THE ITHRANDOS BLOODLINE

[JJosey 1481]

 

ITHRANDOS

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“A blade unseen is deadlier than a hundred in sight.”

 

All art by gavinodonnell

 

THE SAGA OF THE PALE ELK

Some debts are older than the names of the ones who owe them.
The Ithrandos say this often, though when asked why, they do not answer in the same way twice.

The oldest telling begins in the years of the Expedition, when the Fenn were scattered and the south was a white grave without markers. In those days our people had not yet learned which silences meant safety and which meant death. The sky hung low, the snow swallowed direction, and every fire felt like it had been lit in defiance of the world.

Aluin and Ilyana were among those who vanished in a storm.

The blizzard came without horizon or warning. Tents were torn loose, voices were cut from one another, and even the brave lost the sense of their own hands. When the wind fell at last, the camp was gone and the land had no memory of it. Only the two of them remained, half-buried in frost, days from shelter and nearer to the grave than to their kin.

It is said that when the storm paused - not ended, only paused, as though listening - something stood beyond the veil of snow.

Some call it an elk.
Some call it a spirit.
Some say it was only moonlight and hunger seen together.

It was pale, that all agree upon. Pale as old bone. Pale as frost at dawn. Its antlers were wide as winter branches, and it moved without breaking the crust of the snow.

Aluin reached for his bow, as any hunter would.
Ilyana stayed his hand.

“They say she told him: If it wished us dead, we would already be buried.”

The creature did not beckon. It turned, and the storm opened.

Whether they followed for hours or for three days is argued still, but all tellings end the same way — the white closed behind them, the wind lost its voice, and they stepped out upon the fires of their own people, who had thought them long dead.

When they turned to give thanks, nothing stood there.

That is why the Ithrandos say:

Salvation does not wait to be praised.

 

---

In the years that followed, Aluin and Ilyana spoke little of what they had seen. Yet their children grew with the habit of watching the weather as if it were a language, and their children after them did the same.

No one claims this as magic.

It is only said that their blood learned caution early.

Their son Valmyr taught that the Pale Elk was not a god, nor a beast, nor a dream, but a sign - a way in which Wyrvun had once looked upon the lost and shown them the road back to their own.

Others say this is reverence placed upon a memory.

Both versions are told. Neither is corrected.

The Tale of the Four Sons and the Winter That Listened

In the years when Valmyr’s hall still stood new against the wind, when the memory of the long wandering had not yet softened into pride, his four sons grew like young pines - close-rooted, alike in height, and yet bent each by a different weather.

The people would later say the Pale Elk had marked the line, that its gaze lingered in their blood.
Valmyr himself never spoke such words. He only taught his children to watch the horizon and to keep their oaths.

Arion learned the weight of the sky. He would pause in the midst of laughter and turn his head slightly, as though someone had spoken his name from very far away. Once, in a season when the air lay warm and harmless over the tundra, he rose from the table and began shuttering the hall.

“There is no storm,” Rothmir told him, smiling into his cup.

“There will be,” Arion answered.

By morning the world was white and screaming and the hunters who had not listened were found only when the thaw came.

After that the servants would touch the doorframe when Arion passed, as though he carried winter in his bones.

Lathai walked in his sleep. More than once he was found kneeling in the dark beyond the boundary stones, bareheaded, his hand resting on the snow as if feeling for a pulse. When asked what he sought he would frown, as though the question had woken him more fully than the cold.

“It is thinner here,” he said once, and in the light of day the river broke open at that very place, swallowing a sled and the two beasts that pulled it.

Merlion spoke least and was listened to most. He had the unsettling habit of stopping before entering a room, his eyes unfocused, his breath held. When Rothmir mocked him for it, he only replied, “Not every silence is empty.” And later, when a blade flashed from the corner where no one had thought to look, it was Merlion who had already stepped aside.

So the stories gathered around them, as frost gathers on a window - slowly, until one cannot remember the glass beneath.

