13. Croc side of the tomb
The Path the Hist Foretold
The Hist did not speak in sentences.
It pulsed.
It breathed through root and marrow.
It whispered with feeling, not words.
And one cold morning, as Croc stood waist-deep in the misted swamp, the Hist moved inside him.
He saw stone and snow.
A broken gate.
Old power. Forgotten words.
A tomb built not to honor—but to hide.
And something inside it calling him.
Later that day, he stood before the circle of elders. The sun filtered down through vines and smoke, casting their scales in shifting gold.
"The Hist calls," he said simply.
Gorran's jaw tensed.
Bryska-Tei inhaled through gill-slits. "The last time the Hist stirred with this strength… a tribe was saved."
"It does not stir lightly," Mishi-Tei added. "Go. Be what it sees in you."
Croc packed lightly.
Food. Tools. The old blade Shahvee had gifted him, small in his hand but warm from memory.
He found her tending the morning fire.
They stood for a long time without words.
She offered him a pouch of bark and healing grass. He accepted it gently.
"I knew you'd leave again," she said, smiling, but her voice trembled.
"I will return."
She stepped closer, placing her hand just over his heart.
"When the Hist sings," she whispered, "I'll know where you are."
The journey was long.
He passed hunters and couriers and saw riverwood only from a distance.
Then snow.
Then stone.
Then the tower.
They blocked the trail—three of them. Treasure hunters. Bandits by another name. One asked what he was.
The others asked if he'd brought coin.
One drew a blade.
Ten minutes later, the tower was quiet again.
Its front collapsed.
Three bodies were broken, one headless, one buried under shattered stone.
Croc stood at the threshold of the path beyond.
He did not speak.
Did not linger.
He simply stepped over the wreckage—
And continued toward Bleak Falls.
The Threshold Broken
Snow crunched underfoot.
Croc emerged from the thinning fog, the barrow looming above—black stone and broken spires jagged against the sky.
At the wide steps, six bandits lounged around a fire, weapons close, eyes lazier than they should've been.
One stood as Croc approached.
"You lost, lizard?"
Croc said nothing.
Another stood, this one with a bow. "Nice tail. Maybe we carve it off and sell it as exotic meat."
Croc kept walking.
The first bandit stepped forward and drew steel.
"Alright, let's—"
Croc lunged.
No warning.
No roar.
Just motion—silent and monstrous.
His claw tore open the speaker's throat in one swing, blood spraying hot across the snow.
The bowman screamed and let fly—
Thunk.
The arrow hit—but bounced.
His scales didn't break.
Croc was already moving again.
He vanished into a low sprint, sweeping the bowman's legs from beneath him with a wide swing of his tail. The man's back cracked against the stone.
A third tried to flee.
Croc leapt.
Landed on him mid-run.
Fangs sank into his shoulder—ripped, twisted.
The scream was short.
Two more charged.
Croc caught a blade on his forearm—barely a scratch.
He grabbed the wielder's wrist.
Squeezed.
Bones shattered like dry wood.
He lifted the screaming man by the arm and slammed him into the stone steps once.
Then again.
Then nothing.
The last bandit—a woman with twin daggers—tried to run around him.
Croc turned, grabbed her by the back of her coat—
And flung her.
She struck the old stone door.
Hard.
Then slumped.
Still.
The wind howled briefly.
Croc stood alone.
Among steam rising from torn snow.
Weapons scattered.
Corpses leaking heat.
He walked past them in silence.
And stepped into the barrow.
Echoes of the Barrow
The Draugr lay crumpled at his feet, its ribcage crushed in, weapon still clenched in one twitching hand.
Croc stood still.
Letting the tension bleed from his shoulders.
But then—
He felt it.
Behind him.
Something… humming.
Low.
Old.
He turned.
The stone wall glowed.
Letters—three of them—carved in ancient tongues, pulsing with blue fire. They rose from the surface like heat off sunbaked stone, curling and spinning in the air.
Then they struck him.
One. Two. Three.
Like gusts of wind.
They flew into his chest.
Through his skull.
And something inside him opened.
He staggered back a step.
His claws dug into the earth.
There was no pain—only pressure. As if a dam had cracked somewhere behind his lungs.
Power. Old and waiting.
And familiar.
He didn't speak.
Didn't move.
He simply stood there, breathing deeply.
And then—
He smelled them.
Footsteps echoed down the hall.
Then came the voices.
"I don't see the loot—"
"Be quiet—"
Croc looked up.
Two figures entered the chamber.
Both Argonian and Nord.
The Argonian was large—but wrong. Too bulky. A layer of fat padded out the muscle in useless places. His tail dragged clumsily behind him. His eyes shone with misplaced confidence.
Croc blinked slowly.
No discipline. No threat.
The bulky one stepped forward.
Raised a warhammer like it weighed too much for his grip.
"Out of the way, boss. I'm here for the chest."
Croc tilted his head.
He didn't move.
The other Argonian huffed.
Then charged.
Croc pivoted.
His tail lashed once.
CRACK.
The hammer slipped. The Argonian flew.
Straight into the far wall.
Unconscious.
Unimpressive.
Croc's eyes flicked to the Nord.
Bloodied.
Silent.
Older.
That one…
he watched.
Then whispered something—arcane.
His axe shimmered.
Blue light surged over the haft.
Ghostly steel wrapped around the old blade—melding to it.
Two axes. One soul.
The Nord lowered into a stance.
Then leapt.
And Croc raised his claws.
Clash of warriors
The moment Ralof left the ground, he knew:
This was going to hurt.
He tucked low, axe raised—not to cleave, but to catch. To disrupt. He wasn't trying to win. He was trying to test the monster in front of him.
The shimmering ghost axe coiled around the edge of his woodcutter's haft, humming with daedric energy.
