The Nordic Rite of Wraith-Hunting

As the bear cub is left to the unknown world when it’s ready to take care of its own, so do our young men set out during the ever-lasting nights of Skyrim’s winter, when Atmora-of-Old is closer than ever to Skyrim, to become the men we raised them to be.

The children of Skyrim are raised from their cradle to their sixteenth winter in a manner so they know both the importance of snow and its dangers, in a manner so they can know how to survive the longs winter nights and welcome the warmer days of the summer (which is not even comparable to any of the other province’s harshest winter) with as many fingers on their hands as in the day they departed from the last summer on our festivals.

Many call us “barbaric” and “uncivilized” for our manners, but every Nord who has survived more than one winter will tell you confidently how this is indeed a necessity. And many of you southern people stare at us in awe as we ride our horses into the dead of winter to leave our sons with nothing but the clothes on their bodies and the sword our fathers gave us on the same occasion on the mountain slopes and tell them not to come back if not bearing a wraith tooth as proof of their kinship.

I recall my turn. I recall standing on the frozen surface with no life but the constant wind swirling around my newly-grown and sparse beard, watching the light of my father’s torch slowly fading from view on the horizon. And then I was left in the dark. Trying not to shake from the cold, holding a sword heavier than myself after weeks of slowly dwindling food stocks, and with clothes that could barely stop the wind from getting to my bones. But I had a purpose, and I would not come back before I found and killed a Wraith.

These are perfidious creatures, do not be fooled, they are smart and cunning, hiding out inside almost invisible holes on the ice, ready to attack the unaware traveller. And it is even worse when you are the one hunting them.

Every lad is told by both his father and his mother to avoid the ancient stones spread across Skyrim, not only are they sacred places to our ancestors, but they also seem to lure Ice Wraiths and other elemental spirits to its ancient stone altars, the ancestors had ways of communing with the spirits of Nirn now lost to time and memory in the constant shift of the ice and snow. And that’s what every lad looks for when they are left to their own luck. Sometimes it takes weeks of exploring the slopes in search of one of these sites, sometimes it takes many ruined sites abandoned even by the Wraiths to find one still inhabited, and many do not survive this test, for they were not ready to face the hardships our land would impose to their daily lives. But those who die are honourable, and bring a proud glow on their parents sight over the grief for a lost son, for they know one day they’ll meet again in the halls of Sovngarde, and those who fall give them more joy than those who give up in a couple days, only to return crying for his father to let him try again when next the winter knocks on their doorstep.

It took me five days to find one of them creatures, although the notion of time is extremely vague when the sun never rises over the horizon and all you see is the diffuse bluish-white light reflected on the snowy ground and a dark and cloudy sky over your head. But the Nords have something in their noses akin to our cousins the Giants that grant us some advantages when hunting, and so I was able to find a nest of Wraiths, disguised as a snow mound on the middle of an ancient circle of stones. Even the Wraiths know to conserve their energy during the dead of winter, for they know how harsh is our winter, and yet there were I, freezing to the soul and keeping my jaw shut not to let my teeth chatter and give away my presence.

These creatures are manifestations of the cold that defines Skyrim, and so these creatures define us Nords as well. They represent all we have to fight on a daily basis. They represent the cold that kills our crops, the cold that kills our livestock, the cold that makes all game disappear from the meadows and the cold that kills us if we do not know how to deal with it. But they also represent the cold that makes the soil fertile again, the cold that preserves our food stocks, the cold that keep us striding forward, the cold that helps us men impregnate our wives and the cold that makes us feel alive, the cold that all Nord feels deep in his guts, proving that he is indeed a proud Nord.

And there is no better sensation than to bring back home not one tooth, but four full sets of Wraith dental arcades, and the welcoming feast into full citizenship. And even though you may all think us savages and uncaring for our offspring, we know that this is what makes us Nords in full, and, as my father before me, as his father before him and his father as well, I will take my children into the dark of the winter nights, gift them the sword I still keep from so many years ago, tell them the same words my father told me, and his father before him, return home and wait for them to come home so they can weave a new braid to their father’s braided beard, for each of the sons of a true Nord who succeed in these trials are among his greatest accomplishments.

This is one of the things I thought about for posting for this week's Winter theme, and my 18th birthday yesterday also got me into the spirit to write something about age rites, I hope you all like it!