Rothmir despised it.

He was the youngest and the brightest and the most loved in open ways, for he laughed easily and hunted fiercely and spoke without the careful weight the others carried. He had no patience for the lowered voices that followed his brothers, nor for the way the servants’ eyes lingered on them as if measuring signs.

“They are men,” he said once to his father, not quietly. “Not weather-omens.”

Valmyr answered only, “So are you.”

But Rothmir saw the difference. He saw the way Arion’s warnings were heeded, the way Lathai’s wandering was never forbidden, the way Merlion’s pauses bent the rhythm of the hall itself.

And he saw the place above the hearth where the antlers of a great elk had been carved into the beam - not in celebration, but in memory of a road that had led their ancestors out of the white death and back to their own fires.

A road no one living had walked.

A salvation no one living had seen.

“Long ago for dead people,” Rothmir said whenever the tale was told. “If it was ever more than a hungry dream.”

Years passed, and the brothers grew into their strength. Winter followed winter. The land hardened them and they hardened in return.

Then came the morning when the air rang like struck iron and even the dogs would not bark.

It was Arion who stopped first, halfway across the yard, a pail in his hand, his head turned toward the boundary stones.

Lathai, waking from sleep, sat upright with such suddenness that the furs fell from him like shed skin.

Merlion, in the doorway, did not step out.

Rothmir followed their gazes and laughed.

For there, beyond the stones, stood the elk.

It was pale - not white as snow, but the color of old frost that has never known sun. Its antlers rose wide and many-branched, too wide for any living beast, each tine rimed with a dull glimmer like light caught in ice. No steam rose from its nostrils. No mark lay behind its hooves.

It stood as though it had always stood there.

“So,” Rothmir said, reaching for the bow that leaned beside the door, “the ghost comes to graze.”

“Do not,” Arion said, and for the first time in his life there was no certainty in his voice.

Lathai had gone pale as the snow. “The ground is wrong,” he whispered. “It is listening.”

Merlion did not look at the elk at all. He looked at Rothmir.

“It brought us home once,” he said. “Whether it has flesh or not does not change that.”

“It did nothing for me,” Rothmir answered, stringing the bow. “I was born in a hall, not in a storm.”

The elk moved then - not forward, not back, but turning its head slightly, as though regarding each of them in turn. The light seemed to catch in its antlers and linger there, spreading along the branches like slow fire beneath ice.

“Let it speak,” Rothmir said. “Let it be more than a story.”

“Some things speak by being remembered,” Merlion told him.

“And some things are remembered because no one dared test them,” Rothmir replied, and drew.

Arion crossed the yard in three strides. Lathai cried out, a sound none of them had ever heard from him before. Merlion’s hand closed on Rothmir’s arm — too late.

The arrow flew.

Those who tell the tale disagree on whether it struck.

What they agree upon is what followed.

The shadow of the elk did not fall upon the snow as a beast’s shadow should. It stretched, long and branching, each tine of its antlers unfurling across the ground like the roots of a tree suddenly revealed beneath the earth. The light dimmed, though the sun had not moved, and the frost on the yard began to creep - not outward, but inward, toward Rothmir’s feet.

He tried to step back.

The snow did not break.

Instead the ground split along the lines of those shadow-antlers, black cracks racing through the white in widening arcs. The sound was not loud; it was the deep, patient sound of a lake freezing all at once.

Rothmir looked down, and for the first time the laughter left his face.

Arion seized him by the shoulders and dragged, but the fissures had already reached him, circling his boots, crossing over themselves in the shape of the great branching horns above. The earth opened without throwing up soil or stone - it simply gave way, as if something beneath had drawn a breath.

The elk did not move.

Its shadow grew.

The cracks deepened.

Rothmir’s bow fell first, sliding into the dark. Then one leg vanished to the knee, the other to the thigh, the frost climbing him like grasping hands.

