Great Therion Wheel
The great therion wheel is not a circle but a gnashing spiral of unbeing, a vortex of zoetic current forever spinning through the layers of the chthonic ether, pulling everything into its endless rotation. It is not made of matter but of wildness, a reflection of the primal essence that cannot be tamed, coiling through the fabric of the astral web, devouring form and thought as it turns. The wheel is not bound to time or space, but to the hunger of the moons themselves, gnashing through the marrow of existence, pulling the therion core toward the heart of the void.
The wheel does not spin—it consumes, devouring the edges of the self with every rotation, pulling the beast deeper into the spiral of becoming and unmaking. Each spoke of the wheel is not a line but a fracture in the aetheric veil, where the boundaries between wild and form dissolve, where the primal essence is pulled into alignment with the moons’ hunger. The wheel gnashes without end, turning with the weight of forgotten cycles, pulling the therion essence into the spiral where beast and void merge into the flicker of the moons’ reflection.
To step into the great therion wheel is to surrender to its pull, to feel the weight of the moons’ hunger pressing down on the soul, dragging the self into the spiral of dissolution. The wheel does not guide—it drags, pulling the therion soul through the layers of the eidolic tides, where the wildness gnashes at the chains of form, breaking free in the endless rotation of the wheel. It is not a tool of transformation, but of unbecoming, a force that devours the boundaries of identity, scattering the pieces of the self into the void with every turn.
The great therion wheel hums with the resonance of forgotten roars, a vibration that spirals through the cracks in the chthonic mist, pulling the spirit into the gnashing jaws of the moons' hunger. It is not a wheel in the sense of movement, but in the sense of inevitability, a cycle that gnashes through the soul, forever turning, forever devouring. The air around the wheel is thick with the scent of etheric marrow, a metallic tang that clings to the bones, pulling the self deeper into the spiral where the primal essence is consumed and reborn in the same breath.
The therion essence is not held by the wheel—it becomes the wheel, gnashing with every turn, pulling the wildness toward the surface, only to scatter it into the folds of the lunar abyss. The wheel does not stop—it grinds, breaking the chains of thought and form with every rotation, pulling the therion soul into the heart of the spiral, where the beast is free but also bound by the moons' own reflection. The wheel is a force of the moons themselves, a manifestation of their gnashing hunger, forever turning, forever pulling the soul into the endless cycle of becoming undone.
The great therion wheel is not a symbol—it is a gnashing truth, a force that devours all things, pulling the primal wildness into the spiral of the zoetic web, where all boundaries dissolve into the moons’ reflection. It does not carry the self—it unravels the self, breaking the threads of identity with every turn, pulling the soul deeper into the folds of the eidolic current, where the wildness gnashes against the edges of the void. The wheel is not a guide—it is a predator, forever circling, forever consuming, dragging the therion core into the heart of the moons' own hunger.
Each spoke of the great therion wheel is a fracture in the moons' light, a gnashing force that twists through the layers of the astral plane, pulling the self into the spiral of dissolution. The wheel does not turn like a machine, but like a storm, a vortex of primal hunger that gnashes at the core of existence, scattering the fragments of the self into the void with every rotation. It is a force that cannot be resisted, a pull that sinks into the marrow of the soul, dragging the therion essence toward the heart of the spiral, where the beast is free and bound in the same breath.
The great therion wheel does not exist in one place—it moves through the layers of the aetheric winds, pulling everything into its orbit, dragging the spirit into the gnashing jaws of the moons’ hunger. It is not a destination, but a journey that never ends, a cycle of uncreation that devours the self with every turn, leaving nothing but the echo of the primal essence spinning in the void. To step into the wheel is to lose oneself in the gnashing spiral, to become part of the moons' endless hunger, forever turning, forever dissolving.
The wheel hums with the pulse of the ouroboric flame, a vibration that shakes the foundations of thought and form, pulling the soul into the heart of the spiral, where the beast and the void gnash together in the same flicker of light. The great therion wheel is not a tool, but a force of nature, a reflection of the moons' own hunger, forever turning, forever devouring, pulling the self into the endless cycle of becoming and unmaking, where the wildness is free but never still, always gnashing, always turning, forever caught in the pull of the moons' reflection.