#rahgot

[pinessydr]

You need this quiz

I've made this. I have no regrets. Your Skyrim is an otome game.

[plesiosaurys]

fought him yesterday and had to pause to make this

[comradeacerbus]

I spent an unhealthy amount of time pulling together headcanons for what the mainland dragon priests looked like before they died. Also miraak is there because I’m playing with his design. Again.

[liches-covered-in-lich]

//slams head on desk

I finished this stupid ref AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Anyway, here's a Rahgot Design Reference that I'll be using for my fic :D

Like my work? Check out my kofi!

[cryinngcat]

Next chapter out!!! It’s a kinda short one. I’m reeealllyyy looking forward to getting into the fun stuff, but for now we gotta work on getting there.

[lilarus]

Rahgot for @pinessydr !!

Fur, overshirt, and cape are all fabrics (fur - faux fur, overshirt - either satin or lining fabric, cape - velvet) and the zig zags are embroidered on!

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

Meet me at midnight to see how dark we can take this crackship

Only, not as dark as I thought it could be? Oh well, @elder-dragon-reposes REALLY liked it! I mean really.

ao3 | masterlist

Her footsteps on the stair were not the first inkling he had of her presence in his tomb.

There was a shift in the air, a whisper through the stagnant corridors hissing of a presence that had not been in the halls of Forelhost since the Traitor was a young acolyte in the Order. But as alike as her presence was to that lir, there was something light that was entirely this being, this volaan that was all her own.

He would handle her. Did he not handle the Nordic invaders long ago?

"You know how you dealt with the last wave of volaan."

Froda's ghost sneers in his hollow ear, a draft that persisted in invading his chamber even after millennia. He snarls into the darkness, and silence falls again.

Tremors worble through the air, sometimes brushing the stones and at others, pressing against his ears. The volaan's encroachment into the catacombs was neither explosive nor vivid. If he weren't so attuned to the wards and runes of Forelhost, he would not have known she was there until it was too late.

Time passes. It creeps forward, frost covering the ground with the advancing winter. A chill curls down his withered spine, coiling in his chest with the harshness of a cold drake. He could taste the blizzard building in the air the closer the volaan came. He would last through her winter, just as he did others before.

"You call this outlasting the winter? It has broken you, wuth jul."

The whisper dissipates, but the growing chill does not. It permeates the stone so that frostbite threatens the dead nerves of his skin. The temperture continues to drop.

Hours pass.

Then, with a gust of icy wind, the doors open. The volaan arrives.

"Will you kill her, then?" Yes. "What a shame."

He prepared to rise, to release the ward sealing his sarcophagus, and burst into the room in a blaze of glory. But then Froda's words touched him. Why was it a shame?

Power coiled in the air, the crick shrrr hiss of ice crystals drifting through the air and shattering on the dusty stone. Dusty stones in a broken temple at the heart of a fallen city, dedicated to dead gods and a forgotten religion. Long ago, was Forelhost not the last remnant of the Dragon Cult's power? And now what was left, but dust and bone and shattered stone? Yes, yes, it would be a shame. It would be a great shame to meet such power, only to incinerate it.

Rahgot would not join the ashes on the altar to his god.

He feels her skirt the room, her chill pushing back against the heat of his wards. Closer and closer she came to him. What to do when she arrived?

Her hand on the lid was a shard of arctic ice. In life, he was familiar with the clever men and mages' magic lurking under their skin, leaving tell tale signs of each person's strngths--and weakness--in the arcane. But hers was not subtle; it was a raging storm.

IF he concentrates hard enough, he can recall a similar potency in the Traitor's presence, electric and biting in its intensity.

Both are a storm.

Dovahkiin . . .

His whisper is kiss of warmth through the coolness. He can feel her hesitate above him, and he thinks he moved in error. She was leaving. He should have remained silent.

But then the lid is sliding, solid and heavy, to the floor. Snowflakes flutter into his sarcophagus, and Rahgot sees the Dovahkiin for the first time.

