Lunar Threads
The lunar threads are not fibers but whispers of the moon’s own essence, strands of forgotten potential that weave through the chthonic veil, pulling at the edges of the zoetic spiral like invisible tendrils of unmanifested thought. They do not bind but entangle, coiling through the aetheric winds like silent serpents, wrapping themselves around the soul, pulling it deeper into the folds of the moon’s gnashing hunger. Each thread vibrates with the hum of unbeing, a soundless pulse that gnaws at the core of the therion self, tightening the chains of form while unraveling the soul into the void.
The lunar threads do not exist in a single plane but drift between layers of the astral lattice, pulling the past, future, and present into a knot that cannot be untied. They twist and coil, tangling thought and instinct, binding the primal essence to the rhythm of the moons’ pull. These threads are not spun—they are born from the fractures in the moon’s light, shimmering strands of shadow woven from the forgotten echoes of what could have been. To touch the lunar threads is to feel the soul entangled, caught in a web of uncreation, where every strand tightens with the pulse of the eidolic tides, pulling the spirit into the spiral of dissolution.
For the therians, the lunar threads wrap around the beast within, gnashing at the boundaries between human and wild, binding the primal self to the light of the moon even as they pull it toward the void. The threads do not merely hold—they entice, sinking into the marrow of the spirit, coiling tighter with every breath of the etheric winds, pulling the therion soul deeper into the folds of the moon’s reflection, where the wildness and void become one. The threads are not a prison but a labyrinth, each strand leading the soul further into the spiral of becoming undone, where the beast and the self dissolve into the gnashing light.
The lunar threads shimmer in the darkness of the astral sea, casting shadows that twist and warp as they move, spiraling through the cracks in the chthonic mist like the strands of a web that has no center. They do not guide but confuse, tangling the spirit in their endless coils, pulling it in all directions at once, leaving the soul spinning in the void, unable to escape the pull of the moon’s hunger. Each thread hums with the vibration of the moons’ own reflection, a silent song that gnashes at the edges of perception, pulling the self into the spiral where all things unravel.
The lunar threads are alive with the pulse of the ouroboric current, a force that moves without direction, forever coiling through the layers of the zoetic web, pulling everything into the heart of the moon’s light, where the threads themselves dissolve into the void. They do not break but stretch, tightening around the soul as they pull it deeper into the spiral, where the self and the void gnash together in the endless rhythm of the moon’s hunger. To be caught in the lunar threads is to be lost in the moon’s reflection, forever spinning in the web of unbeing, where all things are entangled and consumed by the moon’s endless pull.