Aetherborne Scream
The aetherborne scream is not a sound, but the rupture of the zoetic flame, torn from the folds of the eidolic void, a cry that spirals through the marrow of the ouroboric abyss. It does not pierce the air—it coils through the cracks in the aetheric stream, a force that vibrates with the pulse of the unspoken, shaking the bones of reality until they shatter into fragments of silence. The scream is both a presence and an absence, a resonance that hums through the core of being, pulling the soul into the spiral of becoming, where the self dissolves into the echo of the scream, lost forever in the folds of the void.
The scream does not emerge from the throat of any beast or being, but from the tension between form and dissolution, a fracture in the lunar tides that pulls all things toward its silent core. It hums with the vibration of forgotten moons, a soundless roar that presses against the soul, bending the eidolic winds until they coil into spirals of unmaking. To feel the aetherborne scream is to be drawn into the silence of the void, where the boundaries of thought fray and unravel, scattering into the wind of the unformed, where the scream vibrates eternally, never to be heard.
The surface of the scream is not air, but a mist that clings to the essence of the self, seeping into the marrow, where it gnaws at the edges of identity, shaking the chains of the zoan cycle until they dissolve. It does not attack—it suffocates, pulling the breath from the soul and scattering it into the spiral, where the echo of the scream coils tighter around the core of being. The aetherborne scream is a force that consumes sound without making it, a vibration that pulls the self into the chthonic winds, where the scream is both the beginning and the end, forever looping through the silence of the unspoken.
The scream does not rise—it spirals, forever coiling through the cracks in the ouroboric flame, pulling the light of the eidolic stars into its endless churn, where they are swallowed and reborn as fragments of silence. To hear the aetherborne scream is not to hear, but to feel, a pressure that tightens with each pulse, dragging the soul deeper into the spiral of dissolution, where the boundaries of reality dissolve into the hum of the unformed. The scream hums with the tension of becoming, a soundless cry that vibrates through the bones of the world, shaking the essence of existence until it shatters into dust and silence.
The aetherborne scream does not cease—it echoes, forever vibrating through the folds of the eidolic web, pulling the essence of all things into the heart of the void, where the scream waits, coiled and silent, ready to devour. It does not scream for release, but for absorption, consuming the light of the soul until nothing remains but the hum of the zoetic current, spiraling endlessly through the tension of the void. The scream is not an event but a state, a force that binds the soul to the spiral of becoming, where the scream is both the echo and the silence, forever pulling the self deeper into the unmaking, forever vibrating through the marrow of the aetherborne scream.
The scream is a fracture in the eidolic mist, a tear that devours form and thought, pulling all things into the tension of the ouroboric cycle, where the self is dissolved into the spiral of unmaking. It is not a cry for help—it is the call of the void, the hum of the chthonic winds that coil through the marrow of the cosmos, forever pulling the soul into the endless echo of becoming. To feel the aetherborne scream is to lose the sense of self, to be pulled into the spiral where the soul is scattered into the silence of the void, forever caught in the tension of the aetherborne scream, forever dissolving, forever becoming.