And then—
Impact.
Croc stepped into the blow.
Not back.
His claws struck up from below, catching the descending axe in a parry that rattled Ralof's spine.
Ralof flipped mid-air, landed hard on both feet—and slashed again.
Left. Right.
High. Low.
He moved like a trained brawler, fast despite the pain still in his ribs, despite the blood in his mouth.
Croc matched him.
One step.
One block.
Every counter was measured.
No waste.
No excess.
Like he wasn't trying to kill.
Like he was listening.
Ralof ducked under a tail swing.
Then spun inside Croc's guard and hooked his axe upward, cutting a clean line across Croc's scaled cheek.
Croc blinked.
Touched the blood.
Then smiled—just slightly.
"Glad we understand each other," Ralof muttered, panting.
Standing back ralof raised his axe and leaped at croc who moved his hand up
Ralof's leap met Croc's raised claw—
But the spectral axe was faster.
The ghost-wrapped edge bit deep into Croc's hand, severing two fingers.
Croc roared—not in pain, but instinct—and lashed out with his tail.
Ralof ducked, pivoted—
And struck low and wide.
The blade caught the base of Croc's tail—
And sliced through it.
Clean.
Blood hit the stone in a wide arc.
Croc staggered once, his balance shifting. He pivoted hard, spun—and slammed his clawed hand across Ralof's face. Ralof tried to parry with his axe but the blade shattered from the blow
There was a flash of pain.
Then black.
Ralof collapsed onto the stone, blood pouring from a deep slash that split his forehead and cheek, gouging his right eye entirely.
His breath came in gurgled gasps.
His hands shook.
He could feel the eye missing, the wound pulsing.
His axe lay beside him.
Broken again.
Croc stood over him.
One hand gone.
Tail twitching behind him—then twitching no more, only spurting blood at the severed end.
He looked down.
Then—
He laughed.
A low, rasping chuckle.
Soft.
Short.
But real.
"You fight," Croc said at last. His voice was deeper than stone. "Not for glory."
Ralof groaned. "No."
"You fought like you knew you'd lose."
"I did."
Croc knelt—favoring his only hand.
He placed the broken axe back beside Ralof.
"Worth it," he said.
Then he turned.
And limped away, disappearing into the echoing dark.
Not in shame.
Not in fear.
But in satisfaction.
Ralof lay still.
One eye to the ceiling.
His face broken. His soul intact.
And for the first time in days—
He felt alive.
The Blood That Speaks
The wind hit his chest like a wall of knives.
Snow stung his wounds.
But he didn't stop.
Croc limped down the ancient stone steps of the tomb.
His balance was broken.No tail.No left arm.
That limb ended now in a blood-soaked stump, half-wrapped in the remains of his belt, the bone inside still warm from sealing heat and divine instinct.
His right hand—the only one left—clenched at his side.
Trembling.
Not from fear.
From survival.
Every step was wrong.
His body moved like a ship with a broken keel.
His weight sagged to one side.
But his jaw stayed locked.
And his eyes stayed open.
Behind him, the ruins moaned.
Bleak Falls Barrow would remember him—not as a conqueror, but as proof.
That flesh could fail.
That pain could scar.
And still—the will could remain.
He walked because the Hist told him to.
Not in words.
Not in dreams.
But in something deeper.
He had felt it in the moment the axe severed his arm.
In the second his tail hit stone.
In the heartbeat where he chose not to kill the Nord.
The Hist hadn't sent him to destroy.
It had sent him to become.
At the base of the slope, he stopped.
The snow piled around his feet.
His breath came shallow.
Steam poured from the stump where his arm had been.
He looked at the sky, pale and shivering.
And spoke, in broken Jel:
"Het-Va. Uxith-totl."
(I remain. The path endures.)
Then he turned.
And walked.
Bleeding.
Bent.
But undefeated.
The Root That Remains
The village was quiet when he arrived.
Just past dusk.
Frogs sang in low chords across the marsh, and fires burned softly in open pits.
Croc emerged from the fog like a ghost made of scale and steam.
Blood caked one side of his body. His tail stump dragged behind him, leaving a smear in the grass.
His left arm was gone at the elbow, wrapped tight in crude bandage and dried reeds.
He didn't cry out.
He didn't limp.
He just walked.
Step by step.
Until she saw him.
"K-Kroc?"
The voice was tiny.
Afraid.
Keesha stood frozen by the edge of the firepit, a half-carved reed doll in her hands.
Her eyes widened.
She dropped it.
And ran.
Her little arms wrapped around his shin, holding on with shaking fingers.
"You're hurt!" she sobbed. "You're all broken—your arm is gone—your tail is—!"
Croc looked down at her.
Then slowly knelt.
His breath hissed between his fangs.
But he smiled.
"I'll be fine," he said, voice soft. "The Hist is mending me."
She sniffled. "But your arm—"
He unwrapped it.
Gasps rippled behind them.
More villagers had gathered—elders, traders, even the silent hunters.
All watching.
Because beneath the wrapping—
flesh was regrowing.
The bone had already knit halfway.
A stub of scaled muscle pulsed, alive.
Tendons stretched in slow, unnatural spirals like vines reaching for the sun.
Mishi-Tei stepped forward.
Whispered, "No Argonian has ever grown back a limb."
Bryska-Tei nodded slowly.
"That is not just the Hist's gift."
"It's a sign."
Croc looked at them.
At Keesha.
And at the stump of his slowly growing arm.
Then said quietly:
"I am not what I was."
Keesha hugged him tighter.
"I don't care."
The others didn't speak.
They didn't cheer.
They didn't cry.
They simply knelt, one by one.
In the dark, in the wet, in the firelight.
Before the one who returned not as warrior—
But as becoming.