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

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Songs for Nomads 8.8

[(Anonymous)]

“Poachers, maybe,” says Thorald, who is evidently thinking along the same lines. “A man’s got to be foolish or desperate to draw the giants’ wrath, but I’ve seen it happen.” The ground shudders again. Freyja bounds to the top of the slope, intent on having advance warning of any more stampeding mammoths.

And stops, like a blade meeting a well-timed block.

White River Gorge lies below them, a steep-sided scar where the tundra meets Shearpoint’s unlovely bulk and the river scours the mountain down to its roots, like a huge tree growing beside an undercut bank. Rising spume marks the rapids still hidden by the gorge’s walls. Whiterun is scarcely three miles distant. She can faintly make out a few of the small farms that cling to the city’s apron, blue smoke rising from their hearths, but that is not what draws her eye. Between them and the gorge, close enough it seems to touch, a giant is doing battle with a dragon.

She sees the great scaled body flash in the sun, gleaming like fish’s mail, like slick hard ice over black rock. The spikes bristling along its spine appear smoother and sharper than those of the dragons she remembers from Helgen or the western watchtower. I am cataloguing dragons now, Freyja thinks, a little wildly. Perhaps there are multiple species. Perhaps I can write a field guide. To her morbid amusement, it promptly unhinges its maw and howls a cutting blizzard of ice at its foe, appearing to prove her correct. Or perhaps dragons are like mages, and favor one school of destruction over another. Perhaps this one simply prefers its food uncooked.

Beside her Thorald is swearing in a colorful unbroken stream, seemingly caught between reluctant awe and terror; Eitri looks like a man in need of a very strong drink or three. Freyja, for her part, just feels rather sick. She has slain men and monsters in four provinces, held the high ground – or gained it – against superior numbers, stood eye to eye with vampires and necromancers and now even a Thalmor hit squad, and never flinched. But this creature is the size of a village inn. And everyone in Skyrim, from the Greybeards to the bickering Dawnstar tavern-goers, expects her to know how to kill it. Fast as lightning, horrifically slow as a precious vase tipped from a table, she watches as the dragon snaps its teeth closed on one of the giant’s sinewy knees. There’s a wet crack, a heart-stopping howl, and then a gruesome display of the power in its jaws. The giant does not remain in agony very long.

She starts to back away, then. Whiterun is close, the surrounding farms even closer; though the giant’s club looks to have mangled one wing beyond the power of flight, the jarl’s men still need to know of the threat. But then – maybe with a predator’s unerring eye for rapid motion, maybe by pure coincidence – the dragon turns its head, gore dripping from its jaws, and spots them. Its Shout is a thunderclap given substance. From fifty feet away it sweeps them off their feet like pieces in a tafl game. Freyja lands hard enough to rattle her eyes in their sockets – and when she leaps to her feet, retreat is no longer an option.

It’s the same Shout she used on the Thalmor justiciar; she can’t say how she knows, as it was far more powerful than anything she could dream of accomplishing, but that thought goads rather than frightens her. She has met foes before who believed that size and strength gave them the right to kill and destroy and take what they pleased. She’ll meet them again. In this moment she feels only raging indignation at being challenged – and determination to answer it, if it means wresting the knowledge of how to Shout so mightily out of her enemy’s scaly, still-warm corpse. Her sword is out of its sheath before Eitri and Thorald have even picked themselves up off the ground.