ch 5 Questing is kind of easy
Part I: "The Quiet Predator"
The river was black at dawn.
Mist coiled over its surface like lazy breath, curling through the reeds and tree roots that split the earth along the southern banks. Most of Riften was still asleep, or close to it. The guard towers were still lit, but the torches flickered low. No bell had rung yet.
Croc crouched in the brushes, silent as the wind.
Across the water, the gate stood closed. Two guards paced along the upper bridge—young, distracted, spears angled inward in casual arcs. Their boots echoed on the stone every seven seconds.
He watched them.
Counted.
And then stepped into the water.
The current was slow, but the chill was sharp. Most men would've gasped. Croc just sank.
The river embraced him like memory.
Cold. Deep. Silent.
He moved beneath the surface with practiced ease, arms sweeping in slow arcs, tail guiding his direction like a rudder. He didn't splash. He didn't rise. He glided under the stone arch of Riften's outer wall like a shadow sinking into deeper shadow.
Above him, a cart rumbled over the bridge.
He didn't look up.
The city was still asleep.
And he was already inside.
The river narrowed behind the fish market. That's where he surfaced—just once—for air. He rose between a pair of sunken barrels, his nostrils barely breaching the surface. He inhaled.
Rot. Iron. Burnt meat. Soot. Salt. Urine.
And beneath it—faint, but distinct—
Sweat. Cheap mead. Ashweed smoke. Dust from coins handled too often.
He knew that scent.
The bar.
The sewer bar.
The Ragged Flagon.
He ducked back under and followed it, eyes adjusting to the dark as he reached the split in the canal.
To most, it looked like a dead-end—a collapsed wall with two rusted grates. But Croc could see the way the water twisted through the moss on the left side. How it pulled inward, ever so slightly.
He moved to it, pressed one claw against the grate.
It groaned once—just once—then slid aside.
He slipped in.
The tunnel beyond was older. Colder.
He passed rat bones, moldy crates, a collapsed archway that had become home to a nest of sleeping skeevers.
He didn't disturb them.
Didn't need to.
He was the only predator here that mattered.
Twenty more yards, and the scent was stronger.
Ale. Steel. Burnt cork. Boot polish. Human oil. Blood.
Croc surfaced in a shallow trough, emerging beneath a cracked stone lip. Torchlight flickered ahead. He heard voices—faint, casual, unaware.
He rose. One foot. Then the other.
He didn't stomp. Didn't growl.
Just walked forward, silent, soaked, shadowed.
The Flagon was just ahead.
He could smell fear waiting.
And someone inside had a story to tell.
Part II: "Voices in the Flagon"
The Ragged Flagon hadn't changed.
Same crooked bar, same dripping walls, same faint scent of mold, sweat, and failure.
The lanterns flickered lazily above warped tables where thieves slouched and dice clattered and arguments rose to the edge of knives—but never quite crossed. Guild territory had rules. Unspoken. Fragile. Violently enforced.
Croc didn't announce himself.
He came in quiet, like he belonged.
He didn't need to make noise. He just walked—wet, massive, silent—as heads slowly turned in his wake.
But no one said a word.
Because no one knew what to say.
He passed the far table, where two thieves were deep in their drinks. A Dunmer with a scarred chin and a Nord with pale braids. Their voices were low, quick, greasy with amusement.
"—I swear, the chief's got it tucked in his armor like it's a bloody crown jewel."
"What, the amulet?"
"Yeah. Says it 'shines like moonlight.' Acts like it speaks to him. Can't go three hours without checking it."
"Looted it off a lizard girl last year, he said."
Croc stopped.
Not abruptly. Just enough for one wet footstep to echo wrong.
The Nord looked up.
Their laughter died.
Croc turned to face them. Slowly.
The Dunmer reached for his dagger.
Croc raised one claw—not as a threat, but like a bouncer signaling quiet.
Then he moved forward and sat down at their table.
The wood groaned. Their mugs rattled.
He didn't speak right away.
Just looked at them—long, level, unreadable.
Then he turned his head, calling to the barkeep with a gravel-deep rumble:
"Two of your best mead. Big cups."
The barkeep blinked. Nodded.
When the mugs arrived, Croc slid them to the thieves.
The Nord blinked. "What's this for?"
Croc leaned forward.
"I want to know more about your friend. The one with the shiny toy."
The Dunmer narrowed his eyes. "You look like you could just take it."
