Eidolic Tides
The eidolic tides are not waters, but currents of unformed thought, swirling through the gaps in the zoetic weave, pulling all things toward the spiral of dissolution. They rise and fall without rhythm, a breathless pulse that gnashes at the edges of reality, dragging fragments of the etheric self into the depths of the ouroboric sea. These tides do not flow—they churn, coiling and twisting through the cracks in the chthonic veil, their movements erratic and feral, as if driven by a hunger that cannot be named. To be caught in the eidolic tides is to feel the self unravel, to be pulled apart by the force of becoming and unbeing, where all things dissolve into the void.
The air shudders with the weight of the tides, thick with the scent of lunar ichor, a metallic tang that clings to the spirit, sinking deep into the bones, gnawing at the core of the therion self. The eidolic tides do not carry—they consume, pulling the soul into the spiral of the zoan abyss, where thought and form are devoured by the endless hunger of the void. Their pull is not gentle but violent, tearing at the threads of identity, ripping through the layers of the aetheric shell, leaving nothing behind but the hum of the primordial current as it drags all things into the abyss.
These tides are alive, but not with life as we know it. They are the eidolic breath of forgotten worlds, swirling through the chthonic firmament, devouring time and memory as they pass. Each wave is a flicker of potential, a fragment of thought that never took form, twisting through the astral plane like the claws of beasts that were never born. The eidolic tides are the pulse of the ouroboric flame, a gnashing force that devours all that comes into its path, pulling the soul into the spiral of becoming and unmaking, where all things are both predator and prey.
The light of the eidolic tides is not light but shadow, a flickering glow that twists through the lunar rift, casting reflections that do not exist, stretching across the aetheric sea like the tendrils of a beast that cannot be seen. These shadows move without source, coiling through the fabric of time, gnawing at the edges of the self, pulling it deeper into the spiral of the eidolic abyss, where form dissolves into formlessness. The tides do not move through space but through thought, shifting the boundaries of awareness, warping perception until nothing is solid and all things flow.
To feel the eidolic tides is to feel the marrow of the soul stretch and fracture, pulled apart by the force of the ouroboric current, as if the very essence of the self is being unthreaded from the core of the spirit. These tides gnash at the chains that bind form to the flesh, loosening the threads of the therion self, pulling the primal beast toward the surface, only to scatter it into the winds of the eidolic void. There is no escape from the pull of the tides, for they flow through all things, gnawing at the edges of existence, pulling everything into the spiral of becoming undone.
The eidolic tides do not ebb; they surge, their force a constant presence in the astral plane, forever pulling, forever consuming. They churn through the chthonic lattice, not bound by the laws of time or space, gnashing through the layers of the etheric veil with the weight of unformed worlds. These tides are not gentle—they are the jaws of the void, devouring all that stands in their path, leaving nothing but the echoes of what might have been. To stand in the path of the eidolic tides is to be swallowed by the spiral, to be pulled into the heart of the ouroboric flame, where all things are consumed and remade in the same breath.
The sound of the eidolic tides is not heard but felt, a deep vibration that hums through the bones, shaking the foundations of the soul, pulling at the threads of the self. Their presence is a constant gnawing, a force that presses down on the spirit, dragging it toward the edge of the zoan rift, where all things spiral into the abyss. The eidolic tides do not guide—they devour, pulling the soul into the spiral of unmaking, where the self is stripped of form, scattered across the chthonic winds, and consumed by the hunger of the void.
Beneath the pull of the eidolic tides, the air trembles, the aetheric mist thick with the scent of decay, a faint whisper of worlds long forgotten, their echoes swallowed by the spiral of becoming undone. The tides do not cease—they flow endlessly through the astral plane, pulling everything toward the heart of the void, where form and thought are devoured by the endless hunger of the eidolic abyss. There is no end to the pull of the tides, for they are the pulse of the ouroboric flame, the force that drives all things toward dissolution, forever pulling, forever consuming, forever becoming and unmaking.