“Take me out!” he shouted, and the sound was raw now, stripped of all mockery.

Arion pulled until his own boots split the ice. Lathai clutched at Rothmir’s cloak. Merlion’s hands were at his back, wordless, straining.

For a moment it seemed the ground would relent.

Then the antler-shadow passed over Rothmir’s face.

He stopped struggling.

Not because he chose to - so the story says - but because something in that darkness looked back.

The fissure closed over him as water closes over a stone.

No cry.
No spray of earth.

Only the long, ringing silence afterward.

When the brothers lifted their heads, the elk was gone.

The yard lay smooth and unbroken, save for the arrow, which rested upon the snow as though carefully placed.

They dug until their hands bled and their tools snapped. The frost had set hard as iron. There was no seam, no hollow, no sign that the land had ever opened.

The snow drifted softly across the yard, laying its thin skin over the place where Rothmir had stood, over the bow that had fallen from his hand, over the black mouth that had swallowed him and sealed again without seam or scar.

Lathai staggered backward, his eyes wide and blind with terror, turning in a slow circle as though the yard itself had become strange to him.

“The river is wrong,” he kept saying, though no river ran near the hall. “The ground is wrong - Arion, stop, it’s wrong-”

Merlion did not speak at all. He stood where he had been, his gaze fixed on the place where the shadow of the antlers had passed, his face emptied of everything but a horror so deep it seemed to hollow him.

Arion dug until his nails tore free and the blood froze black against his skin.

Lathai fell beside him at last, sobbing Rothmir’s name like a child’s prayer, scraping at the snow with a broken knife, with a shard of antler, with his bare hands when the blade snapped.

Merlion moved only when the arrow caught his eye.

It lay upon the white, untouched, its dark shaft rimed with a frost that did not melt.

He crossed the yard slowly, as one approaches a grave, and when he bent to take it up his hand hovered above it for a long time before he dared close his fingers.

“Do not,” Arion gasped when he saw. “Do not touch it-”

“We cannot leave it here,” Merlion answered, and his voice was so steady it was more terrible than any cry.

The cold bit into his palm through the wrapping of his cloak. Later he would say he did not feel it, that all he felt was the weight.

They ran to the hall like men pursued.

Valmyr was already rising from his seat when they burst through the doors, for something in their faces had reached him before their voices did.

Arion fell at his father’s feet, his hands red to the wrist, his breath coming in broken, animal sounds.

“The ground—” Lathai tried to say. “It took him, the elk-”

Merlion did not kneel.

He stepped forward and laid the arrow across the long table between them.

The hall went silent.

Valmyr looked first at the blood on Arion’s hands, then at Lathai’s shaking, then at Merlion - and only then at the arrow.

No one spoke Rothmir’s name.

Valmyr wrapped the weapon in cloth without letting it touch his skin.

“Show me,” he said.

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They went back with torches, with shovels, with every tool that could break the frost.

The yard was smooth.

No mark remained.

Arion fell upon it again, digging as though madness had taken him. Lathai joined him until his strength failed and he could only sit in the snow and rock, his hands pressed over his ears as if to shut out a sound no one else could hear.

Merlion worked in silence beside his father.

They dug until the torches died and the stars turned overhead.

They dug until the tools bent and splintered.

They dug until the frost set so hard the iron rang against it like struck stone.

At last Valmyr laid his hand on Arion’s shoulder.

“It is enough,” he said.

Arion struck the ground once more with the broken spade.

“It is not enough.”

But he had no strength left to lift it again.

 

When the others were led back to the hall, Lathai went with them like a sleepwalker, his face grey with shock.

Arion did not.

All that night he remained in the yard, digging with a knife, with his hands, with a shard of wood when the knife broke. When the moon crossed the sky and sank he was still there, his breath a ragged cloud, his blood frozen into the snow in black petals.

He spoke to Rothmir as he worked - not loudly, not as a man calling into a pit, but as a brother speaking across a room.

