killer croc the dragon born

Part l The Song of the Soul

The dragon was still.

Its wings—torn.

Its neck—twisted at a sharp, brutal angle.

Its body smoked gently, embers dancing across blackened scales.

But it did not vanish.

There was no sudden puff of logic-defying ash.

Only the corpse.

Large.

Terrifying.

Real.

Then the soul rose.

A burning cyclone of golden light erupted from the dragon's chest, twisting skyward in a vertical beam.

It wasn't fire.

It was memory. Power. Identity.

A storm without wind.

Then came the split.

Half of it spun toward Croc.

The other toward the Dragonborn.

And when it touched them—

The air detonated.

Croc's eyes burned briefly with heatless flame.

His jaw clenched.

His scales shimmered, for a breath, with the sheen of something ancient.

Then came the killer intent.

Not roared.

Not cast.

Just released.

The pressure that flooded the battlefield was invisible but unbearable.

Veterans dropped to one knee, sweat pouring.

One mage dropped his staff and backed away, shaking.

A guard began to weep, whispering prayers.

No one had to be told what it was.

They knew.

It was predator pressure. The language of beasts. Of things older than speech.

Then, the Dragonborn's soul fully settled.

And he answered.

Not in rage.

Not in control.

Just a pulse.

Raw magicka surged outward from his chest, subtle but massive.

The weight of lineage.

Of something reborn.

His presence clashed with Croc's.

And the battlefield groaned.

For a moment, the two stood in silent confrontation.

Not out of anger.

But because their souls didn't know how to share the space.

Then came the Shout.

Not theirs.

From the mountain.

The air split.

A voice like thunder.

Ancient. Ethereal.

It carried across forests and snow.

Heard in riverbeds and castles.

Heard in bones.

"DOVAHKIIN!"

Every pressure dropped.

Gone.

Like it had never been.

The guards gasped, trembling.

Croc lowered his head, exhaling slowly.

The Dragonborn stood still, stunned.

Far to the north, High Hrothgar's bells began to toll.

Slow.

Echoing.

And endless.

The dead dragon lay still.

Real.

Massive.

The first of its kind in an age.

And it would not be the last.

Part ll A Mighty Haul

The crater hummed with silence as the final echoes of battle faded. The dragon's massive, scorched body lay sprawled across miles of flattened earth. Its wings, once sweeping like banners, were now tattered shards. But still—immense.

And then came Croc.

No soldier dared approach. Yet, with fluid confidence, he strode forward until he stood before the corpse. Then, to stunned gasps, he wrapped his claws beneath the beast's ribcage and lifted.

The room seemed to freeze.

How could one man, even an Argonian of giant build, pick up a dragon?

Despite the creature's weight—its crimson-lashed scales, its bones still smoldering—Croc carried it like a crate. Not a muscle twitched in his neck or shoulders. Guards craned their necks. Citizens whispered, their mouths hanging open. One guard muttered:

"Better watch out. One day he'll carry a mountain."

With an unhurried pace, Croc marched toward Whiterun's gate. The army cleared a corridor. Children left straw in shock. Even the wind seemed to step aside to let him pass.

Feast by Flamelight

Dragonsreach's great hall had never felt so grand—or so strange. Tables once reserved for noble feasts sagged under the weight of dragon roasts, minced meat, large bones artfully arranged around cauldrons simmering with dragon broth. The aroma was rich, smoky, and wild beyond description.

Jarl Balgruuf stood at the head table, raising a gilded tankard engraved with dragon scales. Flames flickered off its surface:

"To the men—and Argonians—who felled this beast. May Whiterun's halls be ever lit by your courage!"

Cups clanged like thunder in the silent hall. Steam drifted from bowls of steaming dragon stew. People leaned forward to taste it. The first bites were met with jaw-straining resistance—chewy sinews fought tooth and tongue, demanding copious mead. Conversations halted mid-sip. One woman whispered:

"Is… is that meat or leather?"

The Dragonborn and Croc, meanwhile, ate calmly. Their jaws worked easily. Scales or magic—neither slowed them. They nodded senses of satisfaction at each bite. When asked, they agreed:

"It tastes like the best pheasant, goose, partridge—all in one."

The polite feast dissolved into tentative fascination. Even the Jarl, between bites, looked impressed at the ease the two men chew the meat.

Gifts Fit for Heroes

Jarl Balgruuf returned to his feet, heroic again.

"My thanks will not be idle. What do you ask?"

Ralof shifted his weight, the magic axe resting against his shoulder. He cleared his throat:

"Your Jarlship—Riverwood was damaged. Bandits, crumbled walls, too few guards. We ask for aid: funds for repairs, grain shipments, and a permanent guard post."

The Jarl nodded, signaling his steward:

"Make it so. Riverwood will see the aid within the month."

A murmur of gratitude rose from the crowd.

Then, it was Croc's turn.

He stepped forward, holding out his large claws.

"I want the rest of the dragon meat. To bring home for me to enjoy."

Heads turned in surprise—a strange request, but Balgruuf simply smiled.

"Bring it forth!"

