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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 3.5

[(Anonymous)]

“Do you know the words?”

It’s only then that she realizes she is humming under her breath: a bawdy Colovian lay about a goat and a cask of brandy. Freyja looks up to see Eitri laying back on the bedroll with one forearm pillowed beneath his head, listening to her song with sleepy eyes. She wonders how long she has been lost in her thoughts. How long he has been watching her. “You hum a lot,” he says, flushing a little.

“I know a lot of drinking songs.”

He smiles. “Brokkr would like you.”

“Comes of rooming in taverns for ten years,” Freyja says, but her thoughts are on his cousin. It’s odd to be part of a rescue mission for a man she’s never met. She’s done it before, of course, but it was always a job: find my father, help my daughter, save my friend, you’ll be rewarded handsomely. It wasn’t that she didn’t feel compassion for them, but her clients were just that – clients. Freeing their loved ones from highwaymen or necromancers or men with old grudges was rewarding, but it was also something she was hired to do. This is different. Whatever she said to Eitri about the value of elven armor, she is helping him because she wants to. Because it’s clear that he truly does care for his cousin. Because it strikes her as unbearably cruel that a brave man should walk to certain death because he loves his kin too well to give up, even when the odds are hopeless. “What’s he like?” she asks.

Eitri shakes his head, fondly. “Well, I told you – he’s been known to shoot off his mouth. Hot-tempered, like they say redheads are. Impatient. I think he’d lose his mind, bent over a grindstone all day putting new edges on dull axes.”

“You need patience to stalk a deer,” Freyja points out.

“That’s different. You’ve got to keep alert – it’s exciting, even when you’re standing still. Brokkr hates to be bored. Always has. I remember when we were children, there was one winter we had so much snow you could scarce step out of the house - you can’t imagine the mischief, after being cooped up inside for a few weeks. Talked me into helping him ice the tavern steps while everyone was inside drinking one evening. It’s a wonder no one broke a neck.”

Freyja laughs. "Your cousin sounds like me. Divines, what a terror I was."

"No - I bet you were a sweet kid."

Freyja snorts. "I bloodied the neighbor boy's nose because he told me girls weren't supposed to play with wooden swords. Once - you've heard of the Gildegreen?"

"The sacred tree, aye."

"Well, I climbed it," Freyja says. "Right to the top. The branches up there could barely take my weight, they dipped six feet every time the wind blew. The priestess of Kynareth was furious. So were my parents - though I overheard my father say it was a strangely fitting form of worship, for the sky goddess."

Eitri swallows a chuckle. “Did you drag anyone else up the tree with you?”

“Not that time, no. I was good friends with one of the Grey-Mane kids, though, and we got into plenty of trouble.”