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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

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Songs for Nomads 6.2

[(Anonymous)]

Freyja tips her head toward the snowy hills. “He went that way,” she says, dangling the amulet from her fingers. “I assume this is yours?”

“Ah,” gasps the Khajiit, snatching it from her hand. “This was given to me by my mother when I was just a cub. It is my only memory of home in this cold land.” He speaks with the throaty, rolling accent that Freyja cannot help but liken to a purr. It makes her smile. Thorald and Eitri are hanging back a little, wary, but even their lips twitch when he slips the amulet back over his head, with a very contented and very catlike arch of his neck. Eitri puts his hand to his collarbone, where his cousin’s Talos amulet hangs hidden beneath his armor.

“But I see not all Nords are as cold as the snows,” their new acquaintance says, and makes Freyja a Khajiiti bow, with its strange little flourish of the tail. “Kharjo is at your service, Ra’Shurh.”

Khajiit are always so terribly charming when they wish to be. Freyja shrugs, smiling. “My pleasure.”

“You are heading for Dawnstar, yes?” Freyja nods. The Khajiit hesitates. “You will walk with us?”

Deserved or no, the caravans have an unsavory reputation amongst traditional Nords. Her comrades will probably be shocked if she accepts. Let them be shocked, Freyja thinks, rather vindictively.

So that’s how they finally limp into Dawnstar: surrounded by the grey dusk and the warm, incomprehensible sound of the caravan members bantering in Ta’agra. At the outskirts of the city the Khajiit fling down their packs, erecting tents and with the near-magical swiftness of career nomads. Kharjo presses a small coin pouch into her hand. “A thousand thanks, Nord,” he says, with a whiskery grin. As they walk into the city the crackling of a fire and the notes of a strange flute drift after them: a mournful, wavering sound, like the wind moaning through a rocky canyon.

“So that’s a Khajiit caravan. They aren’t like I expected,” murmurs Eitri.

“They usually aren’t,” Freyja says, shortly.

Kharjo’s gratitude won’t make her a wealthy woman, but it’s enough to cover dinner and a room at the inn – a welcome surprise, as Freyja expected to spend half the evening splitting logs to feed the innkeeper’s firepit, in exchange for hot meals and warm beds. It would be safer to spend the night in their tent. But with several hundred miles between themselves and Northwatch Keep, she feels justified in taking a breather – and they need supplies for the road. Their last meal was a sad handful of dried snowberries each, and hunting for their dinner on the road will slow them down considerably. Game will be scarce. Evening Star’s not yet arrived, but the northern reaches of the Pale are already locked in winter’s icy claws.

For an extra coin the innkeeper is happy to heat a bath. Freyja leaves Thorald and Eitri at the bar while the man and his daughter drag a wooden tub into the room they’ve rented. Like those in so many rustic inns it does not have doors, but the tub is tucked out of sight in the far corner and Freyja sinks gratefully into the steam, submerged all the way to her chin. The grime that clouds the bathwater when she’s finished doesn’t bear thinking about. She always feels naked and strange without her armor, but she can’t bear to put it back on when her skin still feels tight and clean; instead she slips into her tunic of blue-grey wool and simple farmboy’s leggings, with their crossed stitches up the sides. Then she slides her boots and belt back on. And her sword, of course.

The men have retreated to a shadowed corner of the tavern, where they sit with empty bowls and half-filled mugs. Freyja is glad to see they’ve the sense to avoid drawing the crowd’s attention. Patrons of village inns often gravitate to travelers, eager to hear the latest news. With its deep harbor Dawnstar likely sees plenty of unfamiliar faces, but the war is bound to have disrupted the trade from Solitude, and with it the steady flow of sailors. Thorald catches her eye and gives her a wordless nod. Standing, he downs the last of his ale and makes for the room, stopping to ask the innkeeper for new bathwater.