killer croc the dragon born

Part I: Blades, Bards, and Blushing 

The morning after the feast came slowly.

Both Ralof and the Dragonborn awoke with dry mouths, sore muscles, and vague regrets about mead mixed with honey pudding.

Their heads throbbed. Their feet dragged.

But before they could sneak back to the mead table, Skjor pulled them aside.

"We've got a job. Nothing bloody. Something local."

"Please don't say 'milk run,'" the Dragonborn muttered.

"Not unless you want to carry groceries."

The task?

Help Carlotta Valentia, a single mother and vendor at Whiterun's marketplace, who was being harassed by a bard named Mikael.

"You want us to deal with a bard?" Ralof asked.

"That bard's caused more trouble than half the drunk guards in this city," Aela said flatly. "You want to be a Companion? Start by protecting people who can't just swing a sword."

They headed down into the Wind District.

The market was alive with shouting merchants and clinking coin.

That's when Ralof saw her.

Carlotta stood behind her stall in a light green dress, auburn hair tied back, her sleeves rolled up as she argued fiercely with a man about leeks.

Ralof stopped walking.

The Dragonborn noticed immediately.

"Oh no."

"She's… beautiful," Ralof muttered.

"Here we go."

"I think I forgot how to talk to women."

"You never remembered."

They approached.

Carlotta turned, eyebrows raised.

"Let me guess—more suitors? I'll throw a cabbage at the next one."

Ralof coughed.

"We're with the Companions."

"Then make yourself useful and tell that bard to back off. Mikael. Thinks he's entitled to serenade me into a marriage contract."

Then—she winked at Ralof.

"Unless one of you plans to serenade me first?"

Ralof turned beet red.

"I—I—uh—I don't—my singing is—there's axes, and mead, and—"

The Dragonborn casually stepped in front of him.

"We'll handle it."

They found Mikael lounging inside The Bannered Mare, plucking a lute with a face that begged to be punched gently.

He looked up lazily.

"Ah, newcomers. Come to request a song?"

The Dragonborn didn't reply.

He let his magicka pressure seep out—quiet, invisible, but felt.

The air thickened.

Mikael swallowed hard.

"…or perhaps I've been singing to the wrong audience."

"You're done bothering her," the Dragonborn said.

"Of course. Done. I'll just… tune the lute."

When they returned, Carlotta smiled wide.

"You did it? That's amazing!"

She leaned in.

"I suppose I owe you something. From now on—the Companions get half-off at my stall."

Ralof tried to thank her, but only managed to bow awkwardly.

When they reported back to Skjor and Aela, the response was… unexpectedly enthusiastic.

"A food discount?" Skjor blinked. "You might be the most useful recruits in years."

"You just saved us forty septims a week," Farkas added. "Each."

"We might not even haze you."

That night, after the laughter and congratulations faded, the two were led down a flight of stone stairs into the companion's sleeping quarters.

Simple beds.

No windows.

Warm hearth. Heavy wool blankets.

No fanfare.

Just peace.

Ralof flopped into his bed, armor still half-on.

The Dragonborn dropped beside him, still chewing what looked like a day-old sweetroll.

Both stared at the ceiling.

Neither spoke.

Then—

Snoring.

The sound of warriors sleeping without fear.

The pale morning haze that settled over Whiterun felt almost shameful—a soft apology for the raucous celebration that had shaken Jorrvaskr's walls the night before. Ralof and the Dragonborn made their descent, their steps heavy, their armor whispering tales of dragons slain, victories earned, and hangovers yet undecided. Mornings often start slow, but theirs felt like walking through fog—clammy, slow, and insisting on reminding them of last night's sins. Ralof rubbed the back of his neck where sweat and charcoal had mattified his hair, glancing sideways at his companion. The Dragonborn smiled weakly, pressing a sweetroll to his lips, savoring each crumb like a relic from another life.

Inside the longhouse, the faint amber glow from low-burning torches met them first—soft, comforting, stained by the scent of roasting meat and congealed grease. Dust motes floated in the air, but beneath it lay more primal aromas: mud from soldiers' boots, sweet smoke from the hearth, and the lingering essence of spilled mead from the night before.

