killer croc the dragon born

Part l The stormcloaks suck

The path up to Jorrvaskr was steep, winding through ancient stone steps still wet with dew.

The Dragonborn walked with a hand on his stomach, still fighting off the last waves of nausea from the night's mead.

Ralof beside him looked worse—eyes sunken, jaw tight, breath short.

"Ugh… we shouldn't have eaten the pickled eggs."

"You shouldn't have eaten the pickled eggs," the Dragonborn muttered.

The Companions' hall loomed ahead—long, wide-shouldered, and covered in carvings that looked older than the Empire itself.

They paused at the foot of the stairs.

And then, without really knowing why, the Dragonborn asked:

"So… are you still with the Stormcloaks?"

Ralof didn't answer right away.

He stared up at the building.

"I mean… yeah."

"You mean 'yeah' or you mean 'I have no idea anymore'?"

Ralof laughed once. Bitter.

"I mean… I bled for them. Ran missions. Fought skirmishes. Told every recruit the Empire was the enemy."

A pause.

He flexed the fingers on his axe hand.

"But what did I get for it?"

The Dragonborn said nothing.

He let Ralof talk.

"No salary. Just letters saying 'Hold the line.' No barracks. We sleep in whatever bedroll we can steal. No smithy. We sharpen blades on rocks. If we're lucky, Ulfric sends a speech. If we're unlucky, he sends a dead friend home in a sack."

He exhaled sharply, jaw clenched.

"We're supposed to fight for Skyrim. For Nord pride. But we can't afford boots. Can't afford winter cloaks. I saw a man die of exposure last month."

The Dragonborn finally asked, quiet:

"So… why are you still with them?"

Ralof shook his head, slowly.

"Because I didn't want to admit I backed the wrong cause."

The words hung there.

Heavy.

Honest.

The first time Ralof had said it—even to himself.

The Dragonborn clapped him on the shoulder, not out of pity, but solidarity.

"Come on. Let's see what it's like to fight for gold instead of ghosts."

Ralof nodded.

"Let's see if the Companions actually feed their warriors."

Together, they walked up the steps toward the great hall, the sound of morning steel echoing from within.

Part II: The Hall of Fire and Eyes

The doors to Jorrvaskr groaned open like the jaw of some great beast, welcoming them inside with the scents of sweat, roasted venison, and oiled steel.

The moment they crossed the threshold, the noise hit them like a war cry.

Voices clashed in loud bursts.

Tankards slammed.

A dagger stuck into a table somewhere.

Laughter bellowed from a group around the hearth.

The longhall was a hall of war made comfortable by age—mead splashes stained the floor, trophies lined the rafters, and old axes hung in places of honor like forgotten saints.

At the great table in the center sat Kodlak Whitemane, his mane of silver-gold hair glowing faintly in the firelight. Beside him, Skjor, armor half-loosened and talking strategy with a grim intensity that never quite left his eyes.

Across from them sat the twins:

Vilkas, posture like a soldier carved from obsidian—sharp eyes, sharp words.

And Farkas, broader and slower, but with arms like stone pillars and a kindness that showed even in how he handled his tankard.

Both were chewing their way through a pile of meat like it owed them money.

The Dragonborn and Ralof stood at the edge of the hearth space, taking it all in.

Ralof leaned closer and muttered under his breath.

"They look like they eat bears for lunch."

The Dragonborn replied:

"That's probably because they do."

A voice cut through the haze, cool and sharp:

"You two. What are you standing there for? Either you're here to drink, or you're here to fight."

They turned.

Aela the Huntress stood just off the hearth, polishing a dagger. Her eyes were fierce—not just sharp, but feral. She looked them up and down with the practiced gaze of someone who'd watched men die in every kind of armor.

"Let me guess," she said, stepping forward. "You're here to join."

"That's right," Ralof said, straightening up despite his exhaustion.

Aela tilted her head.

"One eye. Torn armor. Smells like old mead."

She turned to the Dragonborn.

"And you—woodcutter's clothes. Hands look like you've been pulling carts, not blades."

The Dragonborn opened his mouth.

She raised a hand.

"Doesn't matter. You want to join?"

They both nodded.

She sheathed her dagger.

Then pointed with her chin toward the great table.

"Then beat the twins."

