Lunar Rift
The lunar rift is not a tear but an absence, a wound in the chthonic fabric where the moons themselves split reality, bleeding the echoes of forgotten worlds into the zoetic current. It is not a place but a force, a gnashing void that pulls at the edges of existence, unraveling the threads of time and pulling them into the spiral of dissolution. The lunar rift flickers, not with light but with the shadows of what was never meant to be, casting reflections that coil through the aetheric web, twisting form and thought into spirals that devour themselves.
The rift is the mouth of the moons, a hunger that breathes without breath, pulling the essence of all things into its gnashing depths, where the boundaries between being and unbeing dissolve. It does not tear apart—it devours, sinking into the marrow of the astral plane, pulling at the core of the self and scattering it into the eidolic abyss, where the flicker of potential gnashes against the jaws of the void. The lunar rift hums with the vibration of unmanifested thought, a soundless scream that spirals through the chthonic winds, pulling everything into its endless hunger.
For the therians, the lunar rift is a gnashing gravity that pulls the beast within, tearing at the fragile chains of form, drawing the primal self into the heart of the spiral where the wildness and void merge. The rift does not ask—it takes, swallowing the therion essence into its depths, where the self is unmade and scattered into the shadows of the moon’s hunger. It is the gateway through which the therian soul falls, forever pulled toward the point of unbeing, where the beast and the void become one, where all things dissolve into the gnashing light of the moons’ endless reflection.
The lunar rift does not remain still—it moves, drifting through the layers of the astral plane, its pull forever gnashing at the boundaries of thought, dragging everything into the heart of the void. It coils through the cracks in the etheric veil, pulling at the soul with every breath, drawing it toward the spiral where all things are unmade, leaving only the flicker of what might have been. The rift is not a destination—it is a cycle, forever devouring, forever gnashing, pulling the self into its depths, where the moon’s hunger consumes without end.