.

His arms screamed.

Ralof murmured something—nonsense, slurred and pained.

The Dragonborn gritted his teeth.

And stepped over the wire.

Every muscle in his back was on fire.

His legs shook.

But he made it.

Set Ralof down on the other side.

Then slumped to the floor.

And whispered to himself:

"One corridor down. Probably ten more to go."

Part III: The Echo of the Dead

The next hallway was long.

Too long.

The Dragonborn's legs shook with every step. His palms burned with each pull of the stretcher rope.

Then—

A sound.

Low.

Wet.

Grinding.

Not wind.

Not breath.

He stopped.

The Draugr stepped from a shadowed alcove.

Its armor clanked like rusted bells. One eye socket glowed faintly.

In its hands—a Nordic war axe, shimmering with a pale, frost-blue enchantment.

Cursed steel.

Ancient magic.

Lethal to anything with blood still pumping.

The Dragonborn's gut twisted.

He looked back at Ralof—unmoving, barely conscious.

Then at the axe.

If that thing reached them—

No.

No chance.

He drew his hammer.

Took one breath.

Then charged.

The first hit landed wrong.

The Draugr's axe caught him in the ribs.

He hit the stone floor hard.

Pain lit his side like fire.

He scrambled up—swung—

The Draugr blocked.

Countered.

Knocked him off his feet again.

Stars danced in his vision.

He crawled—his hand landed on cold iron.

Something behind him.

He looked.

Spikes.

The same trap from earlier—this hall had its own.

An idea flared.

He got up.

Staggered toward the trap, dragging his foot like he was limping worse than he was.

The Draugr followed—slow, steady, drawn by the kill.

One more step—

Click.

The wall opened.

Spikes lunged forward.

The Draugr had no time to react.

It was skewered through the midsection, stuck like a slab of meat on a spit.

It hissed.

Flailed.

Tried to pull free.

The Dragonborn didn't wait.

He lifted his hammer—

And slammed it down into the undead's skull.

Once.

Twice.

A third time.

Until the glow in its eyes flickered…

And died.

The axe fell from its hand.

Still glowing faintly.

The Dragonborn grabbed it.

Stumbled back to Ralof.

He tied the weapon gently to the side of the stretcher with the last of the cloak strips.

Didn't say anything.

Didn't gloat.

Just nodded once.

Then picked up the rope.

And kept walking.

Part IV: The Hollowing of a Hero

The tomb door gave way with a grinding groan.

Snow immediately lashed across his face.

The world outside was white.

Not soft.

Not silent.

Violent.

A howling blizzard roared down the mountain pass, flinging ice and fury in every direction.

He looked down at Ralof.

Unmoving.

His breath faint.

Color draining from his lips.

The Dragonborn looked at his own clothes—furs, belts, leathers. Warm.

Enough for one man.

But not two.

Not someone barely holding on.

He dropped to his knees beside the stretcher.

And began to strip.

One layer.

Then another.

All of it.

Until he knelt bare-chested, skin flashing blue in the wind, arms already numbing.

He pulled his tunic over Ralof's chest.

His coat over the bandaged face.

Wrapped the boots and gloves around his hands and feet.

By the end, only his underclothes and pride remained.

He tied the clothes down with the last bit of rope.

Then stood.

And began to walk.

The wind hit like spears.

His skin cracked.

But he summoned magic—anything left.

Conjured flickers of flame around his hands, not to cast—

To survive.

His body shook.

He leaned forward, using the stretcher rope as a harness, dragging Ralof behind him through the deepening snow.

By the time he reached the second ridge, his limbs were trembling, no longer from cold, but from change.

The storm had taken its toll.

The heat drawn from him melted not just fat—but muscle.

His limbs compacted, carved by stress.

No longer bloated, no longer decorative.

Just lean, worn, capable.

His magicka flickered like a dying lantern.

One more turn.

One more hill.

He saw the lights of Riverwood.

He didn't stop.

He collapsed at the front steps of Gerdur's house, the stretcher skidding in behind him.

The last thing he saw before blacking out—

Her shadow in the doorway.

And her voice.

Not angry.

Not disappointed.

Just shocked.

And scared.

"Divines—what happened to you?"