The noise in the hall faltered.

A tankard hit the table harder than expected.

Someone behind them muttered, "She's kidding, right?"

But Aela wasn't smiling.

Vilkas stood slowly, licking his fingers clean.

"Did she just volunteer us again?"

Farkas finished a bite of roasted goat leg.

"We haven't even finished eating."

Vilkas cracked his knuckles.

"Better digest fast."

Ralof swallowed.

Hard.

"Is this… part of the process?"

The Dragonborn smirked, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow.

"We did just fight a dragon."

"Yeah," Ralof said. "Together."

Aela gave them both one last look filled with non believeing and turned away.

"If you want to wear the wolf's cloak… prove you can bleed and still stand."

Part III: Trial of the Twin Blades

The training ring behind Jorrvaskr was a simple circle of worn dirt and packed gravel, fenced in by spears and spectators.

Steel glinted in the sun.

Boots crunched stone.

Farkas stretched his shoulders, rolling his neck with a heavy grunt.

His greatsword was nearly as tall as a man—massive, pitted with use, but clean.

He offered no flourish, no threat.

Just nodded to Ralof.

"Don't hold back."

Ralof stepped into the circle, planting his boots solidly in the earth. His shoulders were relaxed, but his grip on the axe was tight—controlled.

He didn't activate the enchantment.

Not yet.

For the first minute, it was a dance of power.

Farkas swung low—Ralof deflected.

Ralof jabbed at the ribs—Farkas spun away.

Farkas struck the ground, sending gravel flying—Ralof sidestepped, eyes narrow.

Around them, the hall watched in silence, murmurs spreading like smoke.

Then Farkas bared his teeth.

His grip shifted.

His feet dug in.

"Alright. Let's see what's in you."

He brought his greatsword up and swung full-force—a horizontal cleave meant to end the dance.

Steel howled through the air.

Ralof stepped into it.

And with one hand, he blocked.

Axe met sword with a deafening clang.

The greatsword quivered—stopped.

The spectators gasped.

Farkas' eyes widened.

Then Ralof lifted a boot and kicked him square in the chest.

The Companion staggered back two paces, dust flying.

Ralof took two steps forward, eyes suddenly fierce.

He planted both feet, raised the axe, and—grinning—

Shouted:

"DIVINE DEPARTURE!"

The Dragonborn, standing just outside the ring, burst into laughter.

Skjor leaned in, curious.

Vilkas raised an eyebrow.

Aela, arms crossed, frowned slightly.

Ralof's axe ignited—runic veins pulsing, the magic within waking just long enough to surge forward.

He swung.

And the wave of magicka was no dragon-slaying storm—

—but it didn't need to be.

It tore across the ring like a rip in the wind.

Struck Farkas head-on.

The greatsword in his hands shattered, fragments raining down like broken stars.

The force lifted him off his feet and hurled him backward, slamming him into the ring's fence with a bone-deep THUD.

Dust settled.

The silence was absolute.

Then a voice near the back whispered:

"By Ysgramor…"

Part IV: The Second Blade

The dust from Ralof's match had barely settled.

Farkas still sat slumped against the fence, laughing and holding his ribs as someone helped him up.

But now the crowd turned as the Dragonborn stepped into the ring.

He didn't say a word.

He just walked in, calmly, the worn woodcutter's axe in his hand, and dropped into a low stance.

Simple.

Focused.

Across from him, Vilkas stepped forward.

He didn't crack jokes. Didn't smirk.

He rolled his neck, unsheathed his blade, and held it at eye level in a crisp, trained guard. The moment his boots touched the ring, the energy shifted again.

The Dragonborn could feel it.

No wild brawler here.

Vilkas was a technician.

"You ready?" Vilkas asked, flatly.

"Always," the Dragonborn replied.

They both charged.

Steel met steel in a flurry of sparks—no wide swings, no clumsy blows.

The Dragonborn swung with power, unpredictable arcs honed through survival.

Vilkas blocked each one, parried sharply, eyes watching, analyzing.

Their blades rang across the courtyard like chimes in a storm.

The Dragonborn dodged fast.

Parried faster.

He ducked under Vilkas's horizontal slash, pivoted, and brought his axe up toward the shoulder—blocked.

They circled.

Again.

And again.

But slowly—

Vilkas began to pull ahead.

