killer croc the dragon born

Part I: Return of the Champion

The sun had long since dipped beneath the marsh horizon, leaving the village of reeds and woven rope in a dreamlike silver haze. The moon's reflection wavered in still pools between huts; reeds swayed gently in the humid night air. Crickets chirped beneath the woven footbridges, and fireflies danced in lazy spirals, lighting up the banks like wandering spirits.

Then came a sound—slow, deliberate footsteps on the long boardwalk.

Not soft like a scout.

Not quick like a hunter.

This sound was heavy, armored.

Intentional.

The first to look up was a child, Keesha, perched on the edge of a log, drawing in the dirt with her claw. She dropped her stick, wide-eyed, and turned.

Then others followed. One by one.

Heads emerged from doorways.

Crafting tools were lowered.

A pot stopped boiling as the cook stepped away without realizing.

All eyes turned to the clearing.

There stood Croc.

His figure looked carved from the darkness itself. Behind him, lashed to a thick rope on his back, was a massive burlap sack—taller than some of the children, fat with weight and swaying with the rhythm of his breath.

The torchlight flickered across his scales. Not the dull green of their kin, but a deep, metallic bronze, shadowed at the edges with dragon black. His movements were slow, as though still halfway in a battle trance.

He walked forward.

No one spoke.

Not even the elders.

He stopped at the very center of the clearing, where the fire pit still glowed with faint orange coals.

He unshouldered the sack.

It hit the packed earth with a dense thump—a sound like thunder wrapped in meat.

And still, Croc said nothing.

Until he raised his head, stared across the gathered crowd, and simply spoke:

"Dragon meat."

Gasps rippled.

"Tomorrow, we feast. Not for glory. Not for hunger. For the Hist. For the gift it gave me. For the protection it gave us."

It wasn't a speech. It was a vow.

The sack was reverently lifted by four of the strongest hunters, their arms straining under the weight. They carried it to the stone-lined coldhouse built for preserving meat. It took time. No one rushed.

And once the meat was placed, the lid shut, and the fire was rekindled, the community returned to their homes—not speaking in excitement, but retreating with awe. They sensed what Croc had not yet voiced:

This was not just food.

This was a message.

Part II: The Hist Stirs

Midnight fell like velvet over the village.

The marsh was quiet now—not with the hush of sleep, but with expectation.

Deep in the soil, far below root and mud and stone, the Hist dreamed.

Not in images.

Not in voices.

But in vibrations, in scent, in sap-memory.

It remembered Croc's battle.

It remembered the blood on his scales—the burnt sky, the bone-rattling roar of the dragon he faced.

And more than anything, the Hist remembered the moment he honored it.

Croc had not claimed his victory for himself.

He had not devoured the meat.

He had brought it back.

For them.

For the tree.

In the silence of the coldhouse, the meat began to glow.

Faintly.

From the deepest seams of its muscle fibers, a greenish pulse began to move—like veins awakening.

The Hist's essence—root-deep, soul-deep—crept up through the roots coiled under the storage stone, into the meat.

It wasn't a spell.

It wasn't even magic in the way most mages would recognize.

It was communion.

The dragon's power still lingered in the flesh—coiled, wild, burning. The Hist did not change that.

It did not dilute it.

Instead… it refined it.

The Hist whispered not in words, but in purpose.

The meat, once just monstrous flesh, now became something more:

A sacrament.

A key.

A future.

No guards saw the glow.

No sentries felt the shift.

But every sleeping Argonian dreamed that night.

And their dreams were of fire running through root.

Of wings over the marsh.

Of ancient trees exhaling smoke.

Part III: The Feast

Dawn came like smoke over the marsh.

It rolled across the reeds and pools in streaks of bronze light, soft and warm but heavier than usual—as though the world itself sensed that something powerful stirred beneath the soil.

The first to rise was Elder Veloth. He did not open his eyes at first. He simply sat up, his joints creaking like old wood… except they didn't hurt.

