killer croc the dragon born

Part 1 The Hall of Feasts

The fires of Jorrvaskr crackled warmly in the early hours of morning. Plates clinked with the last of a breakfast feast—boiled eggs, honey-buttered oatcakes, and sliced fried goat cheese. At the central table sat Ralof and the Dragonborn.

Ralof leaned back, chewing lazily on a piece of bread crust. His new armor gleamed—Stormcloak blue reinforced with steel links, edges stitched in silver. Across his missing right eye sat a finely made golden eyepatch, shaped like a curled wolf's fang.

Beside him, the Dragonborn gnawed on a roasted thigh, his outfit rougher in appearance but no less distinct: a reinforced woodcutter's outfit, layered with leather plating and engraved metal. At his side, as always, sat the woodcutter's axe—now crackling faintly with electric magic.It had been their weapon since the beginning.Now, it was his symbol.

Footsteps echoed from the far stairwell.

Kodlak Whitemane, the Harbinger, stepped in with a folded parchment in hand. His expression was serious but not grim. Skjor and Vilkas followed at his back.

He stepped beside their table.

"Your work these past months… has made the hall proud. The Rising Duet, they call you."

Ralof raised his mug in mock salute. The Dragonborn gave a smug grin.

"The Jarl has a request," Kodlak continued. "One that requires both strength and insight."

They leaned forward.

"There's an Argonian town rising in the south marshes. Rumors claim they've become… something new. Larger. More unified. Some say even blessed."

He looked directly at the Dragonborn.

"You're Argonian. He wants you to assess the town. See if it's a threat, or a curiosity."

Then, turning to both:

"You won't go alone."

From behind him stepped Vilkas—stoic, intelligent, his arms crossed—and Skjor, scarred and silent, his wolf-touched senses always alert.

"Vilkas will handle diplomacy. Skjor will ensure no blades get drawn unless they must."

"You two," Kodlak said, eyes on Ralof and the Dragonborn, "will ensure that if things do go wrong, we have our best already there."

They rose from the table without another word. In their chambers, they packed lightly:

Ralof took his axe and a curved Stormcloak dagger, along with a scroll pouch of bounty slips and maps.

The Dragonborn packed two extra tunics, several soul gems, and a small bag of spiced jerky he'd been hoarding.

At the gate, they met Vilkas and Skjor—both mounted, ready.

The Dragonborn adjusted the strap on his axe and gave Ralof a sideways grin.

"You ready to visit the neighbors?"

Ralof chuckled.

"Only if they serve better food than Jorrvaskr."

Skjor grunted.

"Let's move."

The gates of Whiterun creaked open.

The path led south.To marsh, mystery… and the Guardian.

Part II: Threshold of the Marsh

The air thickened as the four figures moved deeper into the southern marsh.

By now, the faint shimmer of Hist energy was everywhere—floating threads of gold in the humid air, sap-glow nestled among the reeds. The path narrowed into a weathered boardwalk, the planks old but freshly maintained.

The Argonian town stood just ahead. From the misted rise of the central Hist tree, a quiet power bled outward like heat from a forge.

Croc was already there.

He stood at the narrowest point of the trail, between two swamp-root arches. No words. No movement.

His scales gleamed like burnished bronze, layered in plate-like ridges. Horns curled from his skull like carved stone. His arms were folded, his clawed feet dug into the moss-covered rock. His tail hung low, scarred and coiled.

He recognized them the instant they entered his line of sight.

Ralof.

The Dragonborn.

Both survivors of Bleak Falls Barrow.

Both allies in the dragon's fall.

But this was still his territory.

And all were warned.

II. The Pressure Returns

Without word or gesture, Croc let it out.The same killer instinct that once sent mercenaries, mages, and even Thalmor reeling.

The primal wave hit like a wall of boiling air. It was not magic. It was not a shout.

It was simply the essence of a predator acknowledging you.

Skjor dropped to one knee instantly, teeth grit, sweat on his brow.

Vilkas tensed, eyes narrowing, his stance rooted—but did not yield.

The Dragonborn blinked, briefly swaying before locking in place, tail twitching but steady.

Ralof held strong, his axe over his shoulder, golden eyepatch glinting as he stared down the towering form before them.