He is struck by her resemblance to the Traitor, chestnut curls framing an almost golden face, wherein sat a pair of eyes so blue that the sky would weep with envy.

But yet, there is a softness in her face that wasn't present in the Traitor's, a light in the eye and draw of the mouth that spoke of exhaustion and perseverance. Where the Traitor was full of pride, this woman, this fahlil was patiance.

Where the Traitor came and went with the flash of a summer storm, hers was the long cold that seized Atmora and threatened to outlast the world.

"She'll outlast you."

But Froda's warning goes ignored.

Her hand is on the staff. Though he has not wielded it since beyond the reach of mortal memory, its heart of flame still burns like an inferno. Her mouth purses when her hand grips the stave, its heat daring to thaw the permafrost under her skin.

It is as she draws her hand back, steam curling around her finger tips, that he takes the staff in familiar hands and rises from the grave.

The Dovahkiin stumbles back, her ring-clad hand held to her chest as his presence looms before her. He can taste the power trailing from his staff to her hand.

It is quick. It is almost easy. Vahlok did not have such a fortunate confrontation. Rahgot is up and over her in a vengeful blaze.

She drops to the floor, not in defeat, but to escape his fire, and Rahgot descends--

--but she is not there. In a whirl of smoke, he turns to find her poised on the side of his coffin, ice gathered in her hands. Her face is hard, her eyes frozen.

YOL TOR SHUL! "FO KRAH DIIN!"

The songs of fire and ice meet and burst against each other, dousing the chamber in a blanket of steam. He hears her gasp at the heavy air.

But a lich does not need air, nor does he need to see.

As she stumbles backward into his sarcophagus, Rahgot falls on her, a smothering shadow. She screams when his spidery hands find the collar of her armor and the pillar of golden skin above it.

"FEIM—"

But his hand crushes her windpipe, silencing the Thu'um in her mouth. Her eyes are blown wide, sightless in the dark.

How simple, how exquisite it was to have a creature so full of power within his hands.

She is bound up in a hard shell of silver ice, but Rahgot would see to that later. His hand still on her throat, he traces the other over her face, cresting over sharp elven bones and soft mannish cheeks. He reaches her ear, and feels a tremor in her throat when his finger catches on the leaftip.

Long ago, they said Traitor's power was born from dovah sos in his veins. At the time, Rahgot did not, would not believe such a blasphemy to the gods. But over the long ages in rumination with nothing but Froda's ghost and the mountain winds to haunt his ears, he pondered the possibility of a true Dovahkiin.

Now he believed, and now he holds one in his hands. A goddess in a mortal's skin. The power of the gods could be, would be his!

"You are a fool, Rahgot."

His hiss is ghastly, banishing Froda's ghost to the fringes and washing over the Dovahkiin's face in a cloud of decay. She gags beneath him. In retaliation, he pinches her ear between two bony fingers, and she chokes, gasping.

But it wouldn't do to kill the goddess of his new religion before he's preached his message. He would seal her in his own coffin as he prepared his ascension to a new priesthood.

His wards hold the lid in place, sealing the Dovahkiin without suffocating her. He would return for her soon, but first—

There is a gasp, a brush of frost, and then from the confines of the coffin, a whispy voice Shouts, her Thu'um penetrating through stone and death.

Rahgot rounds on the tomb, pivoting from his place on the stairs from his funerary dias. But it is too late. The Shout has burst from the air into the bones of Nirn itself.

"OD AH VIING!"

Odahviing tugs at a distant thread in the long tapestry of Rahgot's memory with the strength of iron tongs pulling teeth.

Odahviing. His old master.

But how did—?

"You've sworn fealty to your own doom."

Froda's taunting voice dances in his ears as thunder rumbles in the distance. The sarcophagus on the dias is still, but dust and debris fall from the ceiling like rain. Rahgot draws back, his staff raised to meet whatever new being threatened his sanctum.

