Eidolic Flames
The eidolic flames are not fire but echoes of the unformed, rippling through the zoetic abyss where the boundaries of light and shadow gnash against the pulse of the void. They do not burn—they hum, vibrating with the resonance of forgotten stars, pulling the essence of existence into the spiral of becoming, where form unravels and is consumed by the silence. The flames do not flicker—they coil, stretching through the cracks in time, bending the threads of reality as they spiral inward, forever pulling the self into the hum of the ouroboric flame.
The light of the eidolic flames is not light but the breath of the abyss, a glow that stretches without warmth, casting no shadows but devouring all that drifts too close. These flames do not dance—they devour, consuming the essence of thought and memory with each pulse of the void, pulling the soul into the endless cycle of dissolution, where the boundaries of the self fray and dissolve into the mist of the unspoken. To witness the eidolic flames is to feel the pull of the void, a force that gnashes at the edges of being, dragging it deeper into the spiral of becoming.
The eidolic flames hum with the tension of unmaking, though their hum is not sound but a vibration that presses against the core of the self, stretching the essence of being until it unravels into fragments of the void. They do not burn with heat but with the weight of absence, a force that bends the fabric of time as it coils through the cracks in the aetheric stream, forever pulling the soul toward the heart of the unformed. The flames do not cleanse—they consume, gnashing at the boundaries of thought and form, leaving only the echo of dissolution as the self is scattered into the spiral.
The surface of the eidolic flames is not seen but felt, a pressure that wraps around the essence of the self, pulling it into the folds of the void, where light flickers and fades, consumed by the hum of the unspoken. These flames do not illuminate—they bend, distorting the fabric of reality as they coil through the cracks in time, where the light of the zoan flame dissolves into the silence of the unformed. The flames do not rise—they spiral, forever pulling the soul into the tension of becoming, where thought and memory fray and unravel, lost in the endless loop of dissolution.
The eidolic flames are not fire but the breath of the unmade, coiling through the marrow of existence, pulling all things into the spiral of the void. They hum with the resonance of forgotten worlds, a vibration that stretches the threads of reality until they snap, scattering the essence of the self into the silence of the unformed. The flames do not promise warmth or destruction but dissolution, pulling all things into the tension of the void, where the self is forever bound to the cycle of becoming and unmaking.