Great Beasts First Cry
The great beast’s first cry is not a sound but a rupture in the zoetic weave, an unraveling of silence that spirals through the marrow of the eidolic abyss, tearing at the threads of time and casting its echoes into the void. It does not emerge from a throat but from the heart of the unformed, a force born in the tension of becoming, where light fractures and dissolves into shadows. This cry is not heard but felt, a vibration that shakes the core of existence, gnawing at the edges of the ouroboric flame, pulling all things into the pulse of the void.
The first cry does not pierce the air—it coils through the folds of the aetheric currents, a ripple that bends reality, stretching the boundaries of thought and form until they unravel in its wake. It hums with the resonance of the chthonic winds, though it is not a hum that can be captured, for it exists between breath and silence, spiraling endlessly through the cracks in time. To feel the great beast’s cry is to be consumed by the weight of the unspoken, as the tension of becoming tightens around the soul, pulling it into the spiral where sound and silence are one, where the self is undone in the pulse of the unformed.
The great beast’s cry is a fracture in the fabric of the void, a tear that does not close but expands, pulling the light of forgotten stars into its endless churn. It does not howl—it vibrates, resonating through the bones of the world, shaking the foundation of the eidolic plane until it crumbles into dust. The cry does not stop—it stretches, winding through the folds of the lunar tides, dragging the echoes of the unmade into the spiral, where they are scattered and reborn as fragments of the void, forever bound to the cry, forever dissolving in its endless hum.
The air around the great beast’s cry is thick with the weight of its presence, though the air itself is a lie, for there is no breath in the silence of the unformed. The cry moves not as a wave but as a pulse, pulling all things into its wake, where the soul is stretched thin, caught between the tension of becoming and the silence of dissolution. The great beast’s first cry does not call for release but for absorption, consuming the essence of existence with each pulse, dragging the self deeper into the spiral of the ouroboric cycle, where all things are bound to its hum.
The first cry does not belong to the great beast alone, for it is the cry of the unformed, the echo of the void, a resonance that hums through the marrow of time, pulling the soul into the depths of the eidolic sea, where it is swallowed by the silence of the unspoken. This cry is not a beginning but a becoming, a loop of sound and silence that forever coils through the zoetic current, pulling the essence of the self into its spiral, where it is scattered and dissolved into the hum of the void. To feel the great beast’s first cry is to lose the sense of self, to be drawn into the cycle of unmaking, where the cry is both the echo and the silence, forever bound to the pulse of the unformed.
The great beast's first cry does not merely resonate in the void; it ripples through the essence of all therians, a haunting echo that binds their wild souls to the primal pulse of existence. This cry is not a sound, but a vibration that gnashes at the core of their being, pulling them into the spiral of becoming, where identity and form dissolve into the silence of the unspoken. The connection is not one of distance; it is the very breath of the beast that courses through their veins, igniting the feral essence that lies dormant within each therian, awakening the shadows of their ancestry.
Within the depths of the therian temple, the great beast's first cry reverberates as a primal hum, threading through the marrow of the stone, binding the therians to the ancient echoes of the wild. This cry is a signal, a call that stretches through the eidolic winds, pulling their feral instincts into alignment with the essence of the beast. The therians do not hear it with ears; they feel it in the marrow of their being, a gnawing reminder of their connection to the great beast, urging them to remember the chaos from which they were born.
The great beast's first cry does not simply mark an event—it is the moment of awakening, where the therians are drawn into the cosmic dance of existence, their identities intertwining with the beast's essence. This connection transcends time and space, binding each therian to the unfathomable depths of the beast's roar, which echoes through the ages, igniting the wild spirit that coils within. The cry is the unraveling force that bends the fabric of their reality, pulling them deeper into the spiral of the unformed, where thought and memory dissolve into the mist of the void.
The therians are not separate from the great beast's first cry; they are its children, each howl a reflection of the primal sound that first broke the silence of creation. This cry is a force that draws them together, weaving their wildness into the tapestry of the unmade, where they are both individuals and one, forever linked to the great beast that roams the abyss. The connection is visceral, a constant reminder of their shared ancestry, echoing in their hearts as they spiral through the cycle of becoming, forever transformed, forever entwined in the essence of the beast.