killer croc the dragon born

Part l The Outskirts

Croc stood atop the stone outcrop overlooking the marsh pass. The morning mist clung to his scales in soft glistening layers. His arms crossed, tail gently coiling and uncoiling in rhythm with the wind. He was still—so still that birds landed near his feet and didn't notice him until too late.

But his eyes were always watching.

He had begun keeping guard after the third group of strangers arrived in one week.

At first it had been wanderers. Then mercenaries. Then mages with scrolls and questions about "the anomaly of Hist influence in open ecosystems."

Now, more approached.He saw them from afar.

A cloaked group on horseback, dressed in dark robes with Altmeri silver.

A Khajiit caravan with wagons full of curios.

Three Nord hunters with bows and armor made from pelts Croc recognized—his own kills.

They crept toward the village as if it were a thing to discover, not protect. Not today.

Croc shifted his weight forward, planting both clawed feet into the moss-slick stone.

He drew a slow breath through his nostrils.

Not for scent.But for control.Then he let it rise.

From deep inside his gut, in the place where Hist essence twisted together with dragon blood and something older—the part of him that had survived cages, swamps, sewers, and kings—he called it forward.

Killer intent.Not rage.Not magic.Not roar.Something quieter—and far more terrible.He simply let them feel what it was like to be prey.

The Khajiit caravan stopped first—horses shrieking, stamping at the sudden unseen weight in the air.

The robed elves began to sweat. One dropped a scroll. Another began to mutter a warding chant, but the magic fizzled, destabilized by the panic blooming behind his eyes.

The Nord hunters—seasoned, brutal, unflinching—froze mid-step. The leader dropped his arrow. His breathing came ragged.They were not under attack.They were not bleeding.

But every part of their ancient mammal brain screamed:We will die here if we go one step closer.

The Warning croc didn't move.Didn't growl nor did he speak.He just stood there, watching.

A mountain with yellow eyes. A nightmare made real. A predator made of silence.And the pressure continued.

It pushed down like the weight of ocean water.

It blurred vision.It made thoughts sluggish.It slowed time.

The caravan turned around first.

Then the elves backed away, their wards trembling like candlelight in a storm.

The Nord hunters didn't run. But they lowered their heads, stepped back, and walked away with the dignity of those who had been judged—and spared.

Croc exhaled slowly.The weight lifted.The birds returned.The insects buzzed again.

But for those few who had approached, the marsh would haunt their dreams.

They would speak of it in hushed tavern corners:"The Argonian village? Don't go. There's a thing standing guard—nine feet tall with horns like blades. I've never been more sure I was about to die." And the legend grew.

Part II: The Grey Cloak

The Figure Emerges.Several days after Croc's display of silent dominance, the mist-hushed marsh delivered a visitor at dawn. No caravan. No horses. No weapon glinting. Just a lone figure threading across the spongy ground, making no noise but carrying a purpose. A grey cloak covered them head to toe—eyes hidden, yet confident in each step.

Croc saw them from the shadows—still, watchful, unafraid.

The figure stopped at the edge of Croc's watch—barely ten steps away. Croc exhaled. The air cleared. No magic filled the space. The village slept. The Hist stood silent.

But one thing had changed:Croc no longer needed to test their intent.He knew.

The figure bowed deeply—once, with the precision of a scholar, not a supplicant.

"Guardian," the voice came—soft, but clear—"I come seeking understanding."

No threat in their posture. Croc remained still. The sounds of early marsh life crept back.

The figure revealed a carved quill-tipped staff, a symbol of Hist-scholars—a translator of root-language and prophecy.

They spoke of distant Argonian houses, hidden deep in Blackmarsh and shadowed stands, that had sensed a calling. Not only the glow of transformation—but ritual awakening. Croc's village was no longer alone.

"They watched the Hist-spire grow," the scholar said, voice hushed. "They watched the Horned Flame rise." The name elicited nothing but silent attention from Croc. "We offer descent into the ancient rites—to learn the shimmering ways of the root and the tongue of the sap."

They knelt again and placed the staff at Croc's feet—a vow and an offer.

A Choice of Tradition Croc exhaled flame, small, like a controlled candle. It curled over the staff without scorching it.He lowered his head.

Silence.

Then, one word: "Teach."

The scholar's face remained hidden beneath the hood, but their voice trembled in relief.

"At dawn, in the grove. We will speak in root-tongue. If you accept, we will begin the Great Rite."

Croc looked out at his town—his Root.He did not kneel.But he nodded.

The scholar backed away, staff in hand, disappearing into the grey morning light as silently as they came.

The Omen to Come Croc stood alone.

Above him, the Hist tree glowed faintly, its sap singing in the early rays. Below him, the village began to stir.

His stance remained statuesque—horns tipped toward sky, chest expanded, tail coiled. A guardian sentinel.

But beneath it, a whisper: something deeper was blooming.

The rites of old… the root-language buried for generations… they were about to return.And Croc… would be the one to learn… and lead.

Part III: The Grove at Dawn & The First Rite

Gathering in the Grove The grove lay just beyond the huts—a small copse of deep-green trees whose bark pulsed with golden sap. Morning dew slicked every branch and leaf, making them shine with wet gleams of amber.

Croc arrived first, dawn's first ember still whispering in his lungs. He stood before the grove's entrance—its trees arranged almost ceremonially, like the walls of a silent cathedral.

Moments later, footsteps approached.

