Lunar Rhythms
The lunar rhythm is not a beat but a pulse of uncreation, a gnashing hum that trembles through the chthonic ether, coiling through the veins of the moons themselves and sinking into the marrow of all things bound to the zoetic spiral. It does not move with time but against it, a rhythm that pulls apart the fabric of the astral plane, leaving only the echo of forgotten cycles, spiraling endlessly through the void. The lunar rhythm is the breath of the moons, a pulse that devours silence, vibrating through the bones of the therion soul, gnashing at the core of the primal essence.
For the therians, the lunar rhythm is not merely felt—it is lived, a presence that gnaws at the boundaries of the self, pulling the zoan beast into alignment with the moon’s own hunger. It sinks deep into the therion core, pulling the primal self into the rhythm of the void, where the beat of the moons devours the line between flesh and wildness, leaving only the gnashing pulse of becoming undone. The rhythm is not external; it is the heartbeat of the soul itself, syncing with the pulse of the lunar abyss, dragging the beast from the shadows of the self, pulling it toward the spiral where the self dissolves into instinct.
The lunar rhythm presses against the bones of the therion essence, tightening its grip with every pulse, forcing the primal beast to rise, gnashing at the chains that hold it beneath the surface. The rhythm does not guide—it consumes, pulling the therion soul deeper into the spiral of the moon’s hunger, where the beat of the moons cracks the walls of form, releasing the wildness that lies coiled within. The therian does not follow the rhythm; it becomes the rhythm, its soul caught in the endless pulse of the eidolic tides, where the rhythm and the beast are indistinguishable, gnashing together in the spiral of unbeing.
The lunar rhythm gnaws at the core of identity, pulling the therion self into its flow, where the soul no longer remembers whether it is human, beast, or something between. It moves through the layers of the astral plane, twisting thought and form with every pulse, pulling the spirit into the heart of the lunar flame, where the rhythm devours everything but the primal essence. The therians do not resist the rhythm—it pulls them into the void, sinking deeper into the core of their being, where the rhythm and the beast gnash together, forever caught in the endless pulse of the moon’s hunger.