He looked at his hands.

The gnarled scars across his fingers—there since his youth—had smoothed. His claws were clean. Sharpened. Fresh.

He stood. His back did not ache. His tail no longer dragged.

He blinked, stared at the hut's shadowed wall, and said aloud to no one:

"The Hist has touched us."

Soon others emerged—slowly at first.

Then with a sense of urgency.

The children stirred, confused but energized. One little girl, clutching a reed doll, whispered:

"The tree sang to me. It said we could eat now."

The adults gathered in the center of the village. The fire pit was already stoked high. Coals shimmered like eyes beneath it. Thick plumes of woodsmoke carried through the humid air.

Then Croc stepped into view.

He had not slept.

He had spent the night beneath the Hist tree itself—sitting motionless, communing in silence with the roots that curled up from the soil like a throne of veins.

He said only this:

"We cook now."

The coldhouse doors were opened.

The sack was lifted again—easier, somehow.

When it was unwrapped, the meat inside glowed faintly.

Nothing dramatic—no fire, no flash—but a low green-gold light that pulsed, slowly, like breath.

Croc approached first.

He inhaled deeply—and his eyes widened.

The scent… it was no longer just that of raw dragon meat.

It smelled like cedar and blood, like warm marrow and smoked spice, like something sacred that had never been cooked before but somehow always had existed.

The cooks worked quickly and with reverence:

Chopping thick slabs into clean, glistening cuts.

Roasting them over iron grates.

Brushing them with a honey-pepper glaze, just as Croc remembered from his own cookfire back in Louisiana .

The scent filled the marsh.

The people gathered.

No one sat yet.

Not until Croc, the Elders, and the youngest child each took a plate.

Then they all did.

The first bites were slow.

Veloth chewed a strip of dragon flank, closed his eyes, and tears rolled freely down his scaled cheeks.

Ssrila, the witch-doctor, whispered between each bite as though praying.

Croc tasted his first cut—and stopped.

He let it sit on his tongue.

He had tasted this meat before—at the Jarl's table. It had been chewy, gamey, elemental.

But this?

Now it tasted of light.Of heat.Of the Hist.

It was sweet, yes, but not cloying. The texture was soft but strong. Every bite felt like fuel—not just for the body, but for something deeper.

And then—

The frenzy began.Not out of greed.Out of joy.

Laughter bubbled through the clearing.

Forks were abandoned in favor of hands. People tore into the meat, offering bites to neighbors, crying out in wonder.

Children giggled with meat juice on their cheeks.

Mothers fed infants slivers on softened rice leaves.

Fathers sang as they chewed.

Even the most stoic hunters, silent and alone on most days, leaned together and shared in loud belly-laughter, arguing over which cut tasted best.

And the meat never lost its heat.

Not once.

Even hours into the feast, it still steamed as though freshly roasted.

By moonrise, there was nothing left.

Four cows' worth of dragon meat—gone.

No one felt full.

But all felt fulfilled.

They lay back on the grass, on rugs, on cool stone steps, bellies warm, hearts buzzing.

Croc sat with his back against the Hist tree, hands over his stomach, flames licking faintly from his nostrils.

He did not sleep.

He simply waited.

Part IV: The Transformation

The transformation came not with lightning or fire.But with the rising of the second moon.

One by one, the people began to change.

Not all at once.

Some felt it in their limbs—the tightness of muscle loosening, then returning like drawn string.

Others saw it in each other.

"You're taller," whispered one child to her older brother.

"You too," he answered. "We all are."

And they were.

The adults now stood easily over seven feet tall—some closer to eight.Their shoulders broadened.Their jaws thickened.

Scales, once soft and smooth, now shimmered in thick plated layers—like living armor.

Their claws became cleaner, longer, sharper.

Some discovered they could dig faster through stone.

Others found they could leap higher than any Nord.

The elders, thought long past their prime, stood upright again—muscles coiling under skin that gleamed with new scales.

