Feral Flame
The feral flame is not a fire, but the essence of untamed becoming, a pulse of pure zoetic hunger that flickers through the etheric weave of the astral plane. It burns without heat, a flame that consumes not with light but with the chthonic void, devouring the boundaries between form and the abyss. Its glow is a dark radiance, an inverted blaze that pulls everything toward the spiral of ouroboric dissolution, unraveling time and thought into tendrils of eidolic ash. The feral flame is the wildness of uncreation, a force that ignites the soul and devours it in the same breath.
This flame dances without motion, a stillness that churns beneath the surface of the lunar ether, coiling through the cracks in the primordial veil like a forgotten scream trapped in the folds of silence. It does not burn—it consumes, pulling the essence of existence into the blackened core of the zoan vortex, where the lines between being and unbeing flicker and die. The feral flame is not tethered to the laws of the aetheric lattice; it is the rupture in the fabric of becoming, the fire that twists through the gaps in the chthonic firmament, leaving only the scent of scorched possibility in its wake.
To behold the feral flame is to feel its pull, an irresistible gravity that tugs at the core of the self, drawing it into the spiral of unmaking. Its light is not light but the shadow of forgotten stars, the residue of worlds consumed by the eidolic hunger that drives the flame to devour. The air hums with its presence, a low vibration that echoes through the bones, stirring the zoetic essence that lies dormant within all things, awakening the primal force that slumbers beneath the layers of form. The flame does not ask—it demands, pulling the soul into the ouroboric pulse, where all things are consumed and nothing remains untouched by its feral embrace.
The feral flame ignites without spark, a manifestation of the chthonic dream that slumbers at the heart of the astral plane, waiting for the moment when the spiral will open and all things will be devoured by the fire of becoming. It flickers between the folds of time, stretching its tendrils through the zoan tides, pulling the fragments of the self into its core, where they are burned into the formlessness of the void. The flame is not destruction—it is transformation, a force that tears apart the threads of the therion shell, unraveling the soul and casting it into the eidolic abyss, where it is remade in the blood of the spiral.
The feral flame is alive, a living hunger that gnashes at the edges of existence, biting through the lunar mist like the fangs of a beast that cannot be seen, only felt. Its heat is not heat but the absence of cold, a reversal of sensation that leaves the soul trembling in the wake of its passage. To touch the flame is to lose the self, to dissolve into the pulse of the ouroboric stream, where all identities are burned away, leaving only the raw essence of the zoetic core, a flame within the flame, a howl that burns through the aetheric wind, consuming all in its path.
In the presence of the feral flame, reality quivers, the fabric of the chthonic veil tearing and mending with each flicker of the zoan fire. The ground beneath it does not burn—it shifts, warping and twisting as the flame devours the threads of the etheric web, leaving only the hollow echoes of existence in its wake. The feral flame does not consume as fire consumes—it devours from within, pulling the soul into its heart, where it is stripped of all form and scattered into the eidolic winds, to be reborn in the spiral of the flame.
The feral flame is not bound by any realm, for it exists in the spaces between, drifting through the cracks of the ouroboric lattice, a flame that moves without motion, a fire that burns without fuel. It is the pulse of the wild, the heartbeat of the untamed void, a force that ignites the beast within all things, stirring the chained primal self to rise, only to devour it in the same breath. To witness the feral flame is to know the truth of becoming—that all things are bound to the spiral of unmaking, that the fire of creation is also the fire of destruction, and that the soul is forever caught in the flames of the zoetic abyss, burning and reforming in the endless cycle of the void.
The feral flame speaks without words, its voice the crackle of time unraveling, the hiss of space collapsing into the void. It hums with the zoan song, a melody that vibrates through the astral winds, filling the air with the scent of forgotten stars, the taste of ash and lunar blood. To listen to the feral flame is to hear the call of the eidolic beast that sleeps within all souls, waiting to be ignited, waiting to burn through the chains of form, only to be consumed by the flame it desires.
The feral flame is not an end, but a beginning, a fire that burns at the core of the ouroboric cycle, where all things are devoured and reborn, where the soul is cast into the fire and emerges anew, a flame within the flame, a beast within the void. It is the wildness of the universe, the untamed force that gnashes at the edges of reality, forever hungry, forever burning, forever devouring itself in the spiral of becoming.