The scholar in grey came first, followed by two more Argonians they introduced as Velasaz and Drel'Kai, both priests from deep within Blackmarsh. Their horns were smaller than Croc's, but their bearing was regal. Each carried a vase carved from driftwood and filled with sap-water—a conduit for communion.

They bowed.All three.

"Guardian," they intoned together, "we offer Root and flame… ready to share the Way."

Croc dipped his head once. Their words echoed softly against the hum of sleeping frogs and waking birds.

Groundwork: Silent Communion Each participant stood in a triangle, palms open, sap-water vases resting on carved pillars before them.

Croc closed his eyes.

The scholars began a soft chant in the Root Tongue, each phrase shaped like water flowing over stone.

Their voices rippled outward, brushing against Croc's senses. His scales hummed. His horns tingled.Silently, he raised his hand, palm out.

Slowly, the others did the same.

Their palms met the hazy outline of sap-water, but did not touch.

Yet, when they breathed in unison, the air between them shimmered.

First—golden filaments of sap floated into view. Delicate. Iridescent.

They wove around Croc's figure—ringlets of root-light—which spiraled down and gently sank into the soil.

Croc felt their warmth sink into his feet.He exhaled.

The Rite of Root-Tongue Velasaz stepped forward, unrolling a length of reed-laced parchment.

He began to recite in a low resonance:

"K'til ssaarg, k'til aszulae… In Root's rising, flame returns…"

Croc listened. Not as a stranger, but as an echo within himself.

The grove's trees responded. Sap beaded on bark. Golden drips slid down trunks in slow, shining tracks.

Behind him, the others joined their voices—Root-phase melding into Root-phase.

Soon, Croc found himself gently repeating—fist over his chest—understanding each inflection without needing translation.

Now, he knew what it meant.To root.To guard.

To grow.

The Embodiment of Guardian

With the final syllable spoken, the chanting halted.The grove stood still.Croc opened his eyes.

He saw Filaments—thick vines of reenforced sap—curling from root to his horns, wrapping around his tail spur, resting against his remaining scales.

Velasaz motioned: he could take them.

With slow reverence, Croc stepped forward.

He threaded the golden tendrils through his horns, down his arms—embracing the living network of the Hist.

He closed his eyes again.There was no pain.Just harmony.

The scholar knelt before him, head bowed.

"Guardian of the Root," they spoke clearly now, "may the Hist flow through you. May the Root guide you."

Croc said nothing, but his uplifted gaze spoke volumes

He was accepting the charge.

The grove's canopy lifted slightly.Birds sang.

Even the wind whispered "home" between leaves.

Croc looked at the four of them standing together.

"I will guard," he said, voice rumbling but steady.

The scholars nodded, each one placing a sap-water vine on his shoulder.They left as silently as they came—passing into the mist as spirits do.

Croc remained.For a long time.

Until sunrise broke golden through the branches and illuminated his scars and horns.

He emerged a changed sentinel:Not just a defender of flesh and city walls…But a vessel for the Root itself.

Part IV: Echoes in White-Gold

The mist lay low on the marsh that morning, hugging roots and reeds like a second skin.

Croc stood motionless at the ridgeline, his hulking silhouette framed against a bleeding dawn. His scales flickered with golden sap-light from the Hist tree behind him.

He saw them long before they reached the edge of the boardwalk:

A Khajiit, tall for her kind, cloaked in violet wool with travel-dust on her boots. Her tail swayed with interest, not hesitation.

A High Elf, robed in pale grey, scholarly bands across his shoulders. His scroll satchel bulged, and he walked like a man balancing theory against reality.

They walked together without speaking, but neither looked afraid.

As they neared, Croc narrowed his gaze. His arms were crossed, tail flicking slow arcs over the mossy stone beneath him.Then he released it.Not a roar.Not a shout.

Just presence—that suffocating, crushing pressure of ancient predator instinct fused with Hist-born essence.

The air thickened like steam before lightning.

S'ra-Jhi froze, claws twitching just above her satchel.

Elanar gasped and staggered, his knees dipping before he caught himself. His breath shuddered, his lips forming a silent phrase in old Ayleid. He understood.

They were not just near a town.They were at the foot of something sacred.Croc did not move.The tension held.

Until S'ra-Jhi gently knelt and opened her pack. From it, she placed:

A tightly wrapped bundle of river herbs, known to soothe throat flame.

A satchel of moon-sugar-dusted dried fish—delicacies among wandering Argonians.

Elanar unrolled a long strip of parchment, inked in detailed notes:

"Hist resonance levels observed across Skyrim… converging here."

He spoke softly:

"We come not as takers… but as witnesses."

Croc's head tilted, silent. Still evaluating. Still deciding.Then he stepped aside.

The message was clear: You may enter.

Into the Town They passed him slowly, carefully, their heads lowered but eyes wide.

The Khajiit smelled the sharp Hist-rich air and muttered, "So this is what peace smells like."

Elanar whispered, "It's older than the Empire."

They saw towering Argonians in the distance—dragon-scaled, silent, watching from hut porches and the spiraled stone hearth.

Children ran between huts with glowing eyes and no fear.

The Hist tree stood taller than any palace—its sap glowing as if fed by the stars themselves.

No fanfare greeted them.No horns.No welcome.Only quiet acceptance.

The marsh had never needed noise to be sacred.

And now Croc, ever-watchful, returned to his place by the ridge—one hand resting on the edge of the great root that wound through the clearing.

The first envoys had arrived—and unlike the last, they were allowed to stay.

But the real test had only begun.