Meme Announcements!

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ANNOUNCEMENTS: UPDATED 12/16/2017

Happy Holidays, fellow Kinkmemers! I have returned and have no reasonable excuse for my absence except LIFE. I will be working on updating the archives. If anyone sees anything amiss, please let me know.

I am also hoping to find another Mod and an Archivist.

The more dedicated people we have in this Meme the less chance of it dying. I admit that being the sole keeper of the Meme is not great for the fandom. If something were to happen to me, for good, this place would go the way of the Fallout Kink Meme. Let's not let that happen! If anyone would be interested in Modding/Archiving, please drop me a line. Thanks! <3

Comments

Re: Fire and Potions - 72/?

[(Anonymous)]

The robed figure chuckled quietly to himself.

“Hm, yes. As I recall, you promised that should I, or the Psijic Order, ever interfere in your affairs again, you would ‘slit my throat quicker than a Khajiit can skin two biscuits‘.”

Farengar couldn’t help but stare quizzically up at Therion.

“I was drunk at the time,” the Dragonborn explained, apparently feeling the weight of Farengar’s gaze without looking. “To say the least.”

Farengar felt his body become weightless as Quaranir made several gestures with his hands, maneuvering himself and Therion to hang weightlessly before him. Farengar watched the strange Altmer mage with a wary eye, while marveling at the sight of Solitude below, frozen in time.

“I am glad to find you sober on this occasion,” smirked the Psijic monk.

“Yes, well,” Therion said, leaning over and retrieving his sword from the rooftop. “My companion and I were struck by a terrible blizzard before I made my way back to the College. I think J’zargo tired of my complaints about the miserable cold, because he gave me what I later came to find out was double distilled skooma.”

Quaranir raised an eyebrow.

“You mean to say, you defeated Ancano and saved the whole of reality, while high on skooma?”

“Double distilled skooma. Mischievous bastard. I wonder how J’zargo’s doing these days?” Therion asked nostalgically, smiling fondly before turning a cynical eye toward Quaranir. "I'm surprised you bothered leaving Artaeum. Tell me you've come to slap the Dominion on the wrist and take away their magical artifact? As you saw fit to do at the College of Winterhold."

Quaranir sighed disdainfully.

"There was serious debate within the Order over that very topic. We are not meant to interfere directly as you well know, least of all against the Aldmeri Dominion. However, we tried to secure their weapon. But, in the end, our efforts were in vain,” he said, raising the three of them to float high above Solitude. “The Thalmor Ascendant thwarted our attack, drastically injuring many of my order. I believe he anticipated our involvement."

Farengar tore his gaze away from the pillar of fire above them, threatening to fall upon the city below.

"Whom, or what, is an Ascendant?" he asked.

"The leader of the Thalmor,” Quaranir explained with an apprehensive look. “An exceedingly talented Altmer wizard named Radac.”

Therion’s expression reflected Quaranir’s, making Farengar wonder sort of monster could inspire such a reaction from both men.

“And what does all this have to do with our not falling to our deaths?" Farengar pointed out, looking down upon the frozen scene of destruction.

“About that,” Quaranir said simply, snapping his fingers.

All around Solitude, orbs of light took shape as time resumed its course, the sky filling with particles of white light. The figures of men and women took shape, their gold Psijic Order regalia displaying prominently against the night sky, as their robes billowed in the wind.

Countless wizards reached out, channeling bright light in their hands, their magicka gathering around Therion, Farengar, and Quaranir. Something was taking shape above them.

A huge orb appeared. Smooth and gray, made up of sections of stones carved with runes.

“What is that?” Farengar asked, watching it lazily rotate.

“The Eye…” Therion said in awe. “The Eye of Magnus!”

Quaranir merely smirked. A staff materializing in his right hand, he tossed it to Therion who caught it.

“You’ll need that.”

Therion glared at the monk.

“The Staff of Magnus,” he said holding up the artifact, “I take it you let yourself into my home in The Pale?”

“Yes. And in Hjaalmarch and Falkreath. It took me days to find. You own a surprising amount of property. I had to thoroughly search each of your homes.”

Therion gave Quaranir a dark look.

“Faster than a Khajiit can skin a biscuit,” he muttered meaningfully, while giving the staff an experimental swing.