Meme Announcements!

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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 4.2

[(Anonymous)]

“How do we fight them, then?”

“We don’t,” Freyja says. “Not if we want to live. I’ve cut my way out of some tight corners, but these are well-trained soldiers, not bandit riff-raff. We have to get in and out without being spotted. Killing a few sentries is one thing, but any kind of pitched battle will bring the whole garrison down on us.”

Eitri’s brow furrows. He darts a rather worried glance around the edge of the boulder, and Freyja can’t help but agree with the sentiment. She knows how she would take a keep with Indros – Illusion spells and slit throats, dirty and brutal and quick. She’d be less worried if it came to crossing blades; they’d still be terribly outnumbered, but there’s nothing like a mage at your side when fighting other mages.

This is different. If they get caught, they’re dead; a blacksmith, however determined, and a single sellsword – however experienced – are no match for a fortress full of expert and ruthless magic-users. Eitri is a quick learner, but a week of sporadic practice with a secondhand axe never made anyone a warrior. Nor is Freyja as comfortable working in the shadows as she would like, not for this kind of job. She’s fairly light on her feet, and good at picking locks, but she’s not a professional sneak. She has always been the type to charge in swinging.

“Hey,” she says, to herself as much as Eitri. “Tombs and keeps and what’s inside them haven’t killed me yet.”

“Aye,” he says, and his cold fingers steal up to squeeze her own.

Finally, once it is dark enough that they will not be silhouetted between the snow and the falling twilight, they pick a torturous path up the boulder-strewn slope. It’s covered in little cliffs and slick with ice. Once the shaky grip of Eitri’s weak left hand nearly fails him. Once Freyja curses after sending a loose pebble clattering down the rock face, and for a long time after they lie prone and breathless on the cold stone, afraid to give themselves away with further noise. When they finally reach a good vantage point they’re both sweating. They start to shiver as it dries, but there is little they can do; a fire here would stand out like a beacon. Eitri finds a sheltered space beneath an overhanging rock and they crawl inside, drawing up the hoods of their cloaks and crowding against each other for warmth.

As night deepens they huddle in their hollow on the mountainside, watching specks of orange torchlight make their steady rounds beneath. Freyja follows the movements with a critical eye. “Six guards on patrol,” she finally says. “And a few more at sentry posts. They’re standing four-hour watches, which means there’s around thirty men down there. Probably more, if they’ve got prisoners inside – they’d need a guard on those, too.”

“That’s a lot of Thalmor.” She feels his answer rumble through his chest, pressed up against her shoulderblade. The moisture in his breath ghosts over her ear and makes her shiver. Even sharing body heat, wrapped in cloaks and furs, Freyja is glad of her Nord blood. The storm has cleared, and the night sky is like concentrated ink. The air is stark and cold as a knife to the throat. Light winds are skating down from the peaks, sending new snow scuffing across older crusts of ice.