"I could," Croc said calmly. "But I'd rather not make a mess in here. Not unless I have to."
The Dunmer considered that.
Then shrugged. Took a long drink.
And talked.
Fifteen minutes later, Croc had everything.
The bandit's name: Rorg Half-Grin. Ex-Thieves Guild. Turned killer-for-hire. Obsessed with "collecting trophies." Now holed up in Broken Helm Hollow, an old tomb turned bandit den, southeast of Riften near the mountain edge.
Six men under him. Traps at the entrance. Keeps his treasure locked in a chest he sleeps beside.
The amulet? Described as "copper, warm to the touch, plain but cursed."
Croc's jaw flexed when he heard that.
Before standing, he dropped a pouch on the table—more coin than the thieves would see in a month.
"For the next two rounds," he said.
They stared at it, stunned.
"Gods," the Nord muttered. "If he is cursed, I hope he doesn't ask for it back."
Croc didn't answer.
He was already gone.
Part III: "The Hollow Breathes"
The mountain air was colder here.
Even in the day, the stone stayed damp, the moss never quite drying. Broken Helm Hollow wasn't built—it was carved, chewed into the mountainside like a rotted tooth. The mouth of the cavern opened behind a twisted thicket of pine and deadwood, nearly invisible unless you were looking for it.
Croc lay in the underbrush, breath low, skin caked in mud and leaves. Not moving. Not blinking.
Just watching.
Day One:
Two men on watch.
They weren't soldiers—just men with swords, walking lazy circles and arguing about stew. One scratched his armpit so often Croc assumed he had fleas. They changed shifts every eight hours. Always the same pattern: one stood at the entrance, one paced. Never both alert at once.
Croc didn't move.
Day Two:
A younger bandit hauled crates from the back of the cave to a nearby spring—a mile south, down a hidden slope. Two barrels of water a day. One trip before noon. One at dusk. Always alone.
The man smoked while he waited for the barrels to fill.
Croc watched his hands shake. Not from fear—withdrawal. Skooma. That would matter later.
Day Three:
Rorg Half-Grin stepped into view.
He looked nothing like the drunken, pathetic stories the thieves had told. This was a killer—broad across the shoulders, scarred from jaw to chest, eyes sharp as broken glass. He barked orders, threw a man down the slope for forgetting his shift, and spit chewing root across the fire.
Around his neck, tied tight on a worn leather string—
The copper amulet.
Croc's claws tightened in the dirt.
Rorg wore it like armor. Touched it often. Talked to it.
Like it meant something.
Croc watched every movement.
Nightfall, Day Four:
They were drunk.
Every one of them except the lookout—who was asleep, propped on a spear like a scarecrow.
Croc circled around the back ridge. Found the cache pit—supplies buried in a false floor near the hollow's rear wall. Meat, tools, gold, spare weapons.
Then he returned to the tree line.
And waited.
Still as stone.
He didn't breathe loud.
Didn't move fast.
Didn't sleep much.
But by the fifth morning, he didn't need to guess.
He knew them.
Where they shat.
Where they slept.
Who twitched when they lied.
And who would die first.
Part IV: "The Cut Between Breaths"
It was just before dusk.
Croc crouched by the stream where the water barrels were filled—hidden in the underbrush, breath low, hands steady.
The addict came as expected.
Young. Pale. Eyes sunken from withdrawal, voice low and shaky as he cursed at the barrels and cursed louder at the cold.
He lit a pipe while he waited for the second barrel to fill.
That's when Croc moved.
He didn't charge. Didn't growl.
He slipped from the trees like fog on a warpath.
One hand clutched a corked bottle—tainted skooma, filched days ago from the corpse of a dead runner near the Rift road. Inside: a concentrated narcotic syrup just enough to push a man over the edge. In the other hand, a rag.
The bandit never turned around.
Croc stepped behind him—one movement—snatched, clamped the rag over the bandit's mouth.
The skooma's effect was immediate.
The man stiffened. His eyes rolled back. A long, blissful moan bubbled out of his throat.
Then he slumped forward, limp.
Croc caught him. Lowered him silently.
Then took the cork from the flask of Riften mead he'd brought with him and poured it carefully into the half-filled barrel beside the stream.
The blend of alcohol and leftover narcotics would do the rest.
He sloshed it once. Sealed it. Lifted the barrel in one hand like it was a child's toy.
And ran.
Back into the trees.
