Meme Announcements!

[skyrimkinkmeme]

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

Songs For Nomads 2.7

[(Anonymous)]

"All right," Freyja says. "If you don't want to hear about the dragon."

Svari stares up at her. "Dragon?"

Freyja hesitates. She avoids talking about her encounters with dragons, especially in Solitude; technically she's still a fugitive from Imperial justice, after all. But she bulls forward before she can let herself change her mind. Apparently, tonight is a night for daring. "I was in Helgen when the dragon attacked," she admits.

"Really?" The little girl stumbles over her questions, eyes huge. "Was it big? Did it breathe fire?"

Freyja chuckles in spite of herself. "Yes, yes, and yes. Oh my goodness, yes."

"Oh wow, I knew it! I knew they were real!” The girl bounds up the stairs to her front door. “I have to remember to tell Papa!"

Just don’t tell General Tullius, Freyja thinks ruefully, as the girl dashes inside. Then again, maybe the man wouldn’t care. At the time he seemed too busy with Ulfric Stormcloak to take notice of anyone else; it was one of his captains that actually sentenced her to death, and Freyja returned the favor almost as soon as she was free – with a smaller axe, but much more success. Likely the general has too much on his plate to worry about a single escaped prisoner.

She wonders when she grew so close-lipped about her own past. There was a time, when she was nineteen and eager to prove herself, when Freyja would have boasted for anyone to hear that she’d escaped one dragon and helped to slay another, regardless of the consequences. It’s not that she’s afraid to die. If that were the case, she would be staying far, far away from any actions likely to anger the Thalmor. Death is the currency of her profession, and Freyja is at ease with the notion that she will die with a sword in her hand, likely before reaching old age. But there is a terrible responsibility in being the sort of character that children play at being: a dragonslayer, a hero marked by the hand of fate. Even the idea makes her feel like a child herself. A girl, dressed in her father’s borrowed armor. An imposter bearing a wooden sword.

Freyja shakes herself, pushing open the door to the priest’s dwelling. When she enters Styrr is handing Eitri a tall reddish bottle. “I can’t make any promises,” says the old man. “These things have to be attended to quickly, or even the best healers can only do so much. You’ll have quite a scar. Drink this potion, exercise it every day, and it may not always be crippled, though. You’ll have to wait and see.”

It’s nothing she didn’t expect to hear, but Freyja still winces in sympathy at the word crippled. She can’t imagine taking such a wound to her sword arm. Eitri seems to be in good spirits, though, and he has apparently won Styrr over; the man offers them his guest room for the night. “How’s the hand?” Freyja asks Eitri, as they climb the stairs.

“Better,” he says, flexing it with a wince. His fingers don’t hang so limp and clawlike now, though the movement is terribly stiff. “The old man did a good job. He owes you some kind of favor?”

“I…took care of a necromancer problem.”

“That’s what – when you said we needed to see a mage, I thought you meant…you know. Wizards. Not a priest.”

She forgets how suspicious she used to be of magic. “They use exactly the same healing spells, you know.”

“I suppose,” Eitri says, with a little wrinkle of doubt between his brows.

There’s a pail of water and a basin in the guest room, and they both make grateful use of it to wash up before Freyja starts pulling bread and fruit and fine aged cheese out of her pack. After the long day’s journey they are both famished, and for a time they eat in silence, kneeling on the rug beside a little table. “This is good cheese,” Eitri finally says.

Freyja toasts him with it. “Courtesy of the Aldmeri Dominion.”

He stares at her. “What?”