"You know what's coming."

There was a crack! followed by a heavy crash. Dust choked the air, bitter in the cold and lingering smoke steam. Then, early morning light filters in, thin and golden. In its midst is a horned head and sharpened claw. Claws that would destroy Forelhost.

"Rahgot, mey! My teeth to your neck!"

THe roof was gone, and morning sun flooded the chambers, catching on the dust motes like magicka in the air. The smoke and steam dispersed quickly, and Rahgot, for the first time in nearly five thousand years, saw his god face to face.

Of all the dov, Odahviing was always a fierce and active ruler. Always quick to action and swift to speak his thoughts. Rahgot always knew his recklessness was why he fell in the war with the Nords. But before, Odahviing was a stalwart supporter of Alduin Thuri. His priesthood followed the example set by the High Priests in Bromjunaar. He sent lesser dov to heed Alduin's call against the Traitor.

Yet here he was, heeding the call of a weak fahlil with the blood of the gods. Why—?

But Rahgot could not ponder it any longer. His master was in the chamber. A large, brilliantly formed dovah, Odahviing's size forced Rahgot to sweep back across the cracked floor, all too aware of the heat and strength of a dragon's body. But his god did not look at him.

Odahviing's claws were prying open the lid. It fell away and he lowered his snout. Rahgot could just see small golden hands grasp at the crimson scales.

"Odahviing, I can't breathe—"

Her voice, faint, speaks a language Rahgot doesn't know. But whatever she says to the dovah turns the horned head in his direction. Odahviing is snarling.

"Mey lir, Rahgot! Ruth hi!" Odahviing, thur—

But the jaws are on him. As his bones are broken by his god's teeth, Rahgot sees the Dovahkiin sitting up. in his coffin, her arms draped over the side as she tries to catch her breath. Her hair is a whirlwind and her eyes crystal. What a ravishing goddess she would have made!

Her eyes catch his through the slits of his mask. Her face is as green as the cold orichalcum. But then her mouth turns up, a sneer, and she resembles the Traitor so utterly that Rahgot, for the first time in countless ages, grew truly cold.

"Save his mask for me, won't you, darling?" "Geh, Judsedov."

Rahgot doesn't know what the Dovahkiin says to Odahviing, but his god calls the fahlil the Queen of the Dov. The Queen.

His last thought was that she was already a goddess, and Odahviing, a god in his own right, was her loyal priest.

Froda's laughter is the last thing Rahgot hears over the rumble of the dovah's throat and the crunch of his own bones.

When the mask falls to the floor, bereft of its priest, it is several long minutes before Leara can muster the strength to retrieve it. Even then, Odahviing offers his head to help support her, and he guides her across the floor.

Picking it up, Leara fingers the cold orichalcum, tired.

"What happened?" "Well . . ."

She trailed off, warm and comfortable against Odahviing but embarrassed to continue. At Odahviing's gentle huff, she relents.

"He caught me off guard. I tried to stand on the coffin for leverage, and then the bloody lich tripped me up." "Lech." "What was that?" "Nothing, Kunziiyol."

Sighing, Leara turns her face into the warmth of Odahviing's snout.

"Let's go home."

Guiding the Dragonborn to the safe hollow at the base of his neck, Odahviing takes flight, leaving the ruins of Forelhost and the Dragon Cult behind.

"Drat, I forgot about the Word Wall!" "Ruth, vahdin."

fin

[ego-osbourne]

Rahgot (Gift)

Happy (now belated) birthday to my buddy @liches-covered-in-lich ! God I hope you know how happy i am to have met you. Your spunk and headstrong-ness radiates confidence and reminds me to think better of myself and my creations. Your stories of blatant horror and terror are shamelessly bloody and full of beautiful metaphors. Though this bastard is the stinkiest man on the planet, your ability to make us love-HATE him is unmatched. Compelling conflict in writing is your specialty, and it inspires me so.

