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 9.4/9

[(Anonymous)]

The woman makes her takes off her boot – not an enjoyable experience – and after a lot of humming and prodding, she agrees. Freyja makes a face at the earthy, herbal taste of the healing potion, and at the necessity of dipping into their meager supply of septims. But as she rests on a stool she can feel the uncomfortable prickling that means the healing is working, and ten minutes later she can stand on her own two feet, though she’s still sore. Impatiently, Freyja shakes off Eitri’s steadying hand and strides out the door, intent on delivering Thorald’s message and getting some dinner. In the market the vendors are packing away their wares, some throwing oilcloth covers over their stalls to keep them dry. At the produce stand a little Imperial girl is busily gathering the leathery apples and bruised gourds of day’s end, but she’s the only one truly focused on her work. Everyone else seems to be listening with half an ear to the furious whispering taking place in front of the jewelry stall, where Fralia Grey-Mane herself is shaking a bony finger under the nose of a nobleman leaning against her counter.

“Foolish old woman!” he suddenly bellows, and turns in profile. His hair’s gone iron-grey, but there’s no mistaking the tones of Olfrid Battle-Born. “You know nothing of our struggles, our suffering!”

“And what of my Thorald?” she fires back – fiercely, though her voice quavers. Freyja feels Eitri tense beside her. “Is he nothing? So don’t talk to me about suffering!”

The warrior beside Olfrid has his nose, and there’s no mistaking where his loyalties lie; he wears the uniform of the Imperial Legion openly, with a quartermaster’s insignia on his chest. Freyja supposes that’s why Balgruuf allowed him in, in spite of the jarl’s professed neutrality. As the breadbasket and trading hub of Skyrim, Whiterun is making a profit from both sides. “Your son chose his side, and he chose poorly. And now he’s gone. Such is the way of war.” The legionnaire’s voice is stiff. “The sooner you accept his loss, the better.”

Fralia lifts her chin. “I will never accept his death. My son still lives. I feel it in my heart. So tell me, Battle-Borns, where is he? Where are you holding my Thorald?”

“Do you believe this old hag?” Olfrid asks his son – Idolaf, Freyja remembers. “Holding him? Why, I’ve got him in my cellar. He’s my prisoner. Face it, cow! Your stupid son is dead! He died a Stormcloak traitor. And you – you’d best keep your mouth shut before you suffer the same.”

“Come on, father,” Idolaf says, looking embarrassed now. Every eye in the market is turned on them. “There’s nothing more to be said here.” Olfrid spits pointedly in the dust and stalks away, grumbling. Idolaf opens his mouth as though to speak, but then he appears to think better of it and follows his father, shoulders back as though he’s on a parade ground. A hush descends on the square.

“Who in Oblivion are they?” barks Eitri, sounding indignant. Freyja starts to explain, but Fralia Grey-Mane overhears him, and speaks first.

“That’s the Battle-Born clan,” she sighs. “Got rich trading with Cyrodiil, and now they think they’re too good for us simple Nord folk. But I shouldn’t speak ill of my neighbors.” The vicious look she shoots at Olfrid’s back undermines her words, and makes it clear that she’s plenty more to say.

Freyja’s mind is on the Thalmor orders stuffed deep in her pack, on the sketchy physical description they contain – Nord female, light-haired and heavily freckled. She doesn’t want her name associated with Thorald’s escape in any way. She ought to burn the damned orders the first chance she gets. There are a lot of blonde Nords in the province, but Whiterun is one of the few places in Skyrim where she’s recognized, and market vendors gossip. Here, though, is her opportunity. “You said something about your son?” Freyja asks, quietly.