“You always wanted to see what lay beneath,” he murmured. “You see now. Enough. Come back.”

At dawn Merlion returned to him.

For a long time he said nothing. He only stood and watched the slow, hopeless labor.

At last he knelt and closed Arion’s ruined hands in his own.

“Father calls us home,” he said.

Arion did not look up.

“This is home.”

“There is nothing here that will answer you,” Merlion told him, and the gentleness in his voice was the deepest grief of all.

When Arion finally rose, he did so like an old man.

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On the fourth morning Valmyr took the arrow north.

The brothers watched him go from the boundary stones, their shoulders touching, as they had stood when they were children listening to the tale of the Pale Elk that had once led their people back to the Fenn.

None of them spoke.

For they understood now why that story had always been told in a lowered voice.

He did not call his sons to follow him.
He did not speak Rothmir’s name.
He walked north.

The journey is told in few words, for it is not the road that matters but the kneeling at its end.

In those years, when the madness had only just lifted from the Fenn and the world still felt thin between one breath and the next, it was the Tundrak line who first spoke with unbroken thought. Where others faltered, their judgment held. Where others saw only storm, they named direction.

So it was said - quietly at first, and then as something close to truth - that if Wyrvun still looked upon His people, He did so through them.

The Eyes of the Frost, some named them.

Valmyr came into their hall without his weapons.

Those who repeat the tale say that Aelthos I rose before he reached the hearth, as though he had been expecting him since the moment the arrow flew.

No greeting passed between them.

Valmyr knelt, and the sound of it is remembered - the dull strike of bone against frozen stone.

He unwrapped the cloth.

The arrow lay dark against the pale furs, its head rimed in a frost that did not thaw in the warmth of the hall.

“We were led out of death once,” Valmyr said. “And one of my blood raised his hand against the memory of that road.”

Aelthos I did not touch the weapon.

“That is your grief,” he answered.

“It is,” Valmyr said. “And our debt. But the debt is older than my son, and it is larger than my house. If there is still a gaze that watches this people - if there are still Eyes that see what walks beneath the storms - then let this remain with you.”

Only then did the Tundrak take the arrow, holding it not as a spear is held, but as one carries a relic whose weight is not in iron.

“So long as it is in our keeping,” he said, “your line will stand between us and any hand that rises in blindness.”

Valmyr bowed his head.

“So long as my line endures,” he answered, “no such hand will reach you.”

From that winter onward, the bond was no longer spoken of as fealty alone.

It was atonement.

The Ithrandos took their place thereafter behind the Tundrak throne - not as servants alone, but as its constant wardens, keeping watch where the storms gather and the road grows uncertain. They did so without claim to glory or to land, but because their blood carried the memory of a winter morning when the earth closed over one of their own and an old debt was laid bare.

And with each new ruler raised among the Tundraks, the First Arrow is set into their keeping, that neither the gift nor the wound it marks shall pass from remembrance.

 

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“But mark me, child, if you want to last in this world, you must learn to be both the wolf and the elk” -Merlion Ithrandos

BELIEFS AND VALUES

BELIEFS

The Ithrandos are devout Isvinites, with a strong conviction that Wyrvun, the Aengul of Winter, is the true master of Fin’hesin - the domain of ice and snow. This belief is more than faith; it is their very way of life. The Ithrandos believe that the frozen northern realms belong exclusively to the Mali'fenn and are to be fiercely guarded. As protectors of the tundra, they see themselves as the embodiment of Wyrvun’s will, ensuring the lands remain untouched by those unworthy of them.

The Ithrandos maintain close ties to the Order of Vigilants, a sacred order founded by their kin. Many Ithrandos are drawn to the Vigilants, not out of a desire for personal power but as part of their sacred duty to protect their people and lands. Those who take up arms and defend the border join the War Vigilants, while others who serve as keepers of the peace - whether by managing their settlements or ensuring the health of the community - often find their place among the Peace Vigilants. This distinction is rooted in their understanding that the protection of their kin, and by extension, their land, requires different paths but a shared conviction.