I hope you had a great birthday! Much love <33

[eosofspades]

information/powers below v

Hevnoraak: immunity to disease and poison

Krosis: +20% to lockpicking, archery, and alchemy

Morokei: +100% magicka regeneration

Nahkriin: +50 magicka, -20% restoration and destruction cost

Otar: +30% fire, frost, and shock resistance

Rahgot: +70 stamina

Vokun: -20% alteration, conjuration, and illusion cost

Volsung: +20 carry limit, +20% better prices, and waterbreathing

Konahrik: when health is low, may heal you and damage enemies

[hellshire-harlot]

I’m on a Skyrim hyperfixation kick and per usual it’s mainly about the Dragon Cult so: Headshots of all known Dragon Priests (plus three fan made!) and headcanons about them! Presented from oldest to youngest:

Nahkriin. His name means ‘Vengeance’, a fitting name for the Priest of Alduin. He lives in solitude within Skuldafn, tending to his duties unerringly. He is stern but not overly cruel, and his few friends (mainly Ahzidal) know that the stony exterior hides a surprising inclination for harmless mischief. He is Apothisexual and Quoiromantic, and uses He/Him.

Otar. They are the only named Priest whose name does not translate, and that is because Otar is actually their birth name and not the name given to them by the Dragons. Once known as Hahdrem, meaning Mind, they were Nahkriin’s little sibling and a fair, successful ruler. But their desire not to be lost in their brother’s shadow led to them entering into a pact with Clavicus Vile, a pact that drove them mad and plunged their city into ruin. They ages more visibly than any other Priest because they refused to wear their Mask after losing their mind. They are a sex-indifferent Asexual and Panromantic, and use They/He.

Hevnoraak. His name means Brutal, and he more than lives up to that title. He was a vicious and cruel overlord who ruled with terror, brutalizing dissidents and any who stood against him. Like most Priests, he had a harem of concubines, but his particular harem was infamous for being comprised mainly of prisoners whom he found particularly enticing. His bloodthirstiness led to him attempting to become an undead Lich far ahead of the plan to entomb the Priests and reawaken them upon Alduin’s return, and so his city was evacuated and a nord hero was sent to stop him, sealing Valthume and keeping Hevnoraak trapped. He is Bisexual and uses He/Him.

Suleyk. One of my three Priest OCs, his name means Power, a name he earned frighteningly fast. His prowess in battle, defeating every enemy thrown his way and leading the charge in several key battles in the name of the Dragons, made his catch the attention of the other Priests. He was bestowed with the Mask of Heart Stone, and bound to serve the Dragon Krifmulzii. He is a mix of Nahkriin and Hevnoraak- stern and strong, but neither stoic nor sadistic. He is Cupiosexual and Straight, and uses He/Him.

Morokei. His name translates to Glorious, and it’s no wonder why. He is the most magically gifted of the Priests, rivaled only by Ahzidal. It was he who recovered the Staff of Magnus from Saarthal and used it to drive back the Snow Elves. He and his beloved little sister, Tulnir, rule over Bromjunaar with wisdom and grace. He prefers to spend him time reading, studying, or practicing the arcane arts, rather than warmongering with his peers. He is Graysexual and Polyromantic, and uses He/Him.

Zaan the Scalecaller. Her name means Shout, given to her for her rallying cry and her charisma. A stern, devoted woman, she swore her life and the lives of her people to serving her Dragon Patron, Thurvokun. She was strong, her faith in the cause completely unrelenting, until Thurvokun vanished without a trace. In his absence, her devotion became anguish became rage, and to spite the Dragons, she turned to Peryite, forsaking the Dragon Cult entirely. She is Polarsexual and Lesbian, and uses She/Her. (Fun fact: Zaan is the only canon female Dragon Priest!)

