ch 6 yes gold is good

Part I: "Gold, Bone, and Blood"

The Ragged Flagon smelled like stale beer and unspoken secrets.

It always had.

Croc walked in dragging an iron-banded chest, water still dripping from his scales. The thieves looked up—stared—but said nothing.

No one asked where the chest came from.

Maybe they already knew.

Maybe they didn't want to.

He dropped it on the bar like a warning. Thunk.

Delvin Mallory flinched but covered it with a grin. "That yours?"

Croc nodded. "Most of it."

Delvin cracked it open. His eyes widened slightly at the glint of gold, the weight of gems, the strange trinkets wrapped in cloth.

"Damn."

He started sorting, whistling low. "You bringing in a bounty or an old vault?"

"Neither," Croc said. "Just taking back what was taken."

He turned, about to walk off, when something caught his eye.

Near the bottom of the pile, tucked beneath a pile of folded leather and coins, was a necklace.

The chain was dark—matte black, but smooth like polished stone. The pendant was carved from dragonbone, sharp-angled and geometric. In its center, a small circle of opaque glass shimmered faintly in the torchlight. Ebony-framed. Cold.

Croc reached in.

The moment his claws closed around it, something changed.

The Flagon felt smaller.

The light dimmed.

And the necklace warmed—as if responding to touch for the first time in centuries.

Delvin blinked. "Huh. That's a weird one."

"I'm not selling it."

"You sure?"

"I said," Croc growled, "I'm not selling it."

He slipped it over his neck.

It fit perfectly.

And suddenly, the aches in his joints faded. His back straightened. His pulse slowed—but his mind sharpened.

It felt… good.

Too good.

He picked up his sack of gold.

Nodded once.

And left.

Part II: "The Road and the Fire-Eyes"

The road curved between two ridges, where stone gave way to dry grass and fireleaf brush. The wind carried scents of wolf piss, rain-soaked fur, and cooked rabbit.

That's when he saw the torches.

Three wagons. Ringed with crates. Silk draped over wooden poles. Khajiit—half a dozen—stood around a low fire, weapons sheathed but visible.

One of them saw him.

Stiffened.

Croc stepped into the light without slowing.

The effect was immediate.

Four Khajiit reached for daggers.

One whispered something sharp in Ta'agra. Another raised a claw.

Nine feet of wet scale and muscle, glowing green eyes, and a black artifact strung across his chest—not what they expected on the road.

The caravan leader—tall, fur striped like moonlight, wore silver at his ears—stepped forward.

"Stay your claws," he said quietly. "Let us not lose our lives to guesses."

Croc stopped five paces away.

Didn't snarl. Didn't smile.

Just said: "You selling?"

The striped one blinked. "Selling…?"

Croc nodded. "Looking for a doll. Something nice. And a strong axe. One-hand grip. Clean weight. Old man's got work to do."

The Khajiit looked at each other.

Then, slowly, tension loosened.

The merchant's ears perked. "You are… shopping?"

Croc grunted. "Not robbing."

A few chuckles broke the edge of fear.

The merchant waved his claws. "Come, then! Let Ra'zirr show you what moon-skin carries through these cold roads."

Fifteen minutes later, Croc stood near the fire with two wrapped bundles.

One was a doll—handcrafted, soft-stuffed with reed cotton, dressed in stitched velvets and holding a miniature wooden fish in her paws.

The other, an axe—steel head, dark oak handle, bound in iron.

But it glowed faintly. Not with heat. With intent.

Croc noticed the color. The feel. The difference.

He narrowed his eyes. "What's in it?"

Ra'zirr purred, pleased. "A gift, perhaps, for one so civil. But if you wish the truth—it is enchanted."

Croc stared at him. "That mean it's cursed?"

Ra'zirr laughed, showing fangs. "Not cursed. Blessed. It will not dull. Not for many moons. Swing it, and it will sing like new steel until the wind changes."

Croc dug into his pouch and set down twenty gold coins. "Tell me how that works."

The merchant blinked. Then smiled wider.

He explained: enchantments—the art of binding magical effects to objects. Soul gems, the fuel of it all. That the axe had been forged by a Redguard smith and kissed by a minor enchanter's flame using a petty soul. Nothing powerful. Just enough to last for seasons.

Croc listened, nodding.

"How much?" he asked.

"For such generosity?" Ra'zirr bowed. "Four hundred."

Croc dropped the coins. Didn't flinch.

Didn't ask for change.

Ra'zirr looked like he might cry.

Croc turned.

Took both bundles.

And vanished into the mist before they could ask his name.

This is the argioan community pov

Part III: "The Morning He Was Gone"

The quarter woke slow.

