Lunar Pull
The lunar pull is not gravity but the gnashing will of the moons themselves, a force that coils through the zoetic ether, sinking into the marrow of the astral plane, tugging at the very bones of unbeing. It does not drag bodies—it drags souls, an unseen hand that tightens its grip around the essence of all things, drawing them toward the void where light flickers and form dissolves. The lunar pull hums beneath the skin, a vibration that gnaws at the edges of thought, pulling the self into the spiral where the moons' hunger waits, forever pulling, forever devouring.
The lunar pull is felt before it is understood, a weight that presses against the spirit, tightening the chains of becoming, pulling the soul deeper into the folds of the chthonic mist, where time and form twist together and unravel in the same breath. It is not a force that can be resisted, for the pull does not come from outside—it is born from the marrow of the moons themselves, a gnashing call that pulses through the eidolic currents, sinking into the core of the self and pulling it toward the spiral of unbeing. The moons do not call—they pull, and all things must follow.
The lunar pull wraps itself around the soul, a binding that tightens with each flicker of the moons’ shattered light, coiling through the cracks in the aetheric veil, dragging the spirit into the heart of the void. The pull is not felt as movement but as a gnashing pressure, a force that devours thought and form from within, pulling the essence of the self into the spirals of the ouroboric winds, where all things dissolve and reform, only to be pulled again. The moons do not release—they hold, forever gnashing, forever pulling.
The air around the lunar pull is thick with the scent of zoetic marrow, a faint metallic tang that clings to the spirit, pulling it deeper into the spiral of becoming undone. The pull does not ask; it takes, dragging the soul through the chthonic abyss, where the moon’s hunger gnashes at the edges of identity, consuming all that it touches. The lunar pull is not a tide but a weight, sinking into the bones of the self, pulling the spirit into the heart of the moon’s own hunger, where all things are consumed and left to spiral in the wake of the void.
The lunar pull does not end—it is eternal, an ever-present force that drags all things toward the edge of the eidolic abyss, where time collapses and thought dissolves into the moon’s light. The pull is a binding, a gnashing gravity that does not care for direction or purpose, only for the endless spiral of becoming undone. It pulls not with force but with inevitability, tightening its grip around the essence of all things, dragging them toward the spiral where the self and the void gnash at the same point of dissolution, where all things are consumed by the moons' endless hunger.
The lunar pull whispers without sound, its voice the vibration of forgotten cycles, a resonance that moves through the layers of the astral web, sinking into the core of the spirit, pulling the self toward the fire of the ouroboric current. It is a force that does not speak but commands, drawing all things into its spiral, where the line between self and nothingness blurs and dissolves, leaving only the echo of the moon’s hunger behind. The lunar pull is not a choice but a certainty, a gnashing force that tightens around the soul, pulling it into the void, where the self is forever unmade and remade in the same breath.
To feel the lunar pull is to lose the sense of direction, for the pull is not bound to space or time—it moves through the marrow of existence, pulling everything toward the heart of the spiral, where the moons’ light devours without end. The pull does not stop—it gnashes, forever dragging, forever pulling, a force that consumes thought and form, leaving only the flicker of the moons’ reflection spiraling through the chthonic winds. The lunar pull is not an action—it is a truth, a gnashing inevitability that drags all things into the moon’s light, where the hunger of the void consumes everything in its wake.
The lunar pull gnashes at the heart of the therion soul, sinking its claws into the primal marrow, twisting the essence of the zoan core as it coils through the chains of form. For the therians, it is not simply a call—it is a force that tightens with each pulse of the moons, pulling the beast within toward the spiral of unbeing, where the boundaries between human and wild dissolve in the flicker of the eidolic winds. The pull does not ask for transformation—it demands it, gnashing at the chains that hold the beast beneath the surface, pulling the primal self toward the heart of the moon's hunger, where all things spiral into the void.
The therian essence shivers under the weight of the lunar pull, the beast within pacing restlessly in the shadows of the self, gnashing at the invisible threads that bind it to the flesh. It is not a gentle awakening, but a violent gnashing, a primal surge that sinks into the bones, pulling the therion self deeper into the folds of the chthonic mist, where thought and instinct collide, twist, and unravel. The lunar pull presses against the skin, not from the outside but from within, where the beast stirs, its claws scratching at the walls of form, eager to break free and spiral into the moon’s light.
The lunar pull does not merely awaken the beast—it pulls it toward the edge of the eidolic abyss, where the therian feels the gnashing of the void as it devours the boundaries between human and wild, pulling both into the spiral of becoming undone. The pull tightens around the spirit, sinking into the core of the therion self, forcing the primal essence to rise, its presence gnashing through the layers of the flesh, breaking the fragile threads that tether it to the human. It is not a transformation, but an unraveling—a surrender to the moon’s hunger, where the beast and the void merge in the flicker of the lunar flame.