killer croc the dragon born

Part l The Return

The gates of Whiterun creaked open as the sun reached its zenith.

Four warriors rode in—not in formation, but with the quiet certainty of men returning from something that had changed them.

At the head, Vilkas carried the dragon-scale artifact on his back, wrapped in a thick hide. It pulsed with a slow, faint warmth—like a heartbeat under layers of fabric.

As they entered the market square, the crowd parted instinctively. Eyes turned. Merchants paused in mid-sale. Children pointed.

"What is that?" someone whispered.

"Looks like a dragon's hide," said another. "But it… glows?"

Ralof, walking beside the Dragonborn, said nothing. But both men could feel it too—the subtle change in the air. It was easier to breathe. Their old wounds—burn scars, blade nicks, even Ralof's lingering shoulder ache—were gone.

Inside Dragonsreach, the Jarl rose from his throne as Vilkas stepped forward.

Skjor helped unwrap the artifact, revealing the obsidian dragon-scale, shimmering with runes etched in living root-sap.

For a heartbeat, silence reigned.

Then:

The chamber shifted.

A steward's limp vanished.

A guard's bandaged ribs straightened.

The Jarl himself stood taller, blinking rapidly as the stiffness in his spine evaporated.

Gasps followed.

A wave of warmth and relief filled the hall, moving like a silent storm of healing.

The artifact pulsed.

The Jarl walked forward and placed his hand on the artifact. His eyes were wide, but not afraid—awed.

"I have seen many things… but nothing like this."

He turned to the four warriors.

"You brought not just peace… but power. Power earned through trust."

He turned to his steward.

"Issue a writ. Effective immediately: All bounties within Whiterun Hold are to be contracted directly through the Companions."

"Give them access to the full list. Beast, bandit, or worse—I want their blades to be our answer."

His voice rang through the great hall.

"Let it be known. Whiterun now stands with the town beneath the Root."

Back at Jorrvaskr, the news spread like fire through dry timber.

Bounty after bounty now flowed straight to their table.Rare beast contracts from the western mountains.High-value bandits in the Reach.Dangerous arcane anomalies north of the Pale.

It was gold. It was glory.But most of all—it was worthwhile battle.

Vilkas, standing at the top of the table, raised a mug.

"To the Guardian of the Root—and to challenges worth bleeding for."

They drank.

And outside, in the city, the dragon-scale artifact continued to pulse gently.

Its warmth never faded.Its healing never ceased.And its promise… had only just begun.

Part II: The Feast of Root and Steel

That evening, Jorrvaskr glowed brighter than any torch could provide.

The tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats, sweetbreads, honey-nuts, mead barrels, and dessert platters that stretched from one wall to the next. Laughter echoed against the stone walls. Tankards clashed. And the hearthfire roared like it knew it was part of something sacred.

Companions old and new sat side by side, shoulder to shoulder. Even those who rarely smiled found themselves chuckling between bites.

At the center table, Vilkas sat with Ralof and his brother Farkas, hunched over a massive roasted goat leg.

"It worked," Vilkas said between bites, smirking. "Even in the heat of a real fight. The fusion held."

Farkas stared, blinking.

"You looked like one of those bad paintings of a Daedra. But damn, brother, it worked."

"That means we can train it," Vilkas added, tapping his temple. "We can teach the others. If they can handle it."

At the head of the room, Kodlak rose slowly from his chair.

He didn't need to shout. His presence alone dimmed the room to a hush.

He lifted a silver tankard.

"Look around you," he said, voice rough but proud. "Look at the faces—scarred, drunk, full of food and too much fire."

Laughter rolled through the hall.

"We've served Whiterun. We've spilled blood for honor. And today… we feast as brothers and sisters."

"I'm proud of every single one of you. And you damn well better be proud of yourselves."

He raised the mug higher.

"Now—let's get this party really started."

A roar of approval followed as musicians began playing something entirely too fast for the room's coordination.

III. Chaos and Sweetrolls

The mead flowed. Townsfolk, hearing the noise from Jorrvaskr, began to wander in.

Carlotta, the market vendor, brought pies. Adrianne brought bread stuffed with cheese and herbs. Even the guards posted outside were seen sneaking sips from borrowed mugs.

Farkas attempted to arm wrestle four people at once.

Skjor started a toast war with Ria.

And the Dragonborn?

He was last seen bragging that he could eat twenty sweetrolls in a minute.

He passed out at seventeen, face-down on dessert trays.

IV. The Morning After

Ralof groaned.

His head pulsed like someone had driven a warhammer through it. He blinked open his one good eye.

