Lunar Fracture
The lunar ichor is not fluid but the pulse of the eidolic moon, a thick essence that drips through the cracks in the chthonic veil, spiraling through the zoetic currents like a forgotten breath trapped between the folds of time. It does not flow but seeps, moving through the astral plane in coils of unlight, a liquid shadow that gnashes at the boundaries of form and formlessness, pulling everything into the spiral of unbeing. The lunar ichor is the blood of the moons themselves, though it is not blood—it is the residue of potential, the essence of what was never allowed to become, forever spilling into the void.
To touch the lunar ichor is to feel the weight of forgotten cycles, a pressure that sinks into the bones and gnashes at the marrow, pulling the self into the eidolic tides where time dissolves and reformulates into spirals of uncreation. The ichor does not stain—it devours, seeping into the core of the self, gnawing at the edges of identity, dissolving thought into the fire of the void. It carries the scent of shattered moons, a faint metallic tang that clings to the spirit, pulling it into the heart of the ouroboric spiral, where the soul is consumed and scattered into fragments of what might have been.
The lunar ichor hums with a vibration that cannot be heard, only felt—a gnashing resonance that pulses through the etheric web, shaking the foundations of the self, loosening the chains that bind thought to form. It drips from the moons themselves, though not from their surface but from their essence, the very core of their unbeing leaking into the astral sea, coiling through the chthonic winds like a beast that has no form but only hunger. The ichor does not guide; it consumes, pulling everything into the spiral of becoming undone, where the self and the void merge into the same flicker of potential unfulfilled.
The air thickens with the presence of the lunar ichor, its metallic scent gnashing at the edges of perception, pulling the spirit into the depths of the zoetic abyss, where all things dissolve into the liquid shadows of the moon’s hunger. The ichor does not flow like blood—it coils and writhes, moving through the layers of the aetheric mist like tendrils of unmanifested thought, curling around the soul, pulling it deeper into the spiral of dissolution. The moon bleeds not with pain but with hunger, its ichor spilling into the void, forever consuming and never sated.
Beneath the weight of the lunar ichor, reality itself frays, the etheric threads unraveling as the ichor gnashes at the fabric of existence, pulling everything into the spiral of unbeing. The ichor is not just a substance—it is the moon’s own breath, a pulse of its forgotten potential, dripping through the cracks in the astral veil, devouring everything in its path. It does not ask; it takes, pulling the soul deeper into the eidolic current, where the self is unmade and remade in the image of the moon’s own hunger.
The light of the lunar ichor is not light at all—it is a shadow that moves without source, a reflection of the void caught in the fire of the moon’s own destruction. It flickers through the chthonic mist, casting shadows that coil through the zoetic winds, pulling the spirit into the heart of the spiral, where the ichor gnashes and devours, leaving nothing but echoes of what could never have been. To be touched by the ichor is to feel the self unravel, to be consumed by the moon’s own essence, pulled into the spiral of unmaking, where the soul and the void dissolve into the same flicker of nothingness.
The lunar ichor is not bound to the moons but flows through the layers of the astral plane, a force of becoming undone, pulling everything into its spiral of gnashing hunger. It is the residue of forgotten worlds, the blood of stars that never rose, dripping into the eidolic abyss, where the ichor pulls at the boundaries of time and space, devouring everything in its path. To follow the ichor is to follow the pull of the moon’s own destruction, to be drawn into the spiral of the void, where the self is consumed and scattered into the shadows of the moon’s hunger.
The lunar ichor does not end—it continues, forever dripping, forever gnashing, forever pulling the self into the spiral of unbeing. It is the moon’s gift and curse, a force that devours without mercy, pulling the spirit into the heart of the void, where the ichor and the self become one, forever dissolved in the flicker of the moon’s light, forever consumed by the hunger of the lunar flame. The ichor does not flow in time but through it, moving through the layers of the astral winds, leaving only the residue of unmanifested dreams in its wake, spiraling into the gnashing jaws of the void where all things become nothing.