They didn't look like conquerors. Ralof stumbled forward, going for the nearest bench and collapsing onto it, armor clinking like broken promises. The Dragonborn followed suit—no ceremony, just two warriors hoping for the gentlest breakfast possible. On the table lay the spoils of survival: thick slabs of cold pork still slick with grease, boiled potatoes covered in black pepper, glazed carrots in a honey-blackened pool, and a dozen rolls half-crushed by careless hands.

Ralof grabbed a plate and started piling food with desperate efficiency. His movements were almost animal—a wild scavenger, caught between feast and famine. He moved from meat to potatoes in swift transitions, like a warrior desperate to reclaim what was lost. Between bites, he chewed slowly, eyes half closed, savoring flavor as if paying homage after a brutal trial.

The Dragonborn was different. He worked methodically, savoring each sweetroll in small, deliberate bites. Fingers stained with honey, he leaned back on the bench, rolling a nut on the table before popping it in his mouth. This ritual brought a flicker of nostalgia—an echo of another life, another hearth, another comfort not found in battle smoke.

Suddenly, footsteps approached—heavy, purposeful. Aela, her icy gaze still edged with warmth, stepped forward with Skjor and Vilkas. They wore lighter gear now—Casual weight, but still unmistakable presence. Aela's voice cut through the air: "You made us gold."

Skjor tossed a fat pouch across the table. The golden coins spilled with a metallic symphony. The Dragonborn paused mid-bite; Ralof's fork, mid-air, came down with a thud.

"How? For that…?" Ralof asked, breathless.

"Because Riverwood eats, and Carlotta's saved us thirty septims on food," Skjor said with a small, satisfied grin. "That matters."

Aela produced a rolled parchment, stiff and fresh. Ralof recognized the seal: the Jarl's. He unrolled it carefully, as if it might snap and shatter into pieces.

The assignment: a mudcrab infestation at the southern watering hole. Ralof felt a twinge of disappointment—no glory, no blood—but the coins were real. The threat of crustacean humdrum a distant memory.

Vilkas leaned in, voice low, enthusiastic: "Shells the size of shields. Guard yourself—or else risk being Cas-pea."

Ralof couldn't help but grin. "Steamed nightmares, eh?"

The Dragonborn stuffed the last sweetroll into his pouch, eyes alight. "Let us feast together later," he said, tone gentle, but strong.

They packed what food they had left—sausages, rolls, carrots—tucked into cloth and pouch. With that, they departed, Skjor's words trailing behind them: "Try not to drown today, boys."

Part II: Crabs, Coin, and Cold Breakfast 

The marsh released a damp chill even under growing daylight. Mist coiled around their ankles as they neared the watering hole—cattails quivering in a cold breeze, reeds rattling like quiet laughter. The ground slurped underfoot, and each step required concentration or the risk of a sudden drop into ankle-sucking mud.

A ripple. A shell, glimmering in the flickering shaft of sunlight. And then dozens of shells.

Ralof's blade rose. "Ready?"

The Dragonborn nodded, tightening his grip, eyes scanning.

They charged.

Slow-motion violence erupted. Mud flew. Ralof hacked into a crab's limb, greenish liquid spraying as the joint snapped. Flesh gave way easily under blade, but the shell cracked in a shower of shard-like ammunition. He tossed the battered carcass aside, only for two more crabs to raise claws in the vapor trail of his swing.

Then the first wave.

Three mudcrabs lunged, pincers opening like hellish fans. Ralof moved, but a kick of water and mud sent him sliding nearly head-first into the swamp. He regained footing, knees mushy with filth.

Another ripple—no, a wave—and he realized the Dragonborn was gone.

"SURFACE!" Ralof barked, stepping forward.

The water shimmered. Then—BLOOP!—The Dragonborn emerged, dripping dark green water, hair a mess, his tail dripping like a broken hose.

"They tried to drown me," he spat, water dribbling from his mouth.

"Aren't Argonians supposed to breathe under water?"

The Dragonborn just shrugged. "Apparently, I have proof now."

Chapter of slapstick violence concluded? Hardly.

Another crab snagged his leg, yanking him under—again. Ralof's heart thudded, but a dull voice echoed: "He's fine. He'll fight again."

The Dragonborn surfaced again, bearing two wounded crabs like trophies.

Ralof roared and leaped forward, axes swinging in wide arcs. Claws flew. Carapaces cracked. The air hummed with the sheer brutality of warfare against armored crustaceans.

