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 7.3

[(Anonymous)]

The slope of the land beyond the fort is a welcome change after the long, steady climb they’ve made since Dawnstar – although, with her heavy pack, Freyja soon feels the familiar downhill ache in her knees and the backs of her thighs. They make good time, but their hike around the pass ate at least an hour of daylight, and it’s bitterly cold. When the sun begins to settle low in the sky they are only too happy to turn off the path and stomp through the snow to the top of a little hill, where a downed spruce has created a small clearing. They pitch their tent in the natural windbreak formed by the big tree’s exposed roots, and then begin to gather firewood for a long, cold night.

The men spar as Freyja tends the fire, trying to force warmth into their limbs by crossing blades. Freyja frowns as she watches Eitri’s form. He’s improving, there’s no doubt about that. But she dearly hopes the Stormcloaks hand their recruits off to a weapons-master before sending them into the field. He’s not ready for organized battle. Freyja feels a surge of sudden fury at the idiots tearing Skyrim apart for their own blindness, at the Empire’s bloated bureaucracy and the Stormcloaks’ intransigent pride. Even at Thorald, for suggesting Eitri lend his arm to the cause – though gods know the man has his reasons. At the Thalmor most of all, for the way their machinations have rent her homeland along its seams. Good men shouldn’t die for nothing. But she can’t escape the foreboding that after all they’ve been through, the man she’s come to see as a friend will end as just another snow-dusted corpse in a muddied blue tabard.

They retreat to the tent as soon as they’ve eaten. Near midnight, Eitri shakes her awake to take the watch. Second watch is never pleasant – far better to rise early or stay up late than to interrupt a night’s rest – but tonight crawling out of the bedroll makes Freyja curse; the brutal cold rakes its claws over every sliver of exposed skin. The very air seems frozen. Night hangs suspended on the edge of the world, timeless and still, with only the slow revolution of the stars to mark the passage of the hours. Freyja wonders what High Hrothgar is like this late in the year. She’s chosen a poor time to develop a sense of duty. The Throat of the World is further south, but far higher; if it’s this frigid in the western end of the Anthors, the upper reaches of the mountain are sure to be colder than wraiths’ teeth, and buried in snow. She moves closer to the fire, tucking her fingers into her armpits and her nose in the fur of her cloak. At least the chill in the air makes it hard to doze. For long hours she sits staring into the darkness, wondering what the Greybeards will say when the Dragonborn arrives many months late.

There’s a soft crunch of snow. Freyja sits up, alert. The wind moves. Through a gap in the ice-stunted trees she sees the antlers of an elk silhouetted by the moons; when she moves the animal snorts a steaming breath and dashes away. Freyja settles back, relaxing her grip on the hilt of her sword.

A moment later, there’s another soft crunch. This time she slides the blade half out of its sheath, rising slowly to her feet. It may only be another night creature of the forest, but she would not put it past the bandits in the fort to follow their tracks, intending to raid while they are sleeping. Perhaps they even startled the elk from its bed. For a long time Freyja stands in the little clearing, listening. There’s nothing but the wind. Then between the trees, on the road below, she spots the gentle glow of magelight. “Find them,” someone mutters. Ominous-sounding, but it’s not the words that send a bolt of dread down Freyja’s spine.

It’s the smooth, clipped tones of someone raised on the Summerset Isles.