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VALUES

The Ithrandos hold themselves and their family members to the highest standards. The legacy of their forebears is of paramount importance to them, and each member strives to live up to the mighty example set by those who came before. This pressure to preserve and enhance the bloodline has shaped the Ithrandos into a proud, competitive, and fiercely loyal people. Their strength, both physical and mental, is considered a reflection of their ancestors' glory.

While they once sought influence through their hunting prowess and material gain, the loss of such prominence has shifted their focus toward survival and restoration of their ancient honor. Now, more than ever, the Ithrandos work to reclaim their rightful place as the guardians of the northern realms. Their devotion to their bloodline is unwavering, and they see the protection of their kin and their domain as an essential part of their survival and success.

This commitment to their people and their lands is reflected in their physicality. Ithrandos are often in peak condition, not just as a mark of their lineage’s pride but as a reminder that survival in the unforgiving north requires strength, endurance, and resilience. To them, the survival of the bloodline is both a personal and collective endeavor, one that transcends individual glory in favor of the greater good of their people.

 

TRADITIONS

Braids of the Bloodline

To the Ithrandos, hair is sacred - it is a living record of their deeds and lineage. Every warrior wears their hair long and intricately braided, woven with silver trinkets that signify status, achievements, and family ties.

• Braids of Fealty  -  Upon swearing loyalty to the Tundraks, warriors weave a thin silver ring into their hair, engraved with the sigil of the ruling monarch.
   
• The Kill-Braid  -  For every notable kill, a new braid is added. The more braids, the more respected the warrior. A cut braid signifies shame or a vow of redemption.
   
• Mourning Rites  -  When an Ithrandos dies, their closest kin cuts a small braid from their hair and weaves it into their own, carrying a piece of them forever.
   

The Frostveil Rite

Before an Ithrandos is considered a full warrior, they must undergo a month-long survival trial in the tundra, with only a single weapon of their choice. They must return with proof of a worthy kill - whether it be a beast, a bandit, or an enemy of the crown. Those who fail are not cast out, but they are marked with a white scar across their palm, signifying that they have yet to earn their place.

The Icebrand Duel

Disputes between Ithrandos warriors are not settled through words - they are settled through single-combat duels fought on the frozen lakes of their homeland.

• These aren’t fights to the death - instead, the duel ends when one fighter draws blood or forces the other to the ice.
   
• To refuse an Icebrand Duel is an act of cowardice, bringing deep dishonor to one’s name.

The Winter Vigil

When a Tundrak ruler falls in battle, every Ithrandos warrior stands a night-long vigil in complete silence, regardless of where they are. During this time, they do not eat, speak, or sleep - they simply stand, unmoving, until the dawn rises.

 

STYLE OF COMBAT

The Two Paths of Combat

While all Ithrandos warriors are trained in warfare, their styles often fall into two categories:

• The Stormbearers  -  Fighters who rely on raw strength, discipline, and endurance. They wield longswords, heavy spears, and greatbows. They are unshakable, towering warriors, capable of holding a battlefield like a frozen monolith.
   
• The Windwalkers  -  Combatants who value speed, precision, and deception. They use curved blades, shortbows, and throwing knives, striking before their enemy can react. Their footwork is fluid, their strikes as sharp and cold as the northern wind.
   

It is common for men to lean toward the brute-force approach and women to favor speed and finesse, but these roles are not rigid - many warriors master both styles, and some choose the opposite path.

POLITICS

 

The Ithrandos' political ideology is Nativism, which is espoused by Mali'fenn who fear and loathe other Elves and advocate isolationism. The Ithrandos consider the Cataclysms and their history of conflict with other Elves and determine that the Snow Elves should have nothing to do with their Elven kin. They frequently resist the incorporation of other Elves into the Snow Elven state.

