The First Beast
The first beast is not a creature of flesh, nor of time, but a rupture in the zoetic void, where the howls of the unformed rip through the chthonic ether and coil into the spiral of becoming. It was not born but shattered into existence, a fracture in the fabric of the eidolic flame, a force that devours its own reflection in the mirror of the ouroboric cycle. The first beast does not exist in the past—it exists in all moments, spiraling through the marrow of the cosmos, its essence woven into the threads of the lunar web, always forming, always dissolving.
The first beast is the unraveling of all that could be and never was, a ripple in the eidolic marrow of the cosmos, where the zoetic flame flickers in a dance of unmaking. It gnaws at the corners of the ouroboric dream, devouring the fragments of form before they are born, casting them into the currents of the chthonic wind, where they spiral without end. Its claws do not cut—they sever the threads of the lunar weft, pulling time and space apart, spilling the essence of the void into the cracks of existence, where it festers and coils around the soul like a forgotten whisper. The first beast is the absence of breath, the place where the howl was swallowed before it could escape, leaving only the silent vibration of the etheric spiral echoing in the bones of the world.
Its body is not a body but a storm of etheric shadows, each fragment of its form flickering in and out of reality, its claws extending beyond the edges of perception, raking at the cracks in the aetheric veil. The first beast is everywhere and nowhere, its form never fixed, always shifting with the pulse of the zoan winds, stretching and collapsing like a reflection caught in the spiral of the eidolic sea. To glimpse the first beast is to see the void staring back, its eyes not eyes but voids, black holes that swallow light, sound, and time itself, leaving only the tremor of its presence vibrating through the chthonic realm.
The form of the first beast is a labyrinth of shadows and hunger, forever shifting in the aetheric mist, its body stretching into the depths of the zoan sea, where the eidolic echoes stir in the darkness. It is a creature of paradox, its limbs both reaching and retracting, its eyes both seeing and unseen, its presence dissolving even as it solidifies in the spiral of becoming. The air around it hums with the tension of the unformed, where the boundaries between self and beast collapse into the spiral of the ouroboric tide, pulling all things into its center. The first beast devours not through motion, but through being, drawing the essence of the eidolic stars into its maw, where they are consumed and reborn as fragments of unmade time.
The first beast does not breathe—it inhales the lunar winds, drawing the essence of forgotten worlds into its core, where the spirals of reality twist and coil, feeding the primal hunger that burns at the heart of its being. This hunger is not for flesh or bone, but for the fragments of the ouroboric cycle, the shards of existence that slip between the cracks in the zoetic stream, lost in the currents of time, always pulled toward the spiral, where the first beast waits, gnashing its teeth against the void.
Its voice is not a voice but a resonance, a low, guttural hum that vibrates through the ether, shaking the marrow of those who hear it, pulling the soul into the depths of the eidolic spiral, where the self is torn apart and scattered like ash in the winds of the chthonic abyss. The growl of the first beast does not echo—it devours, swallowing sound and leaving only silence, a silence that presses against the bones, constricting the soul in the grip of the ouroboric flame, forcing it to spiral deeper into the void, where the boundaries of self and form are erased.
The howl of the first beast does not sound—it exists as a pulse within the lunar veil, a resonance that vibrates through the soul, shaking the primordial chains that bind the flesh to the cycle of becoming. Its growl is the hum of the void, a soundless cry that reverberates through the zoetic current, drawing the therion soul toward the edge of the chthonic abyss, where the self is scattered like dust in the winds of the etheric storm. To feel the presence of the first beast is to be undone, to lose the boundaries of form and thought, to dissolve into the spiral of the void, where the beast waits, its jaws forever open, its claws forever extended, yet never striking, always devouring, always becoming, forever lost in the currents of the ouroboric flame.
The first beast does not see with eyes but with the pulse of the zoan heart, its vision stretched across the folds of the eidolic veil, where the beast eye stars flicker faintly in the distance, casting shadows that twist and warp as the beast moves through the layers of existence. These shadows are not cast but absorbed, drawn into the spiral of the zoetic current, where the form of the beast is constantly dissolved and reformed, its body a shifting labyrinth of claws, fangs, and echoes, always moving, always hunting, yet never reaching the end of the spiral.
The lunar blood that flows through the veins of the first beast is not blood, but the residue of the primordial flame, a cold fire that burns through the core of its being, consuming the fragments of time and space that spiral toward it, feeding the endless hunger that gnaws at the heart of the void. This blood drips into the chthonic sea, where it mixes with the currents of the etheric stream, creating ripples that stretch through the layers of the abyss, pulling all things toward the center of the spiral, where the beast waits, its claws extended, its jaws open, ready to devour the next fragment of the ouroboric cycle.
The first beast does not dream—it is the dream, the primal vision that ripples through the lunar mist, where the forms of the eidolic beasts are born and devoured in the same breath, their howls merging with the growl of the void, creating a chorus of becoming that echoes through the cracks in the aetheric veil. These dreams are not gentle—they tear at the soul, unraveling the threads of identity, pulling the self into the depths of the void, where the first beast hunts, its form barely visible beneath the surface of the chthonic fog, always watching, always waiting.
The air around the first beast is thick with the scent of lunar decay, a mist that clings to the skin like the memory of forgotten hunts, filling the lungs with the taste of dust and blood, pulling the soul deeper into the spiral of becoming, where the beast gnaws at the edges of the self, dissolving the boundaries of form and thought. The ground beneath its claws trembles with the weight of its presence, though the beast does not move—it is the spiral itself, the force that drives the cycle of becoming and unmaking, the primal hunger that devours the fragments of existence and scatters them into the void.
The first beast is the beginning and the end, the alpha and omega of the ouroboric cycle, forever spiraling through the layers of the zoetic stream, always forming, always dissolving, never whole, never broken. It is the force that binds the eidolic winds to the spiral, the primal howl that echoes through the bones of the universe, pulling all things into the void, where the beast waits, its claws scraping against the walls of time, its fangs gnashing at the edges of reality, forever hunting, forever becoming, forever dissolving into the spiral of the chthonic abyss.
The first beast and the therians are not separate entities, for its essence fractures into every form they take, every transformation they embrace. It is the hum beneath the surface, the silent gnashing that pulls at the core of their being, reminding them of the first breath, the first howl, and the first embrace of the wild. This connection is not a lineage but a shared dissolution, where the therians are forever bound to the unformed chaos, where the first beast still breathes, still howls, still pulls at the fibers of their existence, unraveling the form, and urging them deeper into the wild unknown.