#idesa sadri

[groovy-rat-man]

Fuck it I'm on a skyrim kick again (and by that I'm desperately searching for anything related to the only npc I've been marrying recently) so here's how I think all the Sadri's are related

So canonicaly Revyn Sadri (of Sadri's Used Wares) and Idesa Sadri (the nanny who warns her kid about the dark brotherhood) are siblings, says so right in the games code. Now I like to think that Geldis Sadri (that guy who runs the corner club on the island I can't remember how to spell) is their dad. I have no evidence for this, it's just an idea I like. Now something I have somehow even less evidence for is Feran Sadri (one of the vampires from the vampire dlc) being Geldis Sadri's great uncle or something. No idea how he's related to them, I just like to think that he's an older relative that is basically dead to everyone else.

This has been my Ted talk

[a-thirst-for-dunmer]

no but like i think about revyn sadri so FUCKING much. the mer lives relatively well in the fucking slums of a racist city, bartering for goods with his own business built, most likely, from the ground up in the city of Nords. Can you imagine doing any of that, picking life up as a refugee from Morrowind/Solstheim, going to the city through blizzards of snow with nothing but the necessities in a pack, your predisposition for fire spells to keep you warm, and your sister who is going through the exact same? Fighting to get the proper coin to even earn your way to a room at an inn, much less saving up for the broken-down hovel in the Gray Quarter. Can you imagine, when you finally do settle down, the constant torrent of insults from others, the blatant threats to kill or imprison you for things you never did, the need to carry a dagger everywhere because damn if the authorities don’t care about your life in the slightest? (trans man projecting on him heha) And even amidst the surprising success, bless Azura, you’re still remaining neutral in the war and waiting it all out while your brothers call you to action in the cornerclub or the Nords ask you for specific shipment items at a lower price/for free for the war effort.

No wonder he’s so snide and biting about his shipments and everything. This guy and countless others fought for their fucking lives to get where they are. Trust is earned. Respect is earned through action, and he’s had to carry his head high through life to make himself worthy of being seen as a needed commodity in Windhelm.

So it comes as no surprise that when some random ass person staggers into his shop, loaded on treasure and yet still willing to be kind despite their clear wealth, he falls absolutely in love.

[luciferissatan]

Revyn could not quite find it in him to seek sleep when she did.

Hours passed, many voices dropping further and further to murmurs and languid whispers as the hours began winding further to a firm close; where the first starless nightfall of an uneasy voyage crept along an ever-darkening deck.

[Chapter 27, fic update - Link]

[revyn-sadri]

Presenting: obscure Skyrim npc, Idesa Sadri ✨

[thewriteroflucifenia]

So you know who I wanna know more about? Idesa Sadri. She's the Dunmer governess for the clan Cruel Sea in Windhelm. I know that's probably weird, she's a random npc, but there's some interesting stuff there.

She has a relative in the city: Revyn Sadri. Yet they never interact or mention each other.

The Cruel Seas recently lost a daughter. Did Idesa raise Fjotli as well?

Does she not interact with anyone in the gray quarter because people think poorly of her over her job?

Is she basically the mom of the Cruel Sea children? The parents never really interact with Grimvar, it's just him and Idesa.

Yes, I am looking too much into this, thank you for noticing.

[snaggingsweetrolls]

Losing Fjotli

A short story I wrote. It’s from the perspective of Idesa Sadri, who is the governess (nanny) for the Cruel Sea clan in Windhelm. The parents never really mention their kids except for one time, and otherwise don’t act like they have children, much less that one was murdered, so I headcannon that Idesa was more of a mother to the kids than their actual parents ever were. This story is about her losing Fjotli to the Butcher. I apologize in advance for any typos. 

             Nobody ever thinks it will be their child. When we hear about the horrors in the world, kidnappings, murder, torture, slavery, all those nasty acts, we always assure ourselves that we’re safe. We tell ourselves that our children are safe and that our diligence will be rewarded with continued safety. But these are lies we say to get through the day. It’s not my child, not my parent, not my sibling, not my lover, and not my friend, so it will always be that way, yes? But what happens when it is your child?

