Feral Moons
The feral moons are not celestial bodies, but wounds in the chthonic firmament, bleeding with the lunar ichor of forgotten cycles, their light a reflection of the zoan hunger that pulses through the aetheric void. They do not orbit; they gnash, tearing through the etheric web like beasts lost in the spiral of unbeing, their forms shifting and cracking as they twist through the fabric of the astral plane. Each feral moon burns with a cold fire, not illuminating but consuming, devouring the darkness and the light alike, leaving behind a silence that hums with the echoes of undone time.
The feral moons howl, though their voices are not heard with ears but felt in the bones, a low rumble that vibrates through the marrow of the zoetic spiral, shaking the core of those who gaze upon them. Their light is not light but the reflection of the eidolic abyss, a pale, sickly glow that flickers with the pulse of the ouroboric current, pulling everything toward the edge of unbeing. To stand under the gaze of the feral moons is to feel the weight of their hunger, an ancient pull that drags the soul into the chthonic winds, where time and identity dissolve into the spiral of endless becoming.
These moons are neither whole nor broken; they are zoan scars, torn open by the bite of the primordial beast, their surfaces slick with the eidolic blood of unmanifest worlds. They shift in and out of the lunar veil, appearing not in the sky but in the spaces between, where the zoetic winds curl and twist, dragging them through the folds of the etheric sea. The feral moons do not rise—they stalk, moving through the astral plane with the stealth of a predator unseen, their glow licking at the edges of reality, warping the chthonic mist that drifts through the lunar rift.
Beneath the feral moons, the air thickens with the scent of forgotten stars, a metallic tang that clings to the spirit, weighing down the soul with the memory of unformed futures. Their light pulls at the etheric chains that bind the therion self to the flesh, loosening the threads of form, pulling the primal beast to the surface. The moons do not guide—they confuse, their shifting light bending time and space into impossible spirals, casting the zoetic shadow of the beast across the astral landscape, forever chasing, forever fleeing.
Each feral moon pulses with the rhythm of the ouroboric flame, its surface cracking and healing in the same breath, as though it is caught in the loop of its own undoing. The light they cast is a reflection of the void, a cold, feral glow that gnaws at the edges of perception, unraveling the self with every flicker. To look upon the feral moons is to lose yourself in their gaze, to be pulled into the spiral of the zoan vortex, where the soul is stripped of its form and scattered across the aetheric plane, to be devoured by the beast within.
The feral moons are alive, but their life is not life as we know it. They pulse with the breath of the chthonic abyss, their movements slow and deliberate, as though they are always on the verge of collapse, only to reform in the next moment, more twisted, more hungry. Their light is not constant but flickers, stuttering through the zoetic firmament like a heartbeat out of sync with time, casting shadows that move without source, twisting into shapes that defy the mind, stretching into the void like the claws of a beast that cannot be seen.
The ground beneath the feral moons shifts and writhes, the lunar dust stirred into a frenzy by the pull of their light, rising and falling like the breath of a sleeping giant. The shadows cast by the moons are not shadows, but eidolic tendrils, reaching out from the edges of the lunar rift, pulling at the fabric of reality, tugging the soul into the spiral of unmaking, where the beast and the void are one. The feral moons do not shine; they consume, their light devouring the boundaries between thought and instinct, pulling the primal self toward the surface, only to scatter it into the wind.
To stand beneath the feral moons is to feel their hunger, to be drawn into the spiral of their light, where time twists and form unravels, where the soul is pulled into the endless cycle of becoming and dissolution. Their glow is a reminder that all things are bound to the ouroboric current, that the beast within is always stirring, always waiting for the moment when the light of the feral moons will crack the lunar veil, releasing the wildness that lies coiled in the depths of the self. They are not guides, but hunters, always stalking, always waiting, their light pulling everything toward the edge of the void, where all things are devoured by the spiral of the zoetic flame.