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

Comments

Re: Songs for Nomads 5.3

[(Anonymous)]

None of it prepared her for the brutality on display in the dripping dark of Northwatch Keep. She can still taste death at the back of her throat. She can still feel the scalding pulse of blood across her fingers.

(Another thing she saw in Hammerfell: a greying warrior in the traditional dress of the Alik’r, straight-backed and whip-thin in a dignified sort of way, whose horse had broken a leg when a cartful of heavy wine barrels overturned in a narrow alley. The creature was shrieking piteously. Tears rolled silently down its master’s face as he drew his sword, and everyone walking past was pretending not to see him.)

She is afraid. She was a fool not to be afraid before. But she is also angry, and not only at the Thalmor. Her jaw clenches hard as she thinks back to Eitri’s words. Of course she wouldn’t leave Thorald, if he collapsed. Freyja takes a deep breath, forces herself to relax her grip on the whetstone lest she notch her blade. There is a difference between abandoning a man to his fate and giving mercy when it is all that is left to give. She has never done such a thing before, but she would do it again, if given the choice. Whether it made Eitri angry or no. The damn fool.

Freyja wonders briefly how much of her anger is righteous outrage and how much is frustrated longing. She’d forgotten she was alone until a man on his own lonely quest edged up against the fringes of her life, like the brush of shoulders in a narrow tent. She’d liked him, with his homespun bravery and self-deprecating humor. And she wants camaraderie now, with the recent pitiless reminder that she is far better at ending lives than saving them, but she’s not like to get it. So much for that victory kiss, she thinks. Freyja has rarely felt less victorious.

* * * * *

After that initial mad flight, their pace slows to a more sustainable one. The stark beauty of the coastline is still more striking beneath a coating of new snow, but Freyja can no longer appreciate it; the terrain leaves them terribly exposed, trapped between the flat grey sea and the unforgiving wall of the mountains. Freyja is absurdly grateful for the blizzard that erased any initial traces of their footsteps. Wary of pursuit, they continue to snatch sleep in five and six-hour increments. There’s only room for two in the tent, but none of them is keen to sleep without a watchman anyway, not with the spectre of Northwatch dungeon padding along behind them. Thorald has an alarming tendency to twitch awake and stare at the tent roof with fixed pupils and rigid limbs, stiff and still and breathless as a corpse. Trapped in some brutal memory. It’s an inescapable reminder of what awaits them should the Thalmor track them down.

They speak little. Months of ill treatment have left Thorald weak, and he toils along with his head hung miserably between his shoulders, dumb with exhaustion. Eitri, by contrast, stalks through the snow like a bear just emerged from its winter den. Freyja is reluctant to disturb either of them for conversation.

She worries about the ground near Solitude. Their headstart serves them well now, as they weave through fir and scrub or pick their way over the rocky, tide-scoured coast – terrain too rough for even Skyrim’s hardy horses. But their course funnels them to the narrow spit of land beneath Solitude’s Great Arch. It’s a natural choke point. For some two miles they will be forced to walk one of Haafingar’s main roads, the only escape to scale a sheer cliff or swim the broad, burly shoulders of the Karth River, with its swift tidal current dangerous even for ships. If they turn aside now they might avoid it. But they’ll lose a full day just making the climb into the mountains, especially with Thorald in the shape he’s in; once they top out on the ridgeline they’re sure to encounter frost trolls, ice wraiths, and – most dangerous of all – the road. Wild and weatherbeaten as it is, the narrow track will have travelers, and quite possibly Thalmor search parties. And it will take them closer to the Embassy.

They’ve no choice but to hold their present course. Freyja just hopes there’s not a party of justiciars waiting for them.