           The day hadn’t been special. I can’t for the life of me remember much of what I had been doing up until the evening. If I had to guess, I did chores, laundry day, I think. Lots of laundry, lots of discarded slips and muddy trousers with holes in the knees to mend. There always was. I’m sure I scolded Fjotli for changing outfits so many times a day and making me more unnecessary work. She probably mouthed off and claimed I was ruining her life. She could be such a brat sometimes, I think she got it from her mother. Still, I loved her as my own. I’m sure I prepared dinner for Grimvar, Fjotli, and myself before we retired to our own activities.

When I did my rounds through the house to make sure the children were alright, she was gone. She had snuck out again; it had become routine by that point. She was fifteen years old and was getting more rebellious. It was normal, though honestly frustrating. She had gotten older, and her parents decided they wanted to try to have a relationship with her after fifteen years of ignoring her. They still ignored Grimvar. I could strangle those useless s’wits. Fjotli started pushing me away as she got older. It embarrassed her to see me as anything but the maid, but I didn’t work constantly to raise her and her brother for ten years to be written off as a servant.

I left the home after telling Grimvar to stay in his room and to not open the door for anyone. I locked the door behind me and went looking for Fjotli. Her friends’ houses were my first guess, but nobody had seen her. I wasn’t sure where else she could have gone, so I ended up wandering her usual path, when the worst scream I had ever heard echoed off of the stone walls around me. I hadn’t heard such terror in almost eleven years ago, when thugs broke into my brother and I’s home, but this scream was one of pain rather than terror. I pulled out my dagger and ran towards the screaming, nearly tripping over the crumbling stone stairs of the street. That screaming… Oh it kept echoing no matter how fast I ran. And then, it stopped. I saw a woman running away from an injured young lady on the ground. I looked around in panic before kneeling at the woman’s side, only for my heart to stop. It was my little girl. Fjotli was staring up at me, flailing her arms up to grab at me, blood gushing out of her neck. I scooped her up into my arms and held my scarf to her neck in an attempt to stop the blood from rushing out too much.

“Help us! Help us!” I screamed as loud as I could muster as I held my daughter close to me. Fjotli made a panicked, pained noise as a guard ran over to us. “Please, help me, she needs a doctor, I can’t carry her myself, please help her!”

“What happened, Elf?!”

“I don’t know, please help her, please, she’s dying, don’t let her die!”

Two guards pulled Fjotli out of my arms, causing her to let out a gurgled scream as they picked her up.

“It’s ok, they’re helping you, it’s ok,” I tried to soothe her, but I doubt it helped. We rushed through the city to Nurelion’s shop. He had been working as a healer in Windhelm for as long as I could remember. He had been the one to save my life when I was young. I knew I could trust him to save my little girl.

The old Altmer and his assistant were startled at the sudden patient, but they took Fjotli from the guards and immediately got to work. I tried to get close to hold her hand. I wanted her to know I was there, that I was there to make sure she was protected, but Nurelion insisted that I stay out of the way. What else could I have done but stay out of the way and allow them to work? Still, it felt wrong, sitting there in that chair while Fjotli struggled for her life. My whole body shook uncontrollably, no matter how close to the fire I got. I couldn’t seem to calm down enough to sit still or breathe easily. So many thoughts rushed my head all at once, jumbling into incomprehensible noise as the guards asked me what had happened. I couldn’t focus, I could barely hear them over my own heart racing off over yonder. I managed to tell them who I was and who Fjotli was. One left to get her ‘parents’. Would they even come? Could I let Grimvar see his sister this way? I said nothing. I just trembled and tried desperately to keep myself from getting to sick as the world spun like a top on the table.

Images of Fjotli’s life rushed through my mind like racing chariots. I remembered her at five years old, when I had first started taking care of her and Grimvar. All the days we spent together, playing and doing chores around the Cruel Sea Manor. I remembered all the funny little things she told me over the years, about how sweet her laugh was and how quick witted she was as a little girl. That love for life and laughter faded as she grew older and got replaced with a cynical edge she had picked up from her peers. Over time, I became little more than the maid to her. Still, I loved her like she was my own child. The rejection hurt, but I there wasn’t anything I could do to turn back time. She was growing up, and for better or worse, that meant beginning to let go of me. I treasured all the little moments. The aimless morning conversations before she went to school, the times she’d ask me to finish up an embroidery piece she had started, the times to she would come down from her room to peer into the kitchen while waiting for dinner to be served. There were so many things I wanted to tell her, so many things I still wanted to do with her and her brother. Places to go, things to see, a life with the kids outside of Windhelm. That was the dream. And it was exactly that. A foolish dream. Why didn’t I hold her more when I had the chance? Why did I keep waiting for her to grow out of the phase before trying to repair our relationship? I thought giving her space was the answer, but as she lied there, fighting for her life, I regretted not making my love for my daughter better known. The guilt was overwhelming. I wanted nothing more than to hold my daughter and tell her how much she meant to me, but I didn’t know if I would have the chance.