The first thing he noticed was that he wasn't in his bed.

The second thing was that he wasn't alone.

Beside him, half-draped in a bedsheet, was Carlotta, her hair tangled, her arm lazily sprawled over his chest.

"…what."

He tumbled out of bed, falling hard onto the floor. Carlotta stirred, blinked once, and muttered:

"We really need to clean the market tomorrow…"

Meanwhile, down in the main hall, the Dragonborn stirred under a layer of empty mugs, pastries stuck to his cheeks.

He snorted once and rolled over, cradling a half-eaten apple tart like a beloved pet.

The hall of Jorrvaskr was in ruins.

Plates were stacked to the rafters. Mead casks had been rolled on their sides, drained down to their final drops. A few Companions still snored under tables. Ria was asleep halfway up the stairs with a dog curled on her legs.

Vilkas swept debris into a pile near the fireplace, grumbling.

"You know it was a good feast when it takes a battalion to clean it up."

Farkas nodded from his seat, sipping something suspicious from a clay jug.

The front door creaked open.

In strode the Dragonborn, shirt untucked, chewing a massive pork chop like it was his last meal on Nirn.

"Anyone seen Ralof?" he asked around a mouthful of meat.

Before anyone could answer, the side door flew open.

Ralof stormed in, boots half-laced, tunic wrinkled, belt missing, hair wild.

"Morning!" he barked far too enthusiastically.

Everyone turned.

Silence fell.

A beat.

Then Vilkas leaned forward, squinting.

"Are those… lip marks?"

Farkas nearly dropped his jug from laughing.

"Ralof, buddy, either you fought a vampire with a lipstick obsession, or you had one hell of a night."

Ralof froze.

"What?"

He looked around.

Ria tossed him a polished tray like a mirror.

He stared.

Four visible kiss marks. One on the neck. One across his cheek. Two down the side of his jawline.

His face turned the color of a boiled skeever.

"I—I—shut up."

"She must've really liked your war stories," the Dragonborn offered, still chewing.

The laughter only died down when Kodlak walked in.

He didn't smile, but his eyes held amusement as he handed Vilkas a parchment.

"Glad to see the hall alive… but back to business."

He turned to Ralof and the Dragonborn.

"A bounty's been posted. Eight hundred gold. Special request from the College of Winterhold."

"Troll problem?" Ralof asked, rubbing the lipstick off his jaw.

"Not just any troll," Kodlak said. "A frost troll that regenerates faster than anything we've seen. They want its body for study."

Farkas looked up.

"That's not a bounty, that's a war."Ralof grabbed the paper.

"Perfect."

He smacked the Dragonborn on the back.

"Let's go kill a troll before more of the hall decides to draw a heart on my face."

The Dragonborn, still chewing, gave a thumbs-up and grabbed his axe.

The two were gone before anyone could joke again.

Part IV: Frostborn Fury

The wind howled through the mountains north of Whiterun.

Snow crunched underfoot as Ralof and the Dragonborn pushed up the slope, following broken pine branches and deep claw-marks in the frozen rock.

"Tracks are fresh," Ralof said, his voice muffled under his thick fur cloak.

"I can smell it," the Dragonborn muttered. "Something old. Damp. Like death trying to wear a fresh coat."

They crested a ridge—and there it was.The troll.

Ten feet tall, pale as ghost-skin, with long arms that dragged clawed hands behind it like sled rakes. Its eyes were milky blue. Its breath rose in twin clouds.

And its body was already scarred from previous wounds—slashes, arrowheads… all healed.

They didn't wait.

Ralof charged from the left, axe igniting with magika. He planted a foot, swung up, and severed the troll's arm at the shoulder in a single blow.

The Dragonborn dashed from the right, spun, and drove his axe into the creature's gut—a flash of lightning crackling from the impact.

The troll howled, staggered, dropped to its knees.It was over in seconds.Or so they thought.

Ralof turned to speak, but his words caught in his throat.

The severed arm—still twitching—was reforming.Bone first.Then muscle.Then pale skin sealed it shut.The gut wound closed with a wet hiss.

In seconds, the troll stood again, fully healed.

"That… wasn't supposed to happen," the Dragonborn said flatly.

"We just killed it," Ralof muttered. "Twice."

They struck again.

Ralof's axe cleaved into the troll's leg—gone at the knee.

The Dragonborn swung for the neck—deep gash, nearly headless.The troll went down——and stood up again.

Wounds reversed like they were being sucked backward in time.

"This isn't a troll," the Dragonborn hissed. "It's something else."

Ralof backed up.

"We're winning every strike. And nothing's working."