No one spoke.Even the wind held its breath.

III. The Still Point

Tension crackled like flint about to spark steel.

Ralof's hand drifted subtly toward his belt.

The Dragonborn took one slow step forward.

Croc's eyes narrowed. His claws flexed.

And then—

"Hold!" Vilkas raised a hand, firm but composed. His voice cut through the pressure like a clean blade.

"We didn't come to fight."

He glanced sideways, briefly, at Skjor still braced on the ground, then back to Croc.

"We came to talk."

Skjor stood slowly, his expression thunderous but silent.

The Dragonborn lifted his chin.

"Not enemies," he said simply. "Not this time."

Croc's tail stopped swaying. The weight in the air receded, just enough to breathe fully again.

He stared at the four.

The two he knew.

The two he didn't.

Then, after a long pause, he stepped aside.

Part III: Welcome Among Roots

As Croc turns and walks ahead, the party steps forward in silence. Skjor tightens his grip on his axe, while Vilkas calms the taut shoulders of Ralof and the Dragonborn. The boardwalk widens, and they move through pillars of sculpted reeds and wooden bridges.

Argonians pause in their tasks—carving, weaving, tending flame-hot forges—to observe the newcomers. Each adult towers seven feet plus, clad in layered dragon scales and long-draconic horns. Their eyes, a mix of gold and green, study the companions with cautious curiosity. Children gather behind them, curious but calm, their tails swishing in quiet interest.

The Heart of the Town

At the center lies a stone pavilion built around the base of the sacred Hist tree. Sap runs from its trunk in shining droplets, illuminating the platform around which six elders stand—including Veloth, Ssrila, and the scholar who taught Croc the Root rites.

Croc stops at the entrance, turns, and nods once. The companions fall into respectful line behind him.

The elders bow slightly. No words yet, but the gesture carries centuries of ritual weight.

Vilkas steps forward and kneels. He bows his head in respect.

"We come on behalf of the Jarl of Whiterun," he begins. "We bring no threats—only hope for understanding and alliance."

Skjor follows, less formally, and offers a heavy nod.

Ralof and the Dragonborn hold back—yet their gaze meets Croc's briefly. His steady look encourages trust.

Words of Root Elder Ssrila steps forward. Her voice is low but rich, carrying the firm resonance of swamp-water in a jar.

"Companions of Skyrim, you stand before the Root's new town. We sense honesty in your step. Speak plainly."

Elanar's presence rings in Ralof's mind, but here words matter more than thought.

Ralof leans in.

"We seek friendship. We've known Croc. We fought dragons together. No need for hiding now."

A ripple runs through the gathered Argonians as they realize how many lives Croc shares between worlds.

Silence falls.

Croc steps forward. His voice rumbles softly, deeper than any Nord could muster—but each word is deliberate.

"You've shown respect by not drawing blade at the threshold. We accept your presence."

He turns to the stones at the pavilion edge, and places clawed hands on their surface.

"The Root tells me you're safe. Let trust grow like new sap."

The scholars murmur in approval.

The crowd relaxes. Argonians step closer to mingle, softly offering gifts of woven bags filled with herbs and sap-mead.

The Khajiit S'ra-Jhi, watching nearby, steps forward, offering her trade pouch with new confidence.

Under the Hist's dripping glow, a small fire is lit. Clay bowls of root-stew and sap-bread are handed out. Croc leads the diners, taking his seat by the tree—opposite the council—before motioning the four to join him.

As they eat, voices softly rise—questions, introductions, laughter. Skjor asks about forging scaled armor. Ralof offers stories of trekking the plains of Falkreath. The Dragonborn listens intently and nods.

Each Argonian remains silent, but their eyes radiate openness.

Croc study each of the four, the new and the old. The Root itself seems still, balanced, as if acknowledging their arrival.

Part IV: Root & Weapon

The Question of StrengthNight settles gently over the town.

Amber torches flicker along the central ring of huts, their light casting long shadows under the great tree. The communal meal thins into smaller conversations. Srrila's voice, as always, breaks the hush.

"We have seen your peace. We have heard your words. But a Root must know what wind it leans into."

