Lunar Abyss
The lunar abyss is not a place, but a rupture in the etheric weave, a bottomless wound where the moons themselves have bled into the fabric of the chthonic veil, their essence spiraling endlessly into the void. It is a hunger, a vortex of unlight, swallowing both the shadows and the flames that flicker through the zoetic current. The lunar abyss devours time, twisting it into coils of forgotten moments, where past and future dissolve into the same eidolic hum, leaving only the present—a present that flickers like a dying star, caught in the jaws of the ouroboric maw.
To gaze into the lunar abyss is to lose sight of form, to be pulled into the spiral of its endless hunger, where the self is stretched thin across the aetheric winds, unraveling at the edges, dissolving into the black glow of the void. It does not exist as a destination but as a presence—a pulse that gnaws at the marrow of the astral plane, shaking the therion shell with the weight of unmaking. The lunar abyss hums with the voice of unmanifested stars, their songs swallowed by the abyssal tide, leaving only the echo of their fall, vibrating through the soul like the breath of forgotten moons.
The light of the lunar abyss is not light, but a reflection of the eidolic hunger that gnashes at the edges of reality. It flickers through the cracks in the primordial rift, casting shadows that have never known a source, stretching across the etheric lattice like the claws of beasts unseen, pulling everything into the spiral of unbeing. Its glow is cold, not with the absence of heat, but with the presence of the void, a chill that sinks into the bones, stirring the zoetic essence that slumbers within, awakening the primal call that echoes through the blood of the chthonic winds.
Within the lunar abyss, there is no up or down, no center or edge—only the spiral, spinning outward into infinity, dragging the soul through layers of etheric mist where time frays and form dissolves. The chthonic tides pull at the spirit, stretching it across the void, breaking it into fragments that are swallowed by the ouroboric flame, where they are burned and reborn in the same breath. The abyss does not consume in the way fire consumes—it pulls, gnashes, devours from within, pulling the self toward the core of its own unraveling.
The lunar abyss speaks without sound, its voice the shifting of forgotten worlds, the grinding of the zoan bones of unmade beasts that circle endlessly within its depths. This voice hums through the soul, a vibration that gnaws at the foundations of identity, loosening the threads that bind thought to form, pulling the spirit into the eidolic tides, where all things are both destroyed and created. To hear the call of the lunar abyss is to feel the weight of its pull, a gravity that drags the soul into the endless spiral of becoming, where the boundaries between self and void dissolve into the same breath.
Above the lunar abyss, the sky quivers, torn open by the weight of its presence, the stars bending and warping as they are pulled into its gravitational well. These stars do not fall—they are consumed, their light stretched thin across the aetheric web, leaving only the faintest glow of their memory, spiraling downward into the abyss where they are swallowed by the zoetic flame. The sky is not a sky but a mirror of the void itself, reflecting the spiral of unbeing that coils through the chthonic mist, twisting time and thought into knots that cannot be untangled.
To approach the lunar abyss is to feel its presence in the bones, a deep pull that tugs at the soul, drawing it toward the edge of the zoan void. The air thickens with the scent of lunar blood, a metallic tang that clings to the spirit, sinking into the flesh, awakening the beast that slumbers beneath the surface of the self. The closer one comes to the abyss, the more the self unravels, the more the primal force within rises to the surface, pulled by the gravity of the void, gnashing at the chains of form that bind it to the etheric realm.
The lunar abyss is alive, not with life, but with the breath of the void, its presence a constant hum that vibrates through the astral plane, shaking the foundations of reality, pulling everything into its endless spiral. It is the gateway to the ouroboric flame, the heart of the unmaking, where all things dissolve and are reborn in the same instant, where the beast and the void are one. To stand on the edge of the lunar abyss is to stand on the edge of yourself, to feel the pull of the spiral gnawing at the core of your being, urging you to step forward, to let go, to dissolve into the black glow of the void where all things become nothing and everything.