His footwork was tighter.

His strikes cleaner.

And though the Dragonborn kept pace, something in him knew—

He was losing.

"You're strong," Vilkas said mid-swing, voice calm. "But you've only been fighting for what—months?"

He knows, the Dragonborn thought. He sees it.

Vilkas picked up the pace.

Every swing pressed harder.

The Dragonborn began to backpedal, slipping once on the loose dirt, only barely recovering.

I'm going to lose.

Unless—

Unless I cheat a little.

He stepped back.

Dropped his stance.

Closed his eyes—

—and began to channel.

His magicka flared.

And lightning coiled across his arms, dancing over his chest, surging into his legs.

Not a spell. A sheath.

A cloaking technique—one he created from the fantasies of his old world.

Crackles erupted across the ring.

The air filled with static.

Members near the edge stepped back, shielding their eyes.

Even Vilkas paused, blade angled downward.

"What in Shor's name—"

The Dragonborn grinned.

Raised his axe.

And screamed:

"THUNDER CLAP—AND FLASH!"

He moved.

And vanished.

To the crowd, it was like lightning struck the ground and blinked out of existence.

In that split-second, the Dragonborn reappeared behind Vilkas.

His axe swung in a blur.

BOOM.

The hit connected dead center.

The force shattered Vilkas's chestplate, splinters of steel flying outward.

The Companion flew back several feet, hit the ground hard, and rolled once before groaning—alive, but floored.

Silence.

No one moved.

Even Kodlak leaned forward.

The Dragonborn stood in the center of the ring, lightning still dancing across his arms.

He rested the axe on his shoulder.

And said:

"I declare myself the winner."

A pause.

Then clapping.

Then a roar.

Even Vilkas—still flat on his back—chuckled.

"What the hell kind of technique was that?"

The Dragonborn offered him a hand.

"Something I brought with me."

Part V: Brothers of the Blade

As the sun began to sink behind the Wind District rooftops, torches were lit across Jorrvaskr. The longhouse glowed with golden firelight. A crackling hearth, thick furs, the rich smell of roasting meat—and the noise.

By the Nine, the noise.

Tankards slammed on oak.

Laughter roared across the rafters.

A brawl broke out near the weapon rack—more friendly than not—and ended with someone being carried upside down into the kitchen.

At the head of the long table, Kodlak Whitemane stood with a single hand raised.

His voice was calm, deep, and clear despite the surrounding chaos.

"Tonight, we feast not for glory. Not for war. But for kin. These two—" he nodded to Ralof and the Dragonborn, "—have bled in our circle. And now they eat at our fire."

He looked down the table, his expression hardening.

"If anyone doubts them… fight them again."

Cheers erupted.

A tankard hit the floor.

Someone whistled. A goat bleated. No one knew why there was a goat.

The feast began.

Ralof sat shoulder to shoulder with Vilkas and Farkas, sleeves rolled, a titanic plate of roast boar and potatoes in front of him, swimming in butter.

He tore into it like he was at war with the food.

Vilkas refused to be shown up—he doubled his plate, snarling that no one with one eye should eat more than he could.

Farkas took it as a personal challenge.

Mead flowed like a river.

A full gallon vanished between them in less than an hour.

"You drink like a starving mammoth," Vilkas barked.

"I fight like one too," Ralof slurred back with a grin.

"That's not a compliment!" Farkas laughed.

At the corner of the hall, a different sort of battle unfolded.

The Dragonborn sat with his sleeves up, his back against the wall, and a table stacked with every sweet in the hold.

Three honey-sugar crostatas.

Two thick slices of apple pie.

Sweetrolls arranged like a pyramid.

Honey-roasted nuts in a wooden bowl.

And a full honey pudding in a carved horn goblet.

He didn't eat fast.

He ate methodically.

He paused to sip warm mead between every bite of soft, flaking crust.

Aela passed by once, glanced at the mountain of desserts, raised a brow, and said:

"You're either going to live forever or die tonight."

"Worth it," the Dragonborn mumbled through a mouthful of spiced honey.

Outside, the moons were rising.

But inside, the fire never dimmed.

The newest members of the Companions—bloodied, bruised, and full of laughter—sat among warriors who once doubted them.

And they were no longer guests.

They were pack.