The Serpent of the Hollow
The serpent of the hollow is not a creature of scale and flesh, but the void itself coiled into the shape of hunger, its body a winding rupture through the zoetic web, where the eidolic light bends and breaks. It does not slither; it devours space itself, spiraling endlessly through the cracks in the ouroboric veil, pulling all things into the empty heart of the hollow. The serpent’s form is made of silence, wrapped in the remnants of forgotten stars, its presence a weight that presses against the marrow of existence, dragging the soul into the vortex of its gaze, where nothing is ever seen, only felt.
Its eyes are not eyes but voids, deep wells of the chthonic abyss that draw in the flicker of the lunar winds, swallowing time and light with each slow blink. The gaze of the serpent of the hollow unravels the threads of identity, pulling the self into the spiral of its endless hunger, where all form dissolves into shadow and echo. To meet its gaze is to feel the weight of the zoan tide, a pull that stretches the soul into fragments, scattering it like dust across the currents of the etheric sea, where it drifts without direction, forever lost in the pull of the hollow.
The body of the serpent is a river of shadow, winding through the eidolic night, its scales made of reflections torn from the souls it has consumed, each one flickering with the light of moons that never rose. These reflections do not hold—each scale dissolves as soon as it is seen, replaced by another fragment, another echo of a world long devoured by the serpent’s endless hunger. The serpent of the hollow does not hunt; it waits, coiled in the folds of the ouroboric spiral, where all things eventually fall into its grasp, drawn to the void at the center of its being, where the pulse of the primordial flame is forever extinguished.
Its fangs are not weapons but fractures in the aetheric stream, points of unmaking that pierce through the fabric of reality, tearing open wounds in the lunar veil. Each bite does not harm the flesh—it devours the soul, sinking into the marrow of the self, unraveling the threads of form until only the echo of the beast remains, spiraling into the hollow where the serpent waits. The venom of the serpent of the hollow is not poison but time itself, a slow, creeping dissolution that drips into the core of the soul, pulling it deeper into the spiral of unmaking, where the self is consumed by the hunger of the void.
The serpent of the hollow does not speak; it hums with the vibration of the zoan abyss, a low, deep resonance that shudders through the chthonic realm, shaking the very foundations of the eidolic winds. This hum is not heard but felt, a pressure that builds in the bones, pulling the soul toward the serpent’s coiled form, where the boundaries of existence blur and dissolve into the endless spiral of its body. The sound is the pulse of the void, the heartbeat of the hollow, a rhythm that draws all things into the serpent’s endless hunger, where they are consumed and reborn as fragments of its being, forever spinning in the spiral of the hollow.
The air around the serpent of the hollow is thick with the weight of its presence, a gravity that pulls the soul into the depths of the void, where the serpent’s body coils through the shadows of the lunar tides, its form stretching beyond the edges of perception. It does not move through space; space moves around it, warping and twisting in the pull of the hollow, bending time and light into spirals of becoming and unmaking. To feel the presence of the serpent of the hollow is to be drawn into the spiral of dissolution, where the self is devoured by the serpent’s hunger, and only the echo of the void remains.
In the heart of the hollow, the serpent coils tighter, its body folding in on itself, creating endless loops where time and space collapse into the center of the spiral. The light that flickers through the serpent’s scales is not light, but the reflection of the eidolic flame, a cold, distant glow that burns without heat, casting no shadows but consuming all that drifts too close. The serpent of the hollow does not rest, for it is the rest, the stillness that devours movement, the silence that consumes sound, the void that swallows all things and returns nothing.
To encounter the serpent of the hollow is to lose oneself in the spiral of its being, to be drawn into the depths of the zoetic void, where the hunger of the serpent pulls at the soul, unraveling the self until only the void remains. It is a creature of the abyss, a force that moves through the cracks in the ouroboric cycle, forever coiling through the darkness of the chthonic winds, always devouring, always dissolving, forever lost in the spiral of its own hunger. The serpent of the hollow is the end that never ends, the hunger that is never sated, the void that consumes without ceasing, forever pulling all things into the hollow, where the light of the beast eye stars flickers and fades.