She looks at Croc, then at the four warriors from Whiterun.

"Will you spar with one of ours—not in anger, but understanding?"

Silence ripples.

Croc is already rising before anyone else moves. His massive form towers above the circle. Without looking at the council, he walks into the torchlit circle of cleared ground near the central fire. He rolls his shoulders once. His tail thumps the earth behind him.

"I will test this wind," he says, quietly.

Skjor shifts in his seat, starting to stand.

Ralof's hand moves toward his axe handle, but stops.

Then:

"I accept," says Vilkas.

He is already on his feet, stepping forward with measured calm. His coat sways behind him. His tone is confident but not arrogant—earnest.

"Whiterun would be honored to share this spar."

He steps down into the fire circle opposite Croc.

The crowd murmurs—not in excitement, but respect.

His shield brothers know Vilkas.

He lost once.He trained harder than anyone since.This, for him, is personal.

Elder Veloth stands, raising his claw.

"No weapons. No magic. This is the Rite of Flesh and Root." Both warriors nod.

Croc removes only his chest wrappings—revealing his armored scales fully for the first time under direct firelight. His tail drags a line in the sand.

Vilkas sheds his cloak and unbuckles the top of his cuirass, leaving his arms free. His frame is solid—battle-tested, honed.

They bow.The circle draws still.

A low drum begins from one of the townsfolk—just rhythm, no flourish.

Part V: The Rite of Flesh and Root

The crowd held its breath.

Vilkas stood with his hands relaxed at his sides, breathing slowly, eyes fixed on Croc across the circle.

Then it began.

His shoulders rolled back as muscle swelled beneath skin. The bones in his legs realigned subtly, thickening. His spine cracked upward with every inch gained—first six feet… then nearly seven. His arms elongated, not grotesquely, but powerfully. Claws, long and silver-white, curled from his fingertips and toes.

But there was no fur.No snout.No howling madness in his eyes.He looked like Vilkas—only larger, leaner, more primal in shape and strength.

His jaw remained human. His posture upright. His gaze sharp and clear.

"He fused with it…" Ralof muttered, eyes wide.

"He made peace with the beast," Skjor whispered. "I thought only legends spoke of such a balance."

The firelight danced across Vilkas's new form.

He did not snarl.

He simply crouched slightly, and said:

"Let's begin."

Croc chuckled—a low, volcanic rumble from deep in his chest.He cracked his neck once.

The golden glow of Hist energy danced under his plated scales.

"Good," he said. "I don't have to hold back."

He crouched as well, tail lashing the earth behind him, claws flexed.

Two predators.No fear.Only challenge.

They leapt at the same instant.

Croc's legs shattered the ground beneath him with the force of his jump. Vilkas, weightless despite his bulk, soared with outstretched claws.

Their fists collided in mid-air.

The sound was not just a thud—it was a sonic boom, like a dragon's shout without the magic. Air split. Dust erupted outward in a ring.

The entire village felt the force of it.Torches flickered.Children ducked behind huts.

Even the Hist's sap shivered.

For a heartbeat, the two hung in the air, muscles locked, eyes inches apart—two beasts made flesh, perfectly matched.

Then gravity reclaimed them.

They landed opposite each other, skidding across the circle, toes carving trenches into the dirt.

Neither spoke.

Both grinned.

The fight had only just begun.

The force of the mid-air collision hadn't even fully settled when the two lunged again.

Croc rushed forward with raw momentum—fists swinging like hammers. His claws gouged into the ground with each bounding step, sending turf and ash flying.

Vilkas darted in low and fast, his fused form giving him speed no man should possess. He ducked beneath a swing, raked claws upward—but Croc twisted, tail whipping over his shoulder and forcing Vilkas to leap back.

Then Croc was airborne again, spinning mid-leap, tail curling like a scythe. Vilkas blocked with a crossed-arm brace, his feet skidding backwards nearly ten yards from the impact.

They circled each other, breaths steaming in the cold air.

Their eyes locked—not with hatred, but recognition.

A predator.

And another.

Vilkas feinted left, then sprinted forward, landing a clean punch to Croc's midsection.