The troll lunged, but the Dragonborn sidestepped and kicked it down a hill.

"We need to rethink this," he growled. "There's something keeping it alive."

Ralof's eyes narrowed.

"We don't need to fight harder—we need to figure out why it's healing."

Part V: Heart of Ice

The wind whipped frost through the clearing. The troll stood again, wounds stitching faster than a mage could chant.

"It's not just magic," Ralof muttered. "It's like its body doesn't care about damage."

The Dragonborn stepped forward, his eyes calm behind crackling energy.

"Everything has a limit," he said. "Even if it heals… there's a point where the body gives up."

He turned to Ralof.

"Hit it with everything you've got. I'll follow up before it recovers."

Ralof smirked, his breath misting in the air.

"You're thinking crazy."

"Always," the Dragonborn said, activating his lightning cloak. "Now send me flying."

Ralof gripped his axe in both hands.The binding chant whispered from his lips.

Soul and steel intertwined—the Bound Axe flared into existence and merged with his Nordic blade, glowing with a violent arcane pressure.

Snow blasted away from him in a ring.

He lowered his stance, muscles rippling.

"Divine… DEPARTURE!"

The ground cracked underfoot as the swing released.

A crescent wave of condensed magika—brighter, heavier, larger than anything he had ever thrown—shot toward the troll.

It struck.

The frost troll was lifted from the earth, catapulted dozens of meters into the sky—a ragdoll in the grip of a divine storm.

The Dragonborn ran and leapt onto the wave, surfing Ralof's divine slash like a blade-bound wind current.

Sparks danced across his body. His enchanted axe flared. Lightning crackled at his heels.

He shouted above the roar of the wind.

"LIGHTNING—CUTTER!"

At the apex of the arc, he launched himself off the edge, spinning midair. His axe gleamed—lightning built up in a coiled storm around it.

The frost troll—still tumbling upward—met him mid-air.

He brought the axe down.

A screaming arc of thunder and force split the sky, cleaving the troll in a vertical line before blasting its body into the frozen tundra like a comet.

A shockwave rippled from the impact crater.

Ralof arrived moments later, snow blowing back from the site.

The troll was twitching—barely breathing, but not healing.

Its body was shattered. Too much damage, too fast. Its regeneration had limits after all.

"You're right," Ralof said, panting. "Everything breaks eventually."

The Dragonborn crouched beside the troll, tapping its skull.

"Still breathing. Good. Let the mages earn their pay."

Together, the Rising Duet hefted the troll's limp body—wrapped it in a thick frost-hide tarp, and lashed it to a makeshift sled.

Then they turned And began the long march back to Whiterun.

Part VI: Delivery and Discovery

Dragging the sled through the gates of Whiterun, the duo's arrival turned heads.

The troll was bound in thick chains and frozen hide. Guards circled warily, weapons drawn, even though the beast barely twitched.

They stopped just outside Dragonsreach, where Jarl Balgruuf himself had come to inspect the infamous bounty.

"By the Nine…" the Jarl muttered, eyeing the still-living, still-breathing troll. "It looks… like it should be dead."

"It would be," Ralof said, rubbing his sore arm, "if it weren't part ice-wraith under the skin."

"It's not going anywhere," the Dragonborn added. "We made sure of that."

Within the hour, mages from the College of Winterhold arrived—three robed researchers led by a young Dunmer named Seralyn and a High Elf enchanter with a deep scowl.

The mages quickly examined the troll—using scrolls, detection spells, and deep incantations that pulsed against the warding circles.

After nearly an hour of intense study, Seralyn turned to Ralof and the Dragonborn.

"It's not natural," she said. "We believe the troll was exposed to a residual essence—Daedric, maybe—but the regeneration is definitely magical. Not learned… inherited."

"You didn't just kill a creature," added the Altmer enchanter. "You subdued a living relic."

He stepped forward, lifting a lacquered case.

"The College thanks you."

He opened it.

Inside were two tomes.

One bound in storm-tinted hide, embossed with conjuration sigils—"Woven Blades: The Binding of Weapons from Soul and Will"

The other crackled faintly with static across the leather—"Stormblood: A Treatise on Channeling High-Intensity Shock Magic Through Steel and Flesh"

Ralof took the conjuration tome first, flipping through pages of symbolic axebind sigils."This… this could make my fusion permanent. No more temporary spells."

The Dragonborn picked up the lightning treatise. He ran a hand over the crackling script and smirked."This is everything I've been trying to do on instinct… but explained like a textbook."

They closed the covers and bowed in thanks.

Seralyn smiled faintly.

"You've earned more than coin. You've earned the College's respect."