  There wasn’t much that could be done for Fjotli. Her injuries were too severe, all we could do was keep her comfortable until she died. That morning, we brought her home and I kept watch over her, administering the potions when needed to keep her calm and ease the pain. Fjotli spent the next few days drifting in and out of consciousness. Usually, she was only awake enough for me to help her eat a little bit of soup and give her the medicine, but she didn’t really react to much. Usually, she just wanted me to hold her hand and talk to her. I had been running out of things to say. Her friends brought her flowers, and Grimvar spent his time curled up beside her when he wasn’t fetching things for me. What could I say to soothe her? What could I say to comfort either child? We all knew what was coming. I couldn’t lie to Grimvar about it. He deserved to know that his sister was dying, how could I give him false hope when I knew it would all be for not?

Fjotli was awake late two nights after the attack. She had been holding out well given her injuries, but she grew weaker with every passing hour it seemed. I think we both knew that was going to be the last night. I caressed her hair and brushed it out of her face gently, trying to force a pleasant expression for her.

“I remember when you were little, you used to have so much trouble brushing your hair. It was always messy. So I started braiding your hair every day so it wouldn’t get too tangled when you would play,” I said quietly. Fjotli smiled slightly at me and turned her head towards me. “You were such an adventurous little girl. Girly, but every time I would pick you up from school, you’d be wearing more mud on your face than the boys. I swear, it looked like war paint,” I chuckled. “I’m thankful that I got the chance to take care of you. I might not be your mother, but I love you like my own child. I always have and I always will. Please don’t forget that.”

She was quiet. It was difficult to swallow, much less speak. I hadn’t expected a reply. I had to stop her from speaking on several occasions over the days. Being unable to speak was bothering her, but I did all I could to ensure her needs were met immediately so she wouldn’t have to try to strain her throat to get my attention. I hadn’t gotten much sleep since that horrible night. Even when Fjotli was sleeping, I couldn’t bring myself rest. I kept watching over her, trying to be there if she needed me, if she passed. I didn’t want my daughter feel alone when she left Nirn. She deserved to be comforted by the people who loved her on her way to the other side. Fjotli wasn’t a bad person, she had so much potential, she certain didn’t deserve the pain she was given, even on her worst days.

I gently pat Grimvar on the head while he slept next to his sister then kissed Fjotli’s forehead. “I love you so much, little one.”

“Mah-ma,” Fjotli managed to wheeze out as she grabbed my arm.

“Don’t speak, little one, I know it hurts,” I urged, but she repeated herself and put her arm around me. I leaned down and hugged her gently, doing my best not to touch her injuries or cause her any further pain. “I’m right here, sweetie. It’s going to be ok.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be. Don’t apologize, this isn’t your fault, baby.” I assured and lied down next to her with my arms around her and Grimvar. “I’m here, little one.”

“Mama...” she wheezed and coughed before continuing, “I.. love you… Don’t crr cry.”

“You haven’t said that to me in so long…” I shook my head and tried to stop myself from crying, but it was a futile attempt. “I love you too, Fjotli. I always have and always will. No matter what, you will always be my little girl. Always.”

My little Fjotli looked up at me with a tired smile before closing her eyes and drifting back to sleep.

She died in her sleep shortly after, still sandwiched between her brother and I. When she passed, I picked up Grimvar and carried him to his own bed. He seemed annoyed with being disturbed while he slept, but he remained unconscious thankfully. I was able to tuck him in and get him to go back into his previous deep sleep before returning to Fjotli’s room. Despite the injuries, the mutilations, she looked peaceful lying there under the blankets. It almost looked like she was just sleeping, I almost wanted to tell myself she was, but I couldn’t. Her passing needed to be acknowledged. She deserved that respect. I walked over to my little girl and kissed her forehead for the last time before kneeling at her bedside to cry and pray for her soul’s safety.

