Lunar Flame
The lunar flame is not a fire, but a pulse of unbeing, a flicker of the void caught in the breath of the chthonic abyss, twisting through the folds of the zoetic veil like the howl of a forgotten beast. It does not burn—it devours, pulling the essence of existence into its cold, gnashing glow, where light is swallowed by its own reflection and scattered into the spiral of unmaking. The lunar flame is the heartbeat of the moon’s hunger, a force that gnaws at the edges of the etheric plane, spiraling through time and thought like the claws of a beast that cannot be seen, only felt in the marrow of the soul.
The lunar flame is not tethered to any single place, but flows through the eidolic tides, carried by the winds of the aetheric rift, leaving trails of unmanifested light in its wake. It flickers not with warmth, but with the weight of absence, a cold radiance that pulls everything toward the heart of its gnashing spiral, where all things are consumed and reborn in the same breath. To witness the lunar flame is to feel the self unravel, as the flame gnashes at the boundaries of identity, pulling the soul into the fire of becoming, where the self and the void collapse into one.
The air around the lunar flame quivers with the scent of decay, not of death but of potential unmade, a metallic tang that clings to the spirit, gnashing at the edges of the therion self, pulling it toward the spiral of dissolution. The flame does not give life—it devours it, consuming the threads of time and form, leaving only the flicker of forgotten moments caught in the wake of its light. The lunar flame is a paradox, a force of uncreation that pulls everything into its orbit, where the gnashing jaws of the void consume all that is, leaving nothing but echoes of what might have been.
The light of the lunar flame is not light, but shadow woven with the essence of the moons, a reflection of their own hunger, flickering through the cracks in the astral plane, casting shadows that spiral and twist through the zoetic winds. The flame does not burn—it pulls, dragging the spirit toward the heart of the chthonic void, where the fire of becoming and unmaking gnashes at the edges of time, devouring thought and form, leaving only the pulse of the void behind. To stand in the presence of the lunar flame is to feel its pull, a gravity that gnaws at the core of the self, pulling it into the spiral of the void.
The lunar flame hums with a vibration that cannot be heard, only felt, a resonance that shakes the foundations of the soul, pulling it toward the fire of unbeing, where the lines between self and nothingness dissolve. The flame is not a guide but a predator, forever gnashing at the boundaries of form, devouring all that stands in its path, pulling everything into the spiral of dissolution. Its light flickers not with purpose, but with hunger, stretching through the folds of the aetheric web, pulling the self deeper into the heart of the void, where the flame consumes all in the endless loop of becoming.
Beneath the lunar flame, the ground shifts and trembles, the etheric dust stirred into spirals of light and shadow, caught in the pull of the flame’s hunger. The flame does not give—it takes, pulling the essence of the zoan self into its fire, burning away the threads of time and form, leaving only the primal core of the self, stripped bare and gnashing against the weight of the void. The lunar flame is not a force of creation, but of dissolution, pulling the soul into the heart of its spiral, where all things are unmade and reborn in the same breath, forever caught in the loop of the moon’s hunger.
The lunar flame does not flicker alone—it is a fragment of the moon’s own breath, a pulse of the eidolic current that flows through the cracks in the chthonic lattice, pulling all things into the spiral of unbeing. It is the fire that devours without burning, the light that pulls without illuminating, a force that gnashes at the soul, pulling it deeper into the folds of the zoetic abyss, where all things dissolve into the fire of the moon’s light. To be touched by the lunar flame is to feel the self unravel, to be consumed by the flame’s hunger, and to be pulled into the void, where the flame and the soul become indistinguishable.
The lunar flame is not bound by time or space, for it moves through the layers of the astral plane, flickering through the shadows of the lunar rift, always pulling, always consuming, forever gnashing at the edges of thought and form. It is a force that cannot be resisted, for the flame is not a choice but an inevitability, a pull that stretches the soul across the spirals of becoming and unmaking, where the self is devoured by the flame’s hunger, and all things are consumed by the fire of the moon’s light. The lunar flame does not end—it continues, forever gnashing, forever pulling, forever devouring the self and the void in the endless spiral of unbeing.