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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 7.2

[(Anonymous)]

“Was it strange?” Eitri murmurs, as they labor over a ridge of rock and corniced snow. The fort is grim but small below them, like a carven marker on a map. A frigid wind is dragging strands out of Freyja’s braids.

“Was what strange?”

“Having...” he twists his hands vaguely, awkward. “Being with someone – not human.”

Freyja shoves her windswept hair out of her eyes, wary. “How so?”

“Just – all the differences. Elves live so long, for one thing.”

Thorald looks curious. “You had an elven lover?”

“Yeah, that part was odd,” she says after a moment, leaving Thorald’s question to answer itself. She’s surprised by her own willingness to have this conversation, but somehow it feels natural. Perhaps because Eitri already knows part of the story; perhaps because she can recall the silent buckling of his face in Northwatch Keep. “He was young by elven standards, and yet he could remember the Great War. I’d barely been born, and he was in Cyrodiil, running supplies to the Legion.”

“He was a legionnaire?”

“No. After the Imperial City fell the army regrouped near Cheydinhal, and his family owned a general goods store there. He worked as a guard for the supply caravans. Dealt with the Legion a lot. I heard someone call it war profiteering once, actually, but he risked his life to smuggle supplies behind enemy lines. Talked his way past a Dominion patrol once by flirting with the commander, some utter flowery nonsense about Queen Morgiah of Firsthold and precedent for Altmer-Dunmer unions.” She shakes her head, remembering the way he could school his angular features into a cuttingly accurate depiction of Aldmeri snobbery, and then ruin the illusion by theatrically batting his eyelashes. “I can’t tell the story right.”

Eitri smiles. “He sounds like a rogue.”

“He grew up in the refugee quarter of Cheydinhal,” she says. “When Red Mountain erupted a lot of Dunmer fled there, especially the disenfranchised Hlaalu nobles. They had merchants’ ties to Cyrodiil, not that it did them much good in the end. Empire was too busy with its own problems. It’s not a bad place, but these days it’s...spare. Shabby. There’s not a lot of extras or kindness to go around. He was a survivor. Knew a bit about most everything, and how to turn it to profit. Youngest of three brothers and the only one not born in Morrowind, the one who worshipped the Divines alongside Azura.” Freyja shrugs. “He was good at that. Finding something he could use, in everything. Which rumors a tavern keeper would want to hear, which flowers would fetch a good price from the alchemist. And yes, he had a silver tongue, when he wasn’t sharpening it on everyone within reach. Which wasn’t often, frankly.”

“You loved him,” Eitri observes, quietly.

“Why shouldn’t I?” There’s a sudden snap in her voice, like a narrow branch whipping back across a path. Freyja is well aware of how some Nords feel about relations between men and elves.

“That’s not what I meant,” Eitri says, just as quietly. Freyja swallows. They don’t speak of it any more.