Finally, silence.

The swamp echo faded.

They stood dripping—two warriors coated, both emotionally and physically, in crab war.

Their eyes met.

Ralof gestured to the sacks brimming with crab meat.

"Dinner on us."

The Dragonborn nodded, satisfied, already tasting the feast in his mind.

Part III: Boiled Victory 

The return trip was triumphant—laughter and breathless victory, bodies wobbling through Whiterun's wooden gates. When they unloaded the sacks at the Companion's hall, a hush swept through the kitchen.

More boiled legs expected, dry and bland. But then the Dragonborn stepped forward in the cooking hall. The fire roared, oil pop and sizzle, the sharp aroma of garlic dancing over the smoke patch of his hair. He hammered herbs with firm hands, eyes focused. He cracked claws—fat droplets of liquid gold falling free. He seared shells until they glowed like embers. He stirred a casket of crab pie filling, steam rising in lazy arcs. He baked. He plated.

And the others watched. At first, doubt. Then curiosity. Then—

Silence.

They tasted. Eyes widened. Tears emerged. Forks paused. Then more tasting. Laughter. A silent spiritual connection to food—not after the struggle, but transcending it.

A single comment went up.

"This—this is home."

They returned to their plates in quiet reverence.

Ralof, jaw slack, said, "Dragonborn, you just made art out of crab."

The dragonborn smiled into his plate.

They were warriors.Yes.

But tonight…

They were something more.

Part IV: Ale, Honor, and the Weight of Coin

The long table was buried beneath half-eaten platters of crab.

Steam still rolled from iron pans. Bones and claw bits littered the floor. Tankards clinked. Skjor had already passed out face-down in a bowl of buttered crab belly.

Somewhere in the corner, Farkas was humming a song he didn't know the words to, tapping on a crab shell like it was a drum. Vilkas rolled his eyes with a grin but didn't stop him.

In the glow of the hearth, the Dragonborn leaned back and let out a contented sigh, a mug of spiced mead in hand. Beside him, Ralof finished his third plate and loosened his belt—not for style, but for survival.

"We should probably tell them," the Dragonborn said, glancing sideways.

"Now?" Ralof mumbled, reaching for another crab leg. "They're eating with their eyes closed."

"Exactly," the Dragonborn replied, standing up and raising his cup.

The noise of the feast rolled on. Until the Dragonborn raised his voice:

"Got something to say."

That alone was enough to drop a few forks.

"This morning, Ralof and I went to the Jarl to report the crab job. Told him about the job we did. About the fields we saved. He didn't just pay us."

He looked to Ralof, who shrugged like it was no big deal.

"He cut the Companions' taxes."

Silence.

Complete and total silence.

Even the goat near the stairwell stopped chewing on someone's armor strap.

Then—

"WHAT?"

"Say that again!"

"That's not a joke, right?!"

The reaction was thunderous.

Tankards lifted.

Chairs scraped.

Someone tripped over a crab shell and still managed to pump their fist.

Even Vilkas' jaw dropped slightly—then curved into something dangerously close to a smile.

Kodlak Whitemane rose from the end of the table. He looked at the Dragonborn and Ralof for a long moment, then raised his own mug.

"You two have done more than swing blades and crack shells. You've brought us good meat… good gold… and relief. That's something even a sword can't always give."

He turned to the rest of the hall.

"Tonight—we drink. To tax cuts!"

The hall exploded.

From the back room, someone wheeled out a barrel of mead so large it had to be rolled on its side by three Companions grunting like oxen. A spout was hammered in. Mugs were filled. Then bowls. Then helmets. A small ladle was used by a Khajiit who refused to get messy.

The music picked up.

Farkas began singing an old war ballad, only to forget the words and replace half the lyrics with "meat" and "fists." It somehow worked.

Aela and Skjor arm-wrestled until the table cracked.

Vilkas, begrudgingly, toasted the Dragonborn with a curt nod before turning back to his mead.

And Ralof?

He leaned into his mug and watched it all with a quiet grin.

"This," he muttered to no one in particular, "is the first time in a long while I've felt like I belonged."

The Dragonborn clinked his mug against his friend's and smiled.

"You do."

The feast rolled on, deep into the night.

And for the first time, no one doubted that the new blood were Companions not just by name—but by brotherhood, blade, and honor.