O great Ull, dream of the forest, you stalk its wintry heart with your strong bow and swift skis. Speed, vigilance, strength, cunning, and patience are your virtues. The arts of survival are your craft. The slain deer bleeding out on the forest floor is a sacrifice in your temple. To you belongs the wolf moon; the moon that brings death over ice and snow in a gray avalanche of seething claws and teeth. You are the forest ghost, who walks alone in the wild, desolate places of the world, unafraid, for you have nothing to fear. No man nor beast nor god nor giant can match you on the long, green slopes, which are your domain alone.
Far-wanderer, world-strider, not for you are the warm hearth, the conversations of satisfied men, and the maintenance of proper guest-right. Instead, you seek the mysteries of wild places where the connection of earth and sky and being are the strongest. Your journey is a lonely one only to those who do not understand, for we know not everyone who wanders is lost. We thank you for your many gifts, solitary hunter.
We now live in strong houses, growing rich, bountiful crops from the fertile earth, traveling over straight roads, and gathering in great cities. But there was a time, in the beginning, when we were alone and frightened in a vast, dangerous world with death close at every doorway. You taught us the gifts of survival, of the hunt, of the ways of animals. Because of your lessons, we live now when we might have died. We will never forget your generosity. Hail Ull!