CHARACTERISTICS

The Ithrandos are typically tall, ranging from six feet to six and a half feet in height. Their hair is snow-white, and it sparkles faintly, as though it holds the very essence of winter’s grace, often catching the light like fine silver threads. Their eyes are a pale, icy blue. They have sharp, defined features, with high cheekbones and either slender or brawny frames.

Aesthetic & Fashion

Clothing

The Ithrandos favor elegant yet functional clothing, designed for both battle and ceremony. Their attire is a blend of Mali’fenn nobility and practicality, favoring colors that reflect the tundra itself.

• Deep Blues, Silvers, and Whites  -  Representing the ice, sky, and snow of their homeland.
   
• Layered Robes & Cloaks  -  Worn over fitted combat attire, ensuring both warmth and mobility.
   
• Silver Embroidery  -  Subtle, yet intricate, woven into the edges of their clothing to display status and lineage.
   
• Braided Sashes & Belts  -  Marking rank, achievements, and family. Warriors often tie small charms or metal rings into them.
   

Ornaments & Accessories

• Silver Hair Rings & Chains  -  Each ring symbolizes a significant kill, oath, or rank. The more decorated the hair, the more experienced the warrior.
   
• Engraved Armlets & Wrist Cuffs  -  Often adorned with runes, family sigils, or the emblem of the Tundrak dynasty.
   
• Beaded Earrings & Necklaces  -  Worn mostly by women, but some men also adopt them as symbols of grace and refinement.

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Personalized, Elegant Speech

The Ithrandos, while often speaking in a measured, elegant tone, carry a distinct rhythm to their words - a kind of soft, melodic flow, much like the wind through snow-laden branches. When they speak to each other, there is a formality to their speech, even in casual conversation, but it’s never cold. The rhythm is purposeful but not stiff, with a subtle undercurrent of warmth that reflects their deep connection to one another.

For instance, a simple greeting might be: “May the quiet of the frost find you in peace, my kin.”

When they speak to other bloodlines, there’s a calm respect. However, they maintain a slight distance - always polite, but never quite familial. “You honor our land with your presence,” they might say to outsiders, a courteous but cool acknowledgment. The way they speak hints at the reserve they maintain; they are very careful with their words and rarely use overt humor. The silence between their words is as eloquent as what they say.

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How They Treat the Other Bloodlines

The Ithrandos have a certain pride in their lineage, but they are never cruel or dismissive to those of other bloodlines. They simply carry themselves with a quiet dignity. To other elven houses, they are viewed as aloof, but also incredibly wise and capable - known for their serene elegance and unshakable resolve.

While the Ithrandos might not form close bonds with other bloodlines, they respect each one’s contribution to the Mali’fenn. When interacting with other elven houses, they will often offer simple but deeply meaningful gestures - such as bowing their heads in greeting, or presenting a delicate snowflake-shaped brooch as a sign of gratitude. These actions are a mark of their understated elegance, offering respect without the need for grand display.

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Social Bonds

Their bonds with one another are deeply rooted in shared experience and mutual respect. The Ithrandos are generally very private, and their social circles are small, but they are fiercely loyal to those they consider family or close friends. It’s not uncommon for them to express their affection in quiet, unspoken ways - perhaps in the way they carefully comb each other’s hair after a long journey in the snow, or how they will protectively stand near a loved one when a storm grows too fierce.

Even the smallest gestures - such as gently brushing snow off someone’s cloak or offering a shared silence while watching the snowfall - hold great meaning. Their love and loyalty are communicated without grand declarations. It’s in the quiet moments, where actions speak louder than words.

 

Spoiler

Bit lengthy for a bloodline post! But it's something I have been meaning to post for a couple years now before my fellow snow elves exploded. It needed an update so I finally saw it fit to post it! :)) <3 

 

[LobsterLarry 1514]

Best Bloodline