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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 9.3/9

[(Anonymous)]

The housecarl arrests herself mid-stride, eyes lighting on Freyja with the professional speed of a bodyguard who spends her days assessing threats. When recognition dawns Irileth’s mouth sets in a hard, unreadable little line. “You,” she says.

Freyja shifts more of her weight onto Eitri, in an effort to stand a little straighter. “Me.”

The other woman looks her up and down, measuring. Her dark eyes are expressionless, but there is a tiny frown line between her brows. Freyja recalls her skepticism about mythical Dragonborns, and wonders if she is reassessing now. After a moment she purses her lips. “Are you sure?”

“Nothing left but bones.”

“Well then,” says the houscarl, almost to herself. Shoots a glance back to her men. “Look lively – we’ll check it out and report to the jarl. Keep your eyes open and your weapons ready. For all we know, there may be more.”

“She’s cheerful,” Eitri mutters, as they limp through the city gates. Freyja laughs again, and regrets it. Again. “She’s good at her job,” she says, breathlessly. “Devoted to Jarl Balgruuf. She drew a sword on me when I first walked into the keep with the news from Helgen.”

His eyes widen, shocked. “You were at Helgen?”

“I forgot I never told you that part of the story,” she murmurs. “But yes. Not long after I crossed the mountains I practically walked into a Legion prisoner caravan, and with my luck it happened to have the tightest security this side of the border with Alinor. Some loudmouth on one of the carts chose that moment to blab about Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King, and suddenly that security was compromised.”

“The Legion took you captive for that?”

“I wasn’t thrilled either.” Freyja’s smile is wry. “Looking back I think they only intended to hold me until I was no longer a liability, but I was – ah – argumentative.” She hadn’t realized the gravity of her situation until she was facing the block. In Cyrodiil legionnaires were keepers of the peace, upholders of strict but strictly fair Imperial justice. Nowhere is Tamriel is the concept of a fair trial more enshrined than in the heartland, and no entity in Cyrodiil is more obsessed with regulation than the Legion; there is even (to the amusement of anyone with a sense of humor and the consternation, no doubt, of the Elder Council) a written code governing how to conduct a legal military coup. Freyja, accustomed to life in Cyrodiil, was violently incensed at being detained without just cause. But this was Skyrim, and not the Skyrim of her youth. Martial law was in effect. It did not occur to her, until she saw the depth of resentment on the Imperial captain’s face, that most of these legionnaires had spent months far from home in a cold, harsh land, engaged in partisan warfare with an enemy that looked and spoke and argued exactly like she did. Freyja’s every angry protest only made her more suspicious. “At any rate,” she says, “I had an excellent view of the first dragon in centuries with my head on the block.”

Eitri looks her up and down as though assuring himself that her neck is still in one piece. Shaking his head, he takes a firmer grip under her arm and practically drags her up the street to the apothecary. A bell jingles cheerfully as they barge through the door. Arcadia looks up from her counter, where she is tying bunches of dried lavender – the kind Whiterun citizens place in linen drawers or weave into broom heads, so the house will smell fresh on washing day. “Oh, dear,” says the alchemist.

“Are you a healer?” Eitri asks, coming straight to the point.

“Of a sort.” The woman scurries out from behind her herbs. “But if you’ve broken an ankle, you need to see the priestess of Kynareth. A potion will do you more harm than good if the bones aren’t set right.”

“It’s only sprained,” huffs Freyja. “I think.”