Rain had fallen in the night, light and steady. It left the roofs slick and the walkways shining like carved oilstone. Frogs sang low and lazy in the reeds. The lanterns were still lit, their flames dimmed but not gone.

Bryska-Tei was first to notice.

She stepped out of her hut with her shawl over one shoulder and stopped dead.

The woodpile, stacked to her chin.

Perfectly split.

Cured. Dry.

Arranged like a wall against the coming cold.

She said nothing at first.

Just stared at it.

Then walked to the food cache.

Opened one lid.

Stopped again.

Grain cakes. Dried fish. Sealed eel. Water barrels, still warm from being boiled and cooled.

She opened a second crate. Found roots. Salted meat. Even herbs wrapped in cloth.

It wasn't just full.

It was prepared.

"Keesa," she called, not loudly.

The child came running.

Then stopped.

Eyes wide.

"…He left, didn't he?" she whispered.

Bryska didn't answer.

Because she didn't have to.

They found the letters an hour later.

One tacked to the side of the water barrel:

"Don't burn the green batch. It'll smoke."

One folded on a crate lid:

"Roof still leaks. Hook's sharp now."

Another under a rock beside Keesa's favorite frog trap:

"Frogs talk. Just real quiet. Keep listening."

Each written in rough, blocky Common. Crooked lettering. Misspelled words.

But it was his hand.

His words.

His voice.

Shahvee didn't speak to anyone when she found hers.

It was folded clean.

Pinned beneath a claw.

She recognized the mark—he had carved it days ago, absentmindedly, into a fence post while they worked.

The paper smelled like smoke and pine oil.

She read it once.

Then twice.

Then folded it.

Didn't cry.

Didn't smile.

Just… sat with it.

Alone.

That day, no one mentioned his name.

No one asked when he'd return.

But when someone passed the fire pit, they refilled it with fresh kindling.

When someone took food, they left a little in trade.

And when Keesa whispered a prayer to the Hist that night, she added a line:

"…And if he finds monsters, make them wish they stayed in bed."

Part IV: "The Distant Shape"

It was early evening when the fog rolled in thick over the marsh.

No one thought much of it—mist came and went. The wind tugged at the lanterns. The frogs had gone quiet. The reeds bowed gently.

But then someone stopped.

A child. Keesa.

She was staring across the walkway, toward the edge of the marsh where the grass turned dark and the water deepened.

A shape was moving through the mist.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Heavy.

She didn't speak. Just watched.

Then ran.

Bryska was the first adult to step out.

She saw it too—tall, broad, dragging a satchel and a long wrapped object across his back. Something else glinted against his chest.

She said nothing.

Didn't call out.

Didn't need to.

By the time he reached the community square, they were waiting.

All of them.

Croc didn't pause.

He walked to the edge of the square where Old Stirh-Kel sat sharpening a broken blade with one hand.

The old Argonian looked up.

Croc reached into the wrap on his back and pulled free the axe.

Steel. Ebony-handled. Polished. Glinting faintly.

He handed it over.

"Won't dull," he muttered.

Stirh-Kel stared at it.

Took it.

Ran a finger across the edge.

His frill twitched in something like awe.

He nodded once. Didn't speak.

Croc turned.

Walked to where Keesa stood barefoot in the mud.

She opened her mouth—but then just held out her arms.

He placed the doll in her hands.

Hand-stitched. Soft. Beautiful.

She looked at it for a long moment.

Then looked up.

"You're back."

He nodded.

"That's good," she said. And hugged his leg.

Croc moved on.

He reached into his satchel again. Pulled free a smaller pouch.

It jingled.

He walked to the common storehouse—a low, sun-bleached shack where they pooled trade goods and coin for dry season prep.

Without ceremony, he dropped the pouch onto the table inside.

It spilled open.

Gold.

Dozens. Maybe hundreds.

No one counted it.

No one needed to.

He turned.

Walked across the square, back to the edge of the community.

His shed stood crooked, roof caved in on one side, planks warped with rot.

He stopped in front of it.

Turned to two older Argonians nearby.

"Need your tools."

One of them blinked.

The other handed him a hammer without asking.

Croc grabbed it.

Rolled his shoulders.

And started working.

Fifteen minutes passed.

He didn't stop.

Didn't slow.

Then he heard footsteps.

Turned.

Shahvee stood there.

She didn't say a word.

She held the amulet in one hand. Her eyes were soft. Fierce. Proud.

She tucked the amulet into her belt.

Grabbed a chisel from the pile of tools.

And stepped beside him.

Neither of them spoke.

They just worked.

And for the first time In his life and since Croc arrived in this world—

He didn't feel like a visitor.

He felt like he belong.