Croc staggered, grinning, and countered with a brutal sweep of his claws—cutting through air where Vilkas had just ducked. He spun with the momentum and delivered a backhand that caught Vilkas across the shoulder, sending him flying through a stack of wooden training dummies.

The crowd gasped.

Vilkas rose slowly, brushing dust from his chest, eyes glowing with focused exhilaration.

"You hit harder than my brother's blade."

Croc rolled his shoulders.

"And you dodge better than any warrior I've met."

They charged again.

The last moments blurred—blow for blow, each calculated but pulled just short of fatal.

Croc lunged low, pinning Vilkas by the shoulders and slamming him into the ground. Vilkas twisted, drove a knee into Croc's side, then clawed up to a crouch and launched himself into a shoulder-tackle that shook the earth.

Both fighters slid back, panting, blood running from Croc's mouth and across Vilkas's knuckles.

They stared.

The fire crackled between them.

And then—together—they stepped back in perfect sync, chest rising, claws lowering.

It was over.

The crowd stood in stunned silence.

Croc, breathing hard, looked at Vilkas for a long moment. His golden eyes reflected the fire.

Then he said:

"You're stronger than the dragon I fought."

A hush fell.

Vilkas blinked.For a brief second, that hardened warrior's mask cracked—and a small, proud smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"I'll take that," he said softly.

And for the first time in the town's history, Croc extended a hand—not to strike, not to intimidate, but to shake.

Vilkas clasped it, firm and unflinching.

Behind them, the Hist tree's sap gleamed a little brighter.

The fire rose.

And the town understood: they had not just met equals.

They had begun a brotherhood.

Part VII: Oaths in Root and Flame

The Aftershock

The fire crackled low, casting long shadows across the sparring ground.

Croc and Vilkas still stood in the ring, arms clasped in mutual respect. Around them, silence hung like fog—shattered only when Skjor exhaled sharply, crossing his arms.

"You fused with it," he muttered. "You actually did it…"

His voice was low, not angry, but stunned.

He wasn't jealous—Skjor knew strength when he saw it. He just hadn't realized Vilkas had come so far.

"Didn't think you were that quiet type of genius," he added, almost grinning.

Vilkas shot him a quick glance. For once, no sarcastic reply came. He was still catching his breath.

Ralof stepped forward, eyepatch glinting as he stared at Croc's massive silhouette and Vilkas's hulking new frame.

"That," he said slowly, "was the loudest thing I've ever heard… and I've heard a dragon scream."

He cracked a crooked grin.

"Damn good show."

Still gripping his axe loosely, he nodded to Croc with a flash of respect—no longer seeing a rival, but a protector.

"Guess we both grew from that tomb."

The Dragonborn said nothing for a long time.

He stood still, his axe across his back, eyes fixed on Croc—not just as a fellow Argonian, but something deeper now.

In the firelight, he murmured more to himself than anyone:

"That's what strength rooted in purpose looks like."

His hand touched his enchanted axe's haft—perhaps for reassurance, or inspiration.

A hush spread again as Elder Ssrila and Veloth stepped into the circle, flanked by other council members.

Ssrila raised both hands in a slow arc. Her voice was strong, ceremonial.

"We have seen the fire of Whiterun's heart. We have seen it not in destruction, but in honor."

Veloth followed:

"The Root grows strong not when it walls itself in… but when it joins with what is true."

He turned to Croc.

"Guardian. Shall we bind this day in form?"

Croc nodded once, deeply.

Veloth turned to the gathered townsfolk and spoke in Jel, the sacred tongue.

Several blacksmiths stepped forward.

They carried a curved slab of dragon-scale, gleaming black-blue and inscribed with Hist glyphs along its edge.

"This," Veloth explained, "will be forged in Whiterun's name. A symbol of strength shared, not stolen."

"Dragon-scale," added a smith. "Infused with root-sap. It won't break. Ever."

He looked at the Dragonborn and Ralof.

"You'll carry it back. It belongs to the Jarl now… and to the Companions."

A torch was dipped into the sacred flame and carried to the base of the Hist tree. There, beside its roots, Croc and Vilkas both pressed their hands into the mud—staining it with blood and earth.

Two warriors.

Two worlds.

A new alliance forged not by decree… but by respect.

And fire.