Guards presented a leather bag full of butchered meat—large slabs, ribs, smoked cuts, enough to feed a hundred men for a month.

"It weighs as much as four cows. May it serve you well mighty warrior ."

Croc accepted it with a curt nod, slung it over his shoulder, and disappeared into the hall's shadows.

The Question of Dovahkiin

Jarl Balgruuf, eyes narrowed in curiosity, leaned forward once more.

"There are rumors—the Greybeards named a Dovahkiin. Which one of you bears that fate?"

He looked first at Croc. The Argonian set his gaze downward—no interest.

"Not my game."

Then at the Dragonborn.

Ralof chimed in:

"He absorbed the dragon soul."

The Dragonborn stepped forward, solemn.

"I am the Dovahkiin—if the Greybeards say it. But that name belongs to dragons, not me."

The hall waited. Croc shrugged. Ralof gave a nod. No one laughed. The tension broke, but the gravity remained—titles or no titles, the world had changed.

Departure

The party wound down. Torches sputtered. Wine cooled. But the heroes had places to go.

Croc lifted the heavy meat sack and strode from the hall. No farewell. No fanfare. He carried more than food—he carried proof of what he'd become.

The Dragonborn and Ralof moved toward the gate. Ralof's magic axe sheathed, his heavy steps now lighter. The Dragonborn nodded to steward and court mage alike:

"Riverwood awaits."

They left together into the quiet night, determined.

Once the doors closed behind them, Balgruuf looked down to the last piece of dragon meat still on his plate. Crunching thoughtfully, he said aloud—softly, to himself:

"Very chewy… but tasty."

The flicker of torchlight danced on the throne—Whiterun had won a dragon, and a story worthy of song.

Part III: The First Meal That Mattered

The scent of pine, wet stone, and chopped lumber welcomed them home.

But neither Ralof nor the Dragonborn spoke as they crossed the bridge into Riverwood.

Their boots were caked with soot and dried blood.

Their eyes heavy.

Their bodies drained.

But their stomachs?

Hollow.

The door to the Sleeping Giant Inn slammed open.

Orgnar behind the bar looked up, startled—until he saw them.

Ralof stepped inside, fists clenched, jaw tight.

"Feast."

It wasn't a question.

"Anything not made of dragon. And a lot of it."

Within minutes, the table was covered—boar ribs glazed with honey, potatoes baked in garlic butter, roasted leeks, stewed apples, smoked fish, thick black bread, and a crock of pickled eggs that had no business being that sour.

Ralof attacked.

Forks were optional.

He devoured ribs in three bites, tore chunks of bread with his teeth, and growled softly when the stew burned his tongue.

Across from him, the Dragonborn was… calm.

Quiet.

Content.

He sipped his mead slowly, gaze half-lidded, licking honey from the rim of a sweetroll like it was a ritual.

Two more rolls sat on his plate—untouched, glowing with frosting.

Gerdur stepped into the inn, wind in her hair, voice ready.

"Ralof! I heard the courier say you—"

No reply.

"Dragonborn, I need to—"

Nothing.

One was chewing like war drums.

The other blissed out in sugar heaven.

She blinked.

Stepped closer.

"Did you not hear—?"

Ralof grunted, bones cracking beneath his bite.

The Dragonborn gave a contented sigh and reached for roll number two.

Gerdur threw her hands up.

"I swear, they slay a dragon and forget how to speak!"

Part IV: Hammers and Hearths

Ralof had reached the bottom of his third stew bowl and was halfway through gnawing on a smoked ham shank when Gerdur leaned over the table, arms crossed.

"So… where are you two planning to settle down?"

Ralof froze mid-chew.

The Dragonborn paused with a sweetroll halfway to his mouth.

They turned slowly—like children caught breaking something expensive.

"Settle… down?" Ralof asked, blinking.

"As in… a place to sleep?" the Dragonborn added, brow furrowing.

"Yes," Gerdur said dryly. "You know—home? Hearth? Roof?"

Silence.

Then Ralof dropped his ham bone onto the plate.

"I… I don't have a place."

"Neither do I," the Dragonborn said. "I've been living out of sacks and obligation."

Ralof's voice pitched higher.

"Wait—we killed a dragon! Why don't we have somewhere to live?!"

"We didn't think that far ahead!"

Gerdur sighed and rubbed her temples.

"You're both exhausted and drunk on power. And mead. And actual mead."

She pulled out a folded notice from her satchel and slid it onto the table.

"The Companions. Whiterun's warrior's guild. They eat well, sleep warm, and get paid to swing swords and slay beasts."

Ralof picked it up, eyes darting across the ink.

"Paid?"

"Roof?"

The Dragonborn clapped him on the back.

"We just found heaven."

Without another word, both men stood and raised their mugs.

"To the Companions!" Ralof shouted.

"To not dying in the woods!" the Dragonborn added.

Another round arrived.

Then another.

And another.

By midnight, Ralof was telling increasingly exaggerated tales about punching a bear off a cliff.

The Dragonborn was giggling into his sixth sweetroll.

Orgnar stopped asking questions.

Gerdur simply shook her head and muttered:

"They can fight dragons but can't plan dinner."