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 2.5

[(Anonymous)]

What in the name of Aedra and Daedra are you doing, Freyja? she thinks, in the distinctly Dunmeri tones that her inner voice always takes when she's being an idiot. It's an old argument. Are you trying to get yourself killed? Indros would rage. You're already going to die centuries too early, the least you could do is not charge into every battle screaming "Victory or Sovngarde" before you've had a chance to size up the odds. She used to tease him for it. I'd say you sound like my mother, but she has more guts than you.

I'm not going to be in Sovngarde, in case you've forgotten, he'd scowled once. That had put a stop to her teasing.

But I'm not the one who died too soon, am I? Freyja thinks viciously, and then stifles that line of thought. Her current position is literally the last place in Tamriel for indulging in pointless reminiscence.

It seems to take forever; the squeak of the pick seems loud enough to wake the entire city. When she finally closes the door behind her Freyja presses her back against it and takes a moment to breathe. Waits until she can listen for footsteps without the distraction of her own heartbeat thudding in her ears. She feels like a green youth preparing to collect her first bounty, not a warrior approaching her thirtieth year. As well you should, barks that snide inner voice. The Thalmor are not some half-wit crew of incompetent bandits.

As it turns out, however, her fear is baseless. The place is empty. Eerily so; it could be another wing of the Blue Palace, apart from the black and gold banners on the walls. There’s a kitchen in the basement, books on the shelves, neglected flowers in fine glazed pots. A ledger detailing shipments of alto wine and fresh fruit from the East Empire Company. Otherwise there are no files or documents, not even a safe where documents might be hidden. Freyja supposes she should have expected it – whatever else they may be, the Thalmor are no fools. They probably keep their intelligence locked up in the Embassy. She rifles the books, searches for hidden compartments in the desks, but the only thing that might be of interest is the large map laid out on a spare table.

Freyja leans over it, bracing her palms against the wood. Clearly the elves are keeping an eye on the war; little red and blue flags are scattered over the parchment, thrust deeply into the boards beneath. Hold capitals are noted, along with some of the larger towns and many of Skyrim’s scattered forts. A black flag marks the Embassy, and another marks a fortress to the west.

She cranes her neck, curious. It’s on the far northern coast, nearly on the border with High Rock, tucked between the mountains and the sea. A strange place for a garrison. Defensible, to be sure, but as far as Freyja knows there is nothing of strategic value nearby; Skyrim’s northwest coast is barren and remote, hardly even populated. Freyja leans further over the map. A fine, flowing hand names the fortress Northwatch Keep.

She turns back to the ledger, energized now, flipping pages until she finds an entry marked NW. An outgoing shipment – food, mostly, enough for a small detachment. There are more entries like it, dated roughly a week apart. They’re unimpressive: cured meats, sacks of flour, root vegetables, occasional weapons and smithing supplies.

Unimpressive, that is, except for the potion ingredients. Freyja is no alchemist, but she knows what nightshade and deathbell are used for. Gotcha, she thinks, and pulls out her own map. Feeling rather flushed with victory, and mindful of her promise to bring back dinner, she raids their kitchen cupboards on her way out.