[kelleyfrye]

Idesa Sadri NPC

[skyrimmin-orcfreak]

[wardenkader]

Yeah, I think of the Sadri line, it’s really Revyn, Geldis, and Idesa that aren’t entirely cutthroat or mixed up with corruption and/or otherwise questionable groups? But plotting and cut-throat behavior is a Dunmer national past time, so I guess in Morrowind, the family fits right in. Because now that I really think of it, the rest are either plotting, aligned with vampires, or Telvanni mages. 😂 What a family name to carry.

Is that one of the public dungeons? Those are a beast to get through. I never really touch them, except when I’m trying to get through the mage’s guild quest line.

But that’s pretty neat! Honestly I really do love how little things like that—the Sadri family, the Dreth family—they might be bit players, so to speak, but they really make the world and associated canon more vibrant and fun to explore. Especially when so much is left open-ended, for others to build up their ideas. I know some folks have their criticism regarding Bethesda (and now Zenimax) for not doing more character/story-wise, but the hands off approach has given fans the chance to fill in the gaps.

@romlyndreth yup! I couldn’t help but make Vedryn a Sadri, Revyn Sadri was my first (and favorite) spouse in Skyrim, I had to have a little homage to him. 😂 I like to think she’s a distant ancestor.

[luciferissatan]

The Sadri's ❤

[luciferissatan]

Ayy its my birthday month happy pride from a fellow bi who likes elder scrolls and gay elves

[luciferissatan]

The Sadri Siblings ❤

[luciferissatan]

Taking the boyfriends little sister out on a stroll

[luciferissatan]

Idesa Sadri

[thewriteroflucifenia]

The Last Feast

             Nebula stood at the wardrobe in her room, taking far too long to choose which of her two fine dresses to put on. On one side of the wardrobe there was a newly made Telvanni robe that had been tailored to her exact measurements. It was brand new, a gift from her dad for her sixteenth birthday. The orange and crimson fabric was soft and imported from Morrowind specifically for her robes, and intricate patterns were embroidered into the fabric to make her family crest on the chest and back. On the other side of the wardrobe was a fine, dark blue regency gown with long sleeves. The sleeves had an ever slight puff to them at the top, but otherwise the dress was a bit plain without the silver and sapphire necklace that went with it. On each side of her wardrobe lied a different world. On one side, her proud lineage, on the other, her new life and home in Skyrim. The decision of which dress to wear felt momentous, as though it would set the path for whichever side she would be associated with from that point on after that night.

           They had gotten word that the Imperial troops were getting closer and closer. There was no stopping the inevitable. The next day, Windhelm was to be invaded. There would be no way around it. The city had taken precautions to strengthen the walls, and many had volunteered to fight, but it was known to everyone that the doors would be opened. They all knew that the fight would occur within the walls, and no matter the victor, the battle would be bloody. The Empire wouldn’t stop until they took the Palace of the Kings, and Ulfric wouldn’t stop until every last legionnaire was slaughtered and driven out of the city.

           Nebula’s close-knit immigrant family was threatened with being torn apart by the war. Her grandmother and grandfather, Arowen and Bjorn, supported the Stormcloaks, despite being Dunmer. Arowen would rather die than give up Talos worship, and Bjorn had lived in Windhelm his whole life as a simple blacksmith. He had fought alongside Ulfric during the Great War, and he wasn’t about to switch his loyalties. On the other hand, the local bartender, Ambarys Rendar, who was like an uncle to Nebula, was a former Imperial soldier who fully intended on helping the Empire take the city the next day. They knew they’d meet in battle. Everyone in the community knew that not everyone in the Gray Quarter would survive the coming battle. Someone would die. As a family, a community, they decided to prepare and enjoy one last feast. One last meal together until the chaos pulled them apart completely.

            Many in her community disagreed on what side to take. Nobody was happy with Ulfric’s anti Dunmer policies, but the Avanims were loud and proud Talos worshippers and wanted independence as much as any Nord. Nebula could understand that. She didn’t follow her grandparents’ religion, but she respected their passion. Then there was others in the community who strongly supported the Empire. They wanted change, they wanted protection, they knew Skyrim would be weaker alone, especially under Ulfric. Nebula understood that too. She was tired of living in squalor in the Gray Quarter. In Morrowind, she and her father had been rich beyond compare, living in a large mushroom palace. They wore fine robes, ate the best food, and it was never a struggle to get items they wanted. When they immigrated, that all changed. They lived in the slums, only in recent years being able to move out of the Avanim home and into their store. The rent was high, but the house was poorly made and falling apart. It was expensive to afford food with the war going on, and most luxury items such as fine clothes or even sweeteners for food, was simply too expensive. She missed the life of luxury she enjoyed as a young child, even if her life wasn’t miserable in Windhelm.