Zahkriisos. Their name means Bloody Sword, a name they chose to honor their heritage from the Bloodskal Clan. They were born in the peninsula of Solstheim, and spent their life studying shock magic. Unlike their peers, they kept largely to themself, quiet and introverted. Under Miraak’s tutelage, they rose to great power, and even followed him down the path of rebellion against the Dragons. However, unlike Miraak, they were swayed by Vahlok and remained in power after his defeat. This was mainly due to their relationship with Rahgot, their partner whom they couldn’t bear to betray. They are sex and romance-indifferent aroace, and use They/Them.

Vosis. His name was difficult to translate, but I believe it means Blood Undone. He and Krosis are siblings, but of the two, Vosis is far and away the troublemaker of the pair. Famous for his mischief, he nonetheless served the Dragons faithfully, and generally ruled fairly. Though when put together, he and his little sister were well known for the chaos they wrought. He is Pansexual and uses He/They.

Britfaaz. Another of my OCs, her name translates to Beautiful Pain, an indication of her famous dichotomy. Well-known for her radiant beauty and mercy, something uncharacteristic for a Priest, she was one of the most beloved of the Priests, and wore a Mask of Stalhrim. While merciful and kind she may have been, tales are also told of the horrors she inflicted upon those who wronged her or her people. Unlike some other Priests, she genuinely cared for each of her citizens. She is Demisexual and Panromantic, and uses She/Her.

Rahgot. Their name means Anger, a fitting name for one of the most volatile Priests. While known for snapping at others and being quick to rage, they were also able to hold their tongue and govern wisely, often coming up with creative solutions other Priests hadn’t even considered. Their better half, Zahkriisos, often facilitated this, but that’s not to say that either of them were on their best behavior when together. They were also known for sparring frequently with other Priests to train, most commonly Vokun, whom they shared a complicated frenemy relationship with. They are Bisexual and Demiromantic, and use They/Them.

I’ve reached the image limit, so part 2 to this post will come soon!

[pinessydr]

POV you were invited to one of the temple rituals

[darling-leech]

Meet the Reinhold triplets! From top to bottom it's Eiluned Lorelai Reinhold(Oldest Triplet), Eidyth Lilita Reinhold("Middle Child"), and Eanid Lachesis Reinhold(Third Triplet)! They're some of my AU The Last Dragonborns! All three are Half Nord and Half Snow Elf! Eiluned is a Vampire but the other two aren't a vampire(nor werewolf). Eanid is Blind, so her staff is also her cane. *They also may or may not be descendants of Rahgot. 👀👀👀👀*

XXXX - Artist that drew Eiluned.

XXXX - Artist that drew Eidyth

XXXX - Artist that drew Eanid.

[firebastardextraordinaire]

I had @pinessydr for secret Santa and I drew their two bombshell blorbos Morokei and Rahgot!

Ngl I’m still not over how pretty Rahgot is

[garnetcoloredsky]

Do I need to write a fic about the Dragon Priests? No. Does it even really need a map? Also no. But I did it anyway.

Colors are the canon holds in 4E, but not every hold has a priest/some have two, so I wiggled their domains (the black outlines) a bit.

HC though that when one of the eight ditched, minor priests got their spot, so Vokun/Volsung got Miraak’s and Ahzidal’s. (They are the babies of the group, to me.) Also, like, Nahkriin got Ahzidal’s hold added to his own when Ahzidal got exiled, Morokei got Miraak’s, etc. Lots of politics were happening in the years before the wars. And after, Rahgot took over Zaan’s, not that it did him any good. Not enough dragon priests to go around. (I know there were more but I’m not naming SHIT, so I’m gonna pretend there’s only 15 of importance and if they all ruled a little more land than was feasible…we’re gonna ignore it…)

Now I gotta figure out where all the cities were. Ya know, other than Saarthal, Windhelm, and Bromjunaar. And name some other landmarks. Probably just gonna use the ruins tbh

[liches-covered-in-lich]

🌩️

🌧️Share something angsty from your WIP! From here!