Fifteen minutes later…
Another bandit approached the stream. Big. Irritated.
"Gorran?" he called. "You drownin' yourself again?"
No answer.
He found the addict passed out next to the water, a bottle of skooma spilled in the reeds beside him.
The big man spat. "Useless swamp-sucker…"
He looked at the filled barrel. Grunted. Hoisted it onto his shoulder.
And walked it back to camp.
That night, the wind was still.
Inside Broken Helm Hollow, the fire had burned low. Six men lay sprawled across rugs, crates, and the floor. Snoring. Drooling. Mumbling.
Even Rorg Half-Grin, the chief, lay slumped in his throne-like chair—head tilted back, chest rising in heavy, drugged rhythms.
The amulet glinted faintly at his neck.
That's when Croc stepped into the hollow.
Not quiet.
Not crouched.
Just walking—like a man coming home after a long shift.
His shadow stretched across the wall like a myth being born.
None of them woke.
Not one.
He didn't speak.
Didn't smile.
He just stood in the center of the camp, surrounded by armed men unconscious at his feet.
And stared at the one thing he came for.
Part V: "The Warm Metal"
Croc stepped forward—silent, shadowed.
The fire cracked softly in the pit beside the sleeping bandits. One snored through his teeth. Another twitched in his sleep, dreaming something Croc would never know.
He didn't hesitate.
He knelt beside the first—thin man, oil-stained hands, blood under his fingernails.
Croc placed one clawed hand gently over the man's mouth and nose.
The other he pressed to the man's chest—over the heart.
Then squeezed.
There was no sound.
Just a single, quick crack.
The man didn't even wake.
Croc moved to the next.
Then the next.
Then the next.
Each one—a breath held, a life ended.
He was not fast. He was not slow.
He was exact.
Only one remained.
Rorg Half-Grin, the chief.
The scarred killer. The collector.
He sat slumped in his carved wooden chair, one hand on a bottle, the other twitching in a dream.
Croc stepped behind him.
Wrapped his hand around the man's head like it was a fruit.
Twisted.
The neck gave with a soft crack-thunk, cartilage separating, nerves severing.
Rorg slumped forward.
The copper amulet slid forward across his chest.
Croc took it.
Held it in his claw for a long, long moment.
It was small. Plain. Warm.
He didn't know how Shahvee had lost it. Didn't need to.
It belonged with her.
The bandits were dead.
The fire crackled. The shadows stretched.
Croc stood over the chief's slumped body. The copper amulet—hers—rested warm and silent in his hand.
He held it for a breath.
Then slipped it carefully into the satchel at his hip.
But he didn't turn to leave.
Not yet.
He looked around the room—his sharp eyes scanning the stone, the crates, the rugs on the floor.
Then he saw it.
A heavy, fur-lined carpet, worn at the edges. Too thick for this kind of floor. Too new.
He stepped over to it, crouched, and pulled it aside.
Beneath: a square iron chest, reinforced with rivets and inlaid with silver along the seams.
A keyhole glinted faintly in the firelight.
Croc didn't reach for a key.
He reached for the chest itself—dug his claws beneath the lip of the lid.
And ripped it open.
The hinges screamed. The lock shattered.
Inside: sacks of gold. Loose septims. Four small leather pouches of gems—garnets, amethysts, even a sapphire. An engraved silver circlet. Two flawless rings. A folded map. A journal. A hunting knife with an ebony handle.
And half a dozen tiny trinkets—coins, beads, scraps of colored cloth.
Stolen things. Treasured by someone else once. Tossed here like bone fragments.
Croc stared at them for a long moment.
Then slammed the lid shut.
And slung the whole chest under one .
The amulet at his side.
He walked out of Broken Helm Hollow like death in the shape of a debt collector.
Later…
With the skooma addict
Gorran stumbled back into Broken Helm Hollow.
The world spun.
His mouth tasted like oil and regret. His fingers trembled.
He'd expected shouting. Fury. Punishment.
What he found was silence.
And corpses.
He found Harthik first. Then Bren. Then the others.
Laid out like discarded tools.
But it was the throne that shattered him.
Rorg. His brother. His kin.
Still seated.
Still armed.
Still dead.
The amulet was gone.
The chest was gone.
Everything gone except the smell of something inhuman and four words carved into the ash-dusted floor:
"I don't forget debts."
Gorran screamed until his throat gave out.
And when the scream died, there was only him.
And the silence.