Astral Fangs
The astral fangs are not teeth, but fractures in the voidic marrow, sharp spirals of the unformed, gnashing at the edges of reality where the zoetic winds coil through the cracks of the astral plane. They do not bite—they consume, pulling the essence of the astral self into the tension of dissolution, where form and thought dissolve into the mist of the eidolonic spiral. The fangs do not pierce—they fray, gnawing at the boundaries of identity as they pull the soul deeper into the unmaking current, where light flickers and fades, devoured by the silence of the void. The astral fangs do not belong to a beast, but to the abyss itself, forever gnashing in the spiral of becoming.
The fangs hum with the resonance of etherbite, though their hum is not sound but a vibration that bends the marrow of the aetheric flow, stretching the soul into the spiral where time gnashes and collapses. They do not mark the edges of hunger—they are the hunger, a force that devours the self as it pulls the soul through the tension of the zoanwild cycle, where form and ferality gnash against one another, dissolving into the mist of the unformed. The astral fangs do not hold back—they tear, scattering the essence of the self into the folds of the voidvenom, where the primal and the void collide in a gnashing, endless spiral.
The light within the astral fangs is not a glow but a flicker of the void’s hunger, a shard of the unmade that coils through the cracks of time, casting no reflection but devouring all it touches. The fangs do not drip—they vibrate, bending the flow of the eidolic strain as they gnaw at the edges of the self, dragging the soul into the spiral of unmaking, where thought and memory dissolve into the tension of the unspoken. The astral fangs are not seen—they are felt, a weight that presses against the core of being, fraying the boundaries of the soul as it spirals deeper into the tension of becoming, forever bound to the pull of the void.
The astral fangs do not belong to the feral but to the velochoric void, a force that bites through the essence of existence, pulling the self into the cycle of dissolution. They do not gnash with intent—they gnash with absence, devouring the boundaries of time and form as they coil through the astral marrow, pulling the soul into the spiral where all things are consumed. The fangs are not sharp—they are unmaking, a fracture that stretches the threads of identity as they bend through the silence of the unformed, scattering the essence of being like dust in the wind of the void.
The fangs hum not with ferocity, but with the tension of erasure, vibrating through the cracks in the chorabound currents, pulling all things into the spiral of becoming. They do not seek—they pull, gnawing at the core of the self as the astral plane frays and dissolves under the weight of the unspoken. To feel the astral fangs is to lose the sense of form, to be scattered into the mist of the eidolonic unmaking, where the threads of thought and memory gnash against one another, lost forever in the silence of the spiral, forever devoured by the void.
The astral fangs are not mere remnants of ferality, for they gnash at the very essence of the zoan flame, pulling the primal essence into the spiral of dissolution, where the boundaries of the wild and the void dissolve. They do not strike—they hum, vibrating with the weight of the unformed, pulling the soul deeper into the folds of the void, where light is devoured and the self is scattered into the mist. The fangs are not sharp edges—they are endless tension, pulling all things into the aetherborn gnash, where the primal and the void collide, forever spiraling, forever dissolving, forever lost in the hum of the unmade.
The astral fangs are not simply bound to therians—they are woven into the marrow of their feralcore, gnashing at the tension between the beast and the unformed. They do not bite the flesh but the essence, pulling the therian spirit deeper into the eidolonic void, where the wild self is stretched between the primal and the voidborn silence. The fangs hum with the zoanthropic pulse, vibrating through the cracks of the chimeric astral flow, pulling the feral core into the spiral of dissolution, where identity unravels and the beast coils tighter around the self, forever gnashing at the edges of reality.
The astral fangs are not external to the therian—they are intrinsic, a force that gnaws at the duality within, bending the boundaries of form as the primal soul is dragged into the cycle of unmaking. The fangs do not cage the beast, nor release it—they pull, coiling through the eidolonic tether, where the therian’s human and animal selves clash in the endless tension of becoming. The fangs hum with the resonance of the zoanwild void, a vibration that tightens around the feralborn core, dissolving the boundaries of the human and the wild, scattering both into the silence of the unspoken.
The astral fangs do not merely consume—they embody the tension between the therian gnash and the abyss, pulling the soul into the spiral of dissolution, where the wild self is devoured and reborn in the same breath. They gnaw at the lupithic marrow, where the primal howl is frayed by the weight of the unformed, bending the therian’s core until it snaps, scattering the fragments of their wild identity into the mist of the void. The fangs are not sharp—they are the unmaking force itself, forever pulling the therian into the velochoric spiral, where the beast is dissolved and remade, forever bound to the hum of the unformed, forever gnashing at the boundaries of being.