           Nebula loosely laced up her corset, enough to support her back and breasts, but not enough to squeeze her ribs enough to hurt. She slipped on her dress slip, then she sat on her bed so she could roll on her white, knee high socks. After putting on all her undergarments, she took a look at herself in the mirror. The young Dunmer woman staring back at her looked just as torn as she felt. How much do you sacrifice to assimilate? Nebula didn’t know what the answer was. All she knew was she valued her heritage and culture, and she held to that aspect of herself dearly, but she wondered if she would be happy conforming as much as her mother’s side of the family had. They seemed perfectly happy to live as Nords, despite being Dunmer. Would she be happier if she did the same? If she let go of all the traditions and values from her homeland? Would she be happier pretending to be one of them? No… She didn’t think so. Skyrim was a part of her now, but she could never let go of where she came from. She was both a woman of Skyrim and a woman of Morrowind, there was no way to be only one or the other no matter how desperately people wished her to be.

           Nebula decided to put on her robe from her father, and the fine slippers she had received as a gift from a former classmate and friend. She sat at the old vanity in her room that she had purchased from Revyn Sadri five years prior and began combing out her long, wavy, black hair with an ivory comb. After finally finishing dressing, she turned off her oil lamps and carefully walked downstairs and out of the entrance of her home.

           The Gray Quarter smelled better than ever. The smell of the feast radiated from all the homes, since everyone was bringing something. Just earlier that day, Nebula had helped her grandma prepare two snowberry pies, and she had helped her dad prepare enough fried salt rice with roast boar to feed the neighborhood two times over. Despite the wonderful smell, there was no peace in the air. Everywhere coming from outside the neighborhood, she could hear yelling, the clash of blades as the soldiers trained, and the arguing of locals. For just a moment, she wondered what the “other side” was doing. The young Dunmer carefully walked out of the Gray Quarter and began to wander the city.

           All around were soldiers training, or writing letters, wills, or any kind of proof of their life down. Men kissed their wives and hugged their children before leaving to go be with the other soldiers. People of all backgrounds, rich and poor begged and prayed at the temple. They prayed for strength, for victory, for peace, and for mercy. As she passed by the wealthy neighborhood, she saw her childhood friend, Grimvar run away from his house while Idesa pleaded with him to come back. She wasn’t surprised to see him in armor with an iron ax on his hip. He had always wanted to be a warrior. There was nothing anyone would be able to say to change his mind, not even the woman who raised him could. Nebula kept herself hidden. She didn’t know what she would say him. It would be best if she didn’t make her presence in that area of the city too obvious.

           As she began making her way back to her way back home, back to the feast, she heard heartwrenching sobs, prayers, and battle hymns sung with a hint of sadness. Everyone was feeling the fear and pain of the war. Nebula felt an odd sense of unity with the city with that realization. Everyone was just as afraid as she was, as her family was.

           She walked into the cornerclub, where almost everyone had already gathered. The tavern was filled with laughter. Her great great Grandpa Galvus was sharing stories about from when he first arrived in Skyrim to anyone willing to listen, her grandma Arowen was shooing away her younger cousins from the pies, and Grandpa Bjorn was swapping war stories with Ambarys over sujamma. Her dad, Phoenix, was cheerfully discussing his latest theory with Malthyr and Revyn while the Atheron siblings made their way into the room with large platters of roast meat and vegetables. She distinct and nostalgic smell of spicy meat pies and ash yam and butternut squash soup filled Nebula’s nostrils as she took her usual place in the corner, facing the bar and tables. She carefully picked up her lute and began to play a bittersweet song from home. As her fingers danced along the neck of the lute, she wondered if this would be her last song. Would this be her last snowberry pie? Would this be her last plate of meat pie and fried salt rice? She took another look around the room and felt a small smile form on her lips. It might be. Better savor every moment.