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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 8.7

[(Anonymous)]

Even in the next morning’s light the boneyard is a pale and lonely place. Damp gathers in the spring-fed hollow, and they shiver as they break camp. Freyja is glad to stride up the crest of the hill, where the sun turns the frosted grass-blades to golden daggers. Then she stops. Beside her, she hears Thorald’s breath catch.

The wide familiar plains of Whiterun sprawl before them, unmistakable in the dusty purple and russet hues of her autumn cloak. The White River is a quicksilver streak in the distance, and Dragonsreach on its lone high tor stands proud and defiant as a warrior blowing a horn-call. The Throat of the World soars blue above the morning mist. A flurry of rising air carries the clean, earthy smell of tundra cotton.

Maybe it’s only the wind tearing unhindered across the steppe, but abruptly Thorald lifts the heel of his hand and dashes moisture from his eyes. Freyja looks away. She doesn’t blame him, though. The man spent three months believing he would never see the sky again, let alone the hold of his birth. And he must know that he cannot stay. The first place the Thalmor will look is Whiterun, and Jarl Balgruuf, committed to his neutrality, cannot shield him. Freyja stands beside him, looking down at their mutual homeland. The killing cold of the mountains has abated, but it’s clear that the year is dying. Snow dusts the ground in shadowed hollows. An elk noses among the windswept heather, velvet hanging in bloody shreds from his heavy crown.

But even the chill of late autumn can’t dampen the pleasure of treading well-known ground, as though the earth itself is now an ally in their personal quests. They make good time, so good that the thought of parting ways with Thorald at the White River inspires an occasional pang of melancholy. After the close, dark forests and snow-covered mountains of the Pale the landscape seems vast and open. Yet appearances are deceptive. The tundra is full of small hollows and rock-strewn rises, and being at the bottom of one of the former is like finding oneself in the trough between ocean swells. The dull roar of the wind, likewise, is isolating; even at short distances the three of them sometimes have to shout to be heard. The plains may seem difficult to hide in, but after years of hunting with her father Freyja knows that Whiterun is both a surprisingly good place for an ambush and a surprisingly easy one in which to get lost.

Usually the rolling hills conceal nothing more dangerous than hares or deer. But on their final afternoon of travel towards the river, they come across something none of them has seen before: a huge circle of freshly scarred earth, like the nest of some great beast or the blast of a monstrous fireball. “What in Oblivion?” Thorald murmurs.

Eitri steps down into the pit; it’s nearly waist-deep, and he is not a small man. He scuffs at the rich black loam with his boot. “Something the giants made?” he guesses.

The back of Freyja’s neck is prickling, though she can’t say why. “Come on,” she says. “Giants don’t like their sacred space invaded, if that’s what this is.” She has her doubts. There are several upright stones nearby, listing at haphazard angles in the tundra grass, but they bear none of the symbols that giants usually use. And they are old. She runs her hand over one, as they move on, and weathered lichen crumbles beneath her palm.

The surprise is in how quickly it happens. One minute they are laboring up a rise; the next the earth trembles, and a bellowing red-brown bulk breaks over the crest of the hill like a wave. They scatter. The mammoth does not even slow. Freyja stares after the massive animal, at the crushed bracken and trampled earth in its wake. It’s rare to see a mammoth run from anything. Sometimes sabrecats or the occasional bold wolfpack will prey on the young, but even that is unusual – and it’s not the season for mammoth calving, anyway. One hand curves around her sword hilt.