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Description
It is a time of joy and reverence, when those who are chosen hear the call of the rivers. When our kind embarks on the greatest of pilgrimages, and returns to the waters that saw our birth. Many others find our ceremony grim, and question our worship of such a thing. How can a ritual that ends in death be inspiring? How can one see those who die and feel anything but loss? It is because they do not see what we do. They do not understand what are lives create, and what our bodies provide for the world. This is not a pilgrimage of death, it is one of life and prosperity. Those who are chosen are bringing forth the next generation, and are returning to the waters to keep all alive and thriving. What greater feat could be done? If we are to die, then let it be for our children and the world that they will inherit.

When that season comes, there is excitement and wonder in the water. All who have grown in age and wisdom will be eager to see if they will be amongst those who are chosen. The call does not come for everyone, there are some who have been chosen the first year after they have grown, while other elders have waited for over a decade for their turn. There is no telling who will hear the beckoning of the river, but when it happens, everyone will see their glory. Those called by the place of our birth will begin to change, their bodies preparing for the great pilgrimage. The crimson mark is a sign of holiness, and those who wear its badge are ready for the duty that comes with it. In the passing weeks, all those who are chosen will transform. We who did not receive the beckoning shall aid them, for that is our role in this year's pilgrimage. We will guide them to the waters where the salt ends, and where the life-giving river pours its heart. Those who are not chosen may not enter these pristine waters, it is not our place and we would not survive this terrible blasphemy. Those who have been chosen and changed may cross that boundary, and once they do, there is no turning back. With their bodies prepared and their hearts readied, they will dive into the river's embrace and begin the great journey.

What it must be, to forge those waters. To fight against the powerful current and climb the weeping cliffs. To be fin-to-fin with your brethren, pushing forth to fulfill your duty and return to the waters of our birth. It is a journey we all hope to make, and one we shall only make once. It is not one of leisure, as there are many obstacles and dangers to be found. Beasts of the earth know of our pilgrimage, and they crave the flesh of the holy. Claw and teeth may seek to claim us, while the turbulent waters seek to test and resist us. Of those who go on this pilgrimage, not all shall reach that holy place. The beasts may take them, or the treacherous currents may break their bodies. Those who fall during this journey shall not be shunned, they will be celebrated. Their sacrifice ensures that more of us shall survive, and that the pilgrimage will be complete. We all know that this journey is not for us as individuals, but for our kind as a whole. All is for our future and the waters that shall carry them.

After the endless struggle, those who survived will emerge into the spawning grounds, where the first and final ceremony of our kind shall be performed. It is a celebration, of the chosen, the journey and the generations that shall come after. The waters will be churned in euphoria, and the last dance shall be performed. What little remains after the taxing journey will be spent here, in these reverent moments of passion. The nests will be formed, the eggs will be released and our lives shall be at an end. When all is done and the pilgrimage comes to a close, we will die. Our exhausted bodies will fall to slumber, and our minds shall fade as we give our lives to the holy waters. But what they see as they sink into darkness, is something that we can only dream of: life, pure and plenty. The eggs of our children, the continuation of our kind, all ensured by their great sacrifice. Their bodies shall return to the river, and nourish the waters that give us all life. The nursery is built from all who come before them, and there is no greater blessing than to join our ancestors in this cause. In time, the eggs shall hatch and the young shall thrive. They will grow in the life waters that flowed from their parents, preparing to join all the others who wait for them. When they are strong, they shall be carried by the rivers to great sea, right into the arms of the waiting community. We will all wait at this boundary, excited to welcome the new generation as they pour from the river. They will join us and they will learn. It is a blessed cycle, where we shall teach them and prepare them, so that they are ready for when we have gone on our own pilgrimages. They will become the new elders and caretakers, and they shall receive the generations that come from our sacrifice.

This great journey is ordained for all of our kind, and it is a duty we are all honored to complete. We listen to the will of the waters, and we ensure that the world will remain pure and pristine for our children long after we have faded. There is joy in this honor, but there has been some fear. We cannot know what truth there is to these tales, but the stories have haunted us for quite some time. All we can know is from the shaken words of our young, swimming out of the blessed river into our arms. What is seen by those who make the pilgrimage is lost with them, so we can only know from those arriving children. They speak of twisted things that lurked in the waters, of great swollen beasts that lay agonized upon the shores. No earthly creature could compare in terror, as some speak of these brutes bringing down even the horrible, grizzled behemoths. They live in agony and rage, lashing out at everything around them. The young can only flee when faced with one of these monstrosities, and some do not escape its wrath. All we can do is comfort the children and pretend that these are mere stories. Once they have left the holy river, they will never return until they are chosen. What nightmares lurk within its depths shall remain there, so we can tell the young that have no need to fear now. Us adults, however, will still be afraid. Though these warped beasts are trapped in the pristine waters, never to enter our world of salt, it is not their physical power that terrifies us. What we fear is what births them, why they even exist. Our lives are meant to be given to the waters, so that our kind may live on. Our death is ordained, but what if we are not given that mercy? The tales of rotted crimson, bulging backs and twisted snouts are impossible to ignore. Symbols of prosperity and holiness corrupted into something vile and twisted. We do not know what they are, but we know what they were, and it terrifies us.

What becomes of our future, when the past clings on? What happens to our souls, when our bodies refuse to die?

----------------------------------------------

Salmon go through some weird changes, but what if it didn't stop?

