Defining the borders of the great Shale Flats and hidden Chiton, the Brittleclaw Mountains rise high into the sky. Among pale blue peaks, springs of clear water bubble from deep within the rocks and feed into a winding river system that leads all the way to the western sea. These glistening waters hold life of all varieties, and tucked between the roots of rock-fruit trees and flowing mountain kelp, one species in particular alters the lives of all who live among the Brittleclaws.
The full cycle takes about twenty years. Hatching in the shallow mountain pools, high above the clouds, the Hookjaw Hermit starts life about the size of an apple. The soft shelled hatchlings are vulnerable, and easy pickings for predators. From river eels to even other hookjaw young, the young crabfish have plenty to hide from. Littering the pools, rock-fruits that have fallen from trees above make excellent shells for the hermits. The soft flesh within the fruit has rotted away, leaving a hollow sphere of stone, split open and ready to be inhabited. Most scholars assume these trees are why ancient hookjaws chose these mountain pools to spawn over any other location - over the course of the twenty year cycle, plenty of fruit will fall to the water below, their rinds the perfect starter shell for a young crabfish.
Then, a great journey begins. Out of the pools, into the rivers, down the mountains, and out to the coast. The hookjaws let the water carry them in this time, ready for a rich life at sea. And there they stay for decades, eating, and growing. One hermit can go through over one hundred shells in its lifetime, each shell originating from a huge variety of different species living amongst the seas of The Continent. After twenty long years, the mating season begins, and the usually peaceful life on the coast erupts into mayhem. Lumbering from the waters, the hookjaws begin a pilgrimage, up the mountains to the very pool they spawned in. This time however, they won’t be swimming.
Great armoured legs carry the beasts up the mountains, through villages, trampling crops, farmers and anything else caught under the rising red tide of carapace and scales. In this time, the females become high value targets for poachers. Swell with eggs, each the size of an apple and sweet as honey, many are hunted during the run. But for each female hunted for the prized roe, countless hunters are lost to the snapping claws of protective and hormone frenzied males.
Those that survive the run find their way to the pool that they hatched in, so many years ago. After mating, the hookjaw hermit's life comes to an end. The hulking giants come to a peaceful end, surrounded by familiar waters. Their bodies rot away, feeding the roots of the rock-fruit tree, leaving behind their shells nestled amongst the regalia of their ancestors. Next spring, the young will hatch, and a new generation will follow the river, out to the sea. A problem for twenty years from now, I would imagine…
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