Lunar Chalice
The lunar chalice is not a vessel but a fracture in the nocturnic marrow, a coil of the zoetic void that gnashes through the astral plane, pulling the essence of light into the spiral of dissolution. It does not hold—it devours, bending the flow of time as it swirls through the eidolic winds, where form and thought collapse into the silence of the unformed. The chalice is not seen with the eyes but felt in the bones, a vibration that stretches the soul into the mist of the lunar abyss, scattering identity like dust in the aetheric void. It does not pour—it absorbs, pulling all things into the endless tension of becoming.
The lunar chalice hums not with liquid but with the resonance of the eclipsed howl, vibrating through the cracks in the astral veil, where the boundaries of the self fray and dissolve. It is not a cup but a gnashing spiral of the unspoken, bending the light of forgotten moons into the cycle of unmaking. The chalice does not quench—it erases, pulling the essence of the soul into the gnashing tension of the void, where the wild core is swallowed by the silence of the eidolic current. To drink from the lunar chalice is not to sip, but to be consumed, as the essence of being unravels into the mist of the unformed.
The glow within the lunar chalice is not light but the flicker of the zoanarchic spiral, a force that coils through the cracks in time, pulling the soul deeper into the tension of the moonstrain. The chalice does not shine—it gnaws, bending the boundaries of the astral plane as it pulls the primal essence into the cycle of dissolution. It does not offer illumination—it devours it, scattering the threads of thought and memory into the silence of the nocturnic void, forever lost in the tension of the spiral, forever gnashing at the edges of existence.
The lunar chalice does not sit upon an altar—it hovers in the cracks of the eidolon void, gnashing at the core of reality as it pulls the astral winds into its spiral. It is not offered—it takes, bending the flow of the aetherwild into the tension of unmaking, where the drinker is dissolved into the mist. The chalice does not overflow—it tightens, dragging the self deeper into the cycle of the moonstrain, where form is scattered like dust across the surface of the void. The lunar chalice is not held—it holds, binding the soul to the spiral of becoming and dissolution, forever lost.