A mini exert from a section of my fic that I will get to in...maybe 15 chapters JKDFSDGF

Thanks for the ask btw! :D

~~~~

CW: Blood, Gore, Mentions of a toxic relationship, Bones, teeth were busted

“I fucking hate you.”

“Do you?”

Rahgot’s broken grin curled to an obscene amount as Elyden hooked his claws around the man’s collarbones. His once pearly whites were crooked and knocked out of his bleeding mouth. 

“Yes.” Elyden sneered as he gripped harder into the bone that was beginning to bulge past the pale skin. “Your mother should’ve swallowed you from the afterthought of your father’s short stains.” 

The dragon priest burst out laughing. His howls indiscernible from pain and mocking as Elyden mercilessly dug deeper into his bones. Nails acting as hooks, Elyden dug underneath the atmoran’s bones to get a better grip for them. 

“If you want to hurt me, you have to try a lot harder than that, Dragonborn.” Rahgot’s eyes were red from tears and eyelids wide open. As if Elyden had stretched out and sewn that lids to forever stay wide open. It was a tempting thought. 

Elyden had rarely ever seen Rahgot display anything but his smug scorn for others. Even behind that mask, his teeth were always elongated out into a smile. His fangs sharpened like his tongue as he happily tore people down with his words. Thin eyes perked up in a cat-like precision as he watched everyone’s movements and criticized each breath. 

He hated that man. Despised his very presence. Spat at the sound of his name. Gagged at the smell of pine mulch. Detested his harsh tone. Abhorred his scratchy voice. Loathed his cold hands and warm hands. Revolted at the idea of letting Rahgot back into his bed once more. Idolized the feeling of being yearned for, even if it was just so that Rahgot could brag that ‘he got to shag the Last Dragonborn’. 

Even as lonely Elyden has been for the past few decades — Rahgot whimpered as Elyden tugged at the collarbone, beautifully mixed with the snapping of flesh  — nothing has been worth this.

A crack of old bone that was carved eras ago with old magic.

Something akin to a cry finally spilled out of Rahgot’s vile throat.

Curling around his steady hands that were stained of lukewarm blood, Elyden pulled. 

~~~

[deathswcrn-a]

Tore squinted - she didn't exactly hide what her reaction was, and he could see the bob of her throat, the way she froze with the whites of her eyes visible. Fear - she knew that name, and he didn't know where she'd heard it - evidently, not since they'd been together. But wherever and whenever she did hear it, she clearly knew he wouldn't like the result. She was slick, but not quite that slick.

"You've heard that name before," he said, turning to look at her, his expression unreadable, the words slow and pointed. "You know where I can find Rahgot, don't you? You know where his tomb is." He stepped towards her suddenly, taking her shoulders in his hands, his expression suddenly pleading and desperate.

"Sigrid, I need you to tell me what you know. If there's a chance-" if there's a chance- a slim one, but one nonetheless, "- a remote chance I can find Hrothmar and bring him back, you have no idea what it would mean. For me. For us." Gods, to have Hrothmar back, the boy he raised from a thrall to a priest because of the sheer potential he showed to lead the cult to greatness - beside and below Tore, of course. They would have two priests, one completely loyal to Tore, and one he could trust to share the load with.

Rahgot.

She froze.

In hindsight, it was inevitable that of the dragon cult tombs she'd picked through, of the draugr and undead priests she'd encountered and killed despite the panic surging through her veins like electricity, he'd known some of them. They had been the leaders of the cult in his time, and from what she'd gathered, were undying monstrosities even then, though perhaps they looked it a bit less.

But for him to have trained one of them? That was a surprise. Rahgot had been the owner of the mask she picked up in... Forelhost, that was it, in the mountains south of Riften. The last stand of the old ways, where they had finally sputtered and died, drowned in a barrel of poison. A ruin filled with unquiet ghosts, and a dragon priest full of rage.

A dragon priest she had slain, taking the mask as a trophy.

She swallowed hard. "Sorry, could you repeat that? What was his name?"