Lunar Ichor
The lunar ichor is not a fluid that flows, but a gnashing current within the aetheric void, a fracture in the moon’s essence that coils through the marrow of existence, pulling light and shadow into the spiral of dissolution. It does not spill or seep—it devours, bending the threads of reality inward, dragging time and memory into the silence where form unravels and thought collapses. The ichor is not seen or touched, for it hums beneath perception, a tension that presses through the cracks in the eidolic stream, pulling the self into the cycle of becoming, where identity frays and scatters like dust across the surface of the unformed.
The lunar ichor hums with the resonance of absence, though its hum is not sound but the vibration of dissolution, a force that stretches through the moon’s essence, pulling the glow of the lunar light inward, consuming it in the spiral of unmaking. The ichor is not the lifeblood of the moon—it is the unraveling of its core, a gnashing presence that tears at the boundaries of reality, pulling all things into the void where light flickers and is swallowed by the abyss. The ichor does not nourish—it frays, dragging the essence of being into the spiral where form dissolves and memory is lost, forever gnashing, forever spiraling.
The light within the lunar ichor is not a glow but a pale echo of its own collapse, bending inward as it devours itself, pulling the moon’s essence into the void where thought unravels and identity scatters. The ichor does not flow—it gnashes, a force that coils within the lunar fracture, pulling all things into the spiral where the boundaries between light and shadow dissolve. The lunar ichor is not a substance of healing or destruction—it is the tension that consumes both, a presence that stretches through the cracks of existence, forever unraveling, forever lost in the mist of the unspoken.
The lunar ichor does not move with the phases of the moon, for it is bound to no cycle—it gnashes at the heart of cycles, pulling the essence of time and space into the spiral where form collapses and light dissolves. The ichor does not rise or fall—it coils through the tension of the eidolic current, bending the fabric of reality inward, where thought and memory are frayed and scattered into the silence of the abyss. The ichor does not flow like blood or water—it devours, pulling the self into the cycle of dissolution, where all things gnaw at one another and are lost, forever dissolving.
The lunar ichor is not seen in the sky or felt upon the skin—it hums beneath the surface, a force that stretches through the marrow of existence, pulling the self into the silence where identity dissolves and light flickers. The ichor does not spill or flow—it coils within the core of the moon, dragging its essence into the spiral of unmaking, where form and shadow collapse and dissolve. The ichor is not a force of sustenance or decay—it is the gnashing tension that pulls all things into the void, forever lost in the mist, forever frayed, forever scattered across the surface of the unformed.
The lunar ichor does not flow through the veins of the therians, but gnashes within their marrow, a force that bends their feral essence into the spiral of dissolution. It does not course through their bodies—it consumes them from within, coiling through the wild core, pulling their primal selves into the tension of the void where thought and form fray. The therians are not sustained by the ichor—they are unraveled by it, their wildness stretched and scattered across the surface of the unformed, where identity dissolves and memory is swallowed by the silence. The connection is not one of lifeblood or power, but of dissolution, as the lunar ichor pulls the feral nature of the therians deeper into the abyss, forever spiraling.
The therian temple is not a vessel for the lunar ichor; it hums with its presence, vibrating through the eidolic foundation, pulling the temple into the spiral of unmaking. The ichor does not pool within the temple walls—it gnaws at them, bending the structure inward, fraying the boundaries of stone and shadow, dragging the very essence of the temple into the silence where form dissolves. The temple is not strengthened by the ichor—it is consumed by it, pulled into the cycle of becoming where the structure itself unravels and is scattered like dust in the wind of the abyss.
The therians do not control the ichor, nor are they immune to its pull—it gnashes through their wild core, dragging their essence into the spiral where light flickers and fades. The ichor does not guide or empower the therians; it devours their primal selves, bending their feral nature into the tension of the void where form and identity dissolve. The temple is not spared from this force—it hums beneath the strain of the lunar ichor, fraying and unraveling as it is pulled into the silence of the unspoken, where all things dissolve, forever lost, forever spiraling in the mist of the unformed.
The lunar ichor is not a lifeblood that binds the therians to the moon—it is the unraveling of that bond, a force that pulls both the therians and their temple into the endless cycle of becoming, where thought and shadow gnaw at one another and are scattered. The ichor hums through the cracks in the temple’s foundation, dragging the wild essence of the therians into the spiral where identity collapses and light is swallowed by the abyss, forever gnashing, forever dissolving.