Description
It is a time of joy and reverence, when those who are chosen hear the call of the rivers. When our kind embarks on the greatest of pilgrimages, and returns to the waters that saw our birth. Many others find our ceremony grim, and question our worship of such a thing. How can a ritual that ends in death be inspiring? How can one see those who die and feel anything but loss? It is because they do not see what we do. They do not understand what are lives create, and what our bodies provide for the world. This is not a pilgrimage of death, it is one of life and prosperity. Those who are chosen are bringing forth the next generation, and are returning to the waters to keep all alive and thriving. What greater feat could be done? If we are to die, then let it be for our children and the world that they will inherit.

When that season comes, there is excitement and wonder in the water. All who have grown in age and wisdom will be eager to see if they will be amongst those who are chosen. The call does not come for everyone, there are some who have been chosen the first year after they have grown, while other elders have waited for over a decade for their turn. There is no telling who will hear the beckoning of the river, but when it happens, everyone will see their glory. Those called by the place of our birth will begin to change, their bodies preparing for the great pilgrimage. The crimson mark is a sign of holiness, and those who wear its badge are ready for the duty that comes with it. In the passing weeks, all those who are chosen will transform. We who did not receive the beckoning shall aid them, for that is our role in this year's pilgrimage. We will guide them to the waters where the salt ends, and where the life-giving river pours its heart. Those who are not chosen may not enter these pristine waters, it is not our place and we would not survive this terrible blasphemy. Those who have been chosen and changed may cross that boundary, and once they do, there is no turning back. With their bodies prepared and their hearts readied, they will dive into the river's embrace and begin the great journey.

What it must be, to forge those waters. To fight against the powerful current and climb the weeping cliffs. To be fin-to-fin with your brethren, pushing forth to fulfill your duty and return to the waters of our birth. It is a journey we all hope to make, and one we shall only make once. It is not one of leisure, as there are many obstacles and dangers to be found. Beasts of the earth know of our pilgrimage, and they crave the flesh of the holy. Claw and teeth may seek to claim us, while the turbulent waters seek to test and resist us. Of those who go on this pilgrimage, not all shall reach that holy place. The beasts may take them, or the treacherous currents may break their bodies. Those who fall during this journey shall not be shunned, they will be celebrated. Their sacrifice ensures that more of us shall survive, and that the pilgrimage will be complete. We all know that this journey is not for us as individuals, but for our kind as a whole. All is for our future and the waters that shall carry them.

After the endless struggle, those who survived will emerge into the spawning grounds, where the first and final ceremony of our kind shall be performed. It is a celebration, of the chosen, the journey and the generations that shall come after. The waters will be churned in euphoria, and the last dance shall be performed. What little remains after the taxing journey will be spent here, in these reverent moments of passion. The nests will be formed, the eggs will be released and our lives shall be at an end. When all is done and the pilgrimage comes to a close, we will die. Our exhausted bodies will fall to slumber, and our minds shall fade as we give our lives to the holy waters. But what they see as they sink into darkness, is something that we can only dream of: life, pure and plenty. The eggs of our children, the continuation of our kind, all ensured by their great sacrifice. Their bodies shall return to the river, and nourish the waters that give us all life. The nursery is built from all who come before them, and there is no greater blessing than to join our ancestors in this cause. In time, the eggs shall hatch and the young shall thrive. They will grow in the life waters that flowed from their parents, preparing to join all the others who wait for them. When they are strong, they shall be carried by the rivers to great sea, right into the arms of the waiting community. We will all wait at this boundary, excited to welcome the new generation as they pour from the river. They will join us and they will learn. It is a blessed cycle, where we shall teach them and prepare them, so that they are ready for when we have gone on our own pilgrimages. They will become the new elders and caretakers, and they shall receive the generations that come from our sacrifice.

This great journey is ordained for all of our kind, and it is a duty we are all honored to complete. We listen to the will of the waters, and we ensure that the world will remain pure and pristine for our children long after we have faded. There is joy in this honor, but there has been some fear. We cannot know what truth there is to these tales, but the stories have haunted us for quite some time. All we can know is from the shaken words of our young, swimming out of the blessed river into our arms. What is seen by those who make the pilgrimage is lost with them, so we can only know from those arriving children. They speak of twisted things that lurked in the waters, of great swollen beasts that lay agonized upon the shores. No earthly creature could compare in terror, as some speak of these brutes bringing down even the horrible, grizzled behemoths. They live in agony and rage, lashing out at everything around them. The young can only flee when faced with one of these monstrosities, and some do not escape its wrath. All we can do is comfort the children and pretend that these are mere stories. Once they have left the holy river, they will never return until they are chosen. What nightmares lurk within its depths shall remain there, so we can tell the young that have no need to fear now. Us adults, however, will still be afraid. Though these warped beasts are trapped in the pristine waters, never to enter our world of salt, it is not their physical power that terrifies us. What we fear is what births them, why they even exist. Our lives are meant to be given to the waters, so that our kind may live on. Our death is ordained, but what if we are not given that mercy? The tales of rotted crimson, bulging backs and twisted snouts are impossible to ignore. Symbols of prosperity and holiness corrupted into something vile and twisted. We do not know what they are, but we know what they were, and it terrifies us.

What becomes of our future, when the past clings on? What happens to our souls, when our bodies refuse to die?

----------------------------------------------

Salmon go through some weird changes, but what if it didn't stop?