Their spines were no longer curved, but straight.

Their voices came out deep, clear, and rich—like they had swallowed a song and now sang without effort.

Croc awoke not to pain, but heat.

He opened his eyes and saw flames licking at the inside of his mouth—not uncontrolled, but warm, like a hearth lived behind his teeth.

He stood. Flexed.His height was unchanged.

But his build… denser. Compact like a coiled spring.

His horns had grown forward, curling like twin crescent blades. Not bone. Not wood. Something denser. Something ancient.

He opened his mouth—and exhaled.

A perfect ribbon of orange fire left his jaws, bending in the air before vanishing.

At sunrise, the entire village stood outside the Hist.

Croc stood at their front.

No one dared speak for a long time.

Then, Elder Veloth stepped forward, his hand over his heart.

"The Hist has made us more."

He turned to Croc.

"And you… were its catalyst."

No celebration was declared.

No drums.

Only a deep, solemn bow from every single Argonian in the village, facing the great Hist.

Their breath moved as one.

Their roots, for the first time in centuries, had shifted.

They were not just survivors anymore.They were something stronger.Something chosen.

Part V: The Gathering Root

The Beacon CallsAt first, it was subtle.

A whisper in dreams. A ripple beneath still water.

A single wind-blown leaf that somehow always landed pointing south.

Argonians living as dockhands in Windhelm, as hired scouts in Falkreath, as beggars in Markarth—they all began to feel it.

A tug.

A pulse.

A scent on the air that was not quite real, but too familiar to ignore.Hist.

Not just sap-bound memory. A living voice. Calling. Urging. Waiting.

The Pilgrims Come

They arrived in ones and twos.Then in families.Then in full caravans.

No roads led to the village, but it didn't matter. They found it anyway—guided by instinct, by faith, by the Hist itself.

Their first reactions were always the same:

Silent awe.Eyes widening.Mouths slightly agape.

They stepped into the marsh clearing and saw the original inhabitants—towering above them. Many head higher and many shoulders wider .

Plated scales that shimmered in deep green and gold, some with horns, others with flame-lined veins beneath translucent armor.

Living relics.

When Croc emerged from his hut—a towering shadow—there were gasps.

Some fell to one knee, not in worship, but reverence.He was not just large.

He radiated the Hist. It curled off him like fog, like incense, like heat And yet, when he spoke, it was always gentle:

"You're home. Eat. Rest."

And they did.

From Village to Haven .The village changed quickly.More huts were built, nestled higher on stilts to hold the incoming families.

Craftsmen arrived, bringing skills lost in the swamps—reed weavers, carvers, armor-menders.

Herbalists shared new recipes; elders from distant Hist-roots traded tales of forgotten marsh gods.

The air changed too. It smelled richer—more sap, more root, more life.

The Hist tree in the center grew larger—noticeably larger. Its roots thickened. Its bark darkened to a near obsidian hue, and it wept golden sap that glowed faintly at night.

Children gathered around it as if instinctively drawn.And when they touched it, they didn't just hear whispers.

They answered.

A Town is Born Two months later, the village was no longer a village.It was a small town.No signs marked it.No maps noted it.

But it had:

A central fire pit ringed in stone.Fourteen full family huts.

A longhouse where knowledge was shared nightly.A shallow dock, hand-carved from marshroot and alder, for gathering fish and rare river minerals.

Most importantly, it had unity.

Croc, the Beacon At the town's heart remained Croc.

He did not speak more than necessary.

But when he walked the square, people moved aside—not out of fear, but respect.

He trained some of the young warriors, his tail swiping logs from their hands, his claws correcting footwork.

Others simply asked to sit near him during meals, hoping to learn by being close.

The Hist inside him burned brighter than in anyone else.

Some began to believe he was no longer just blessed. But changed.

More dragon than lizard.More root than flesh.

He refused titles.But the town had already named him:

"Jel'Vaexith."

The Fire That Guards the Root.