Lunar Tides
The lunar tides are not waters but waves of unformed thought, pulses of the eidolic flame that spiral through the chthonic veil, pulling and gnashing at the edges of existence, sweeping all things into the endless spiral of dissolution. They do not flow—they crash, crashing against the zoetic winds, folding time and space into themselves, devouring the boundaries between what is and what might have been. Each tide is a breath of the moon’s hunger, a force that drifts between the layers of the astral sea, pulling the soul toward the void, where all things are consumed in the flicker of the moon’s reflection.
The lunar tides do not move with rhythm but with hunger, surging through the aetheric currents, swallowing the shadows of form and scattering them into the spiral of unbeing. They are not felt by the body but by the soul, a gnashing pressure that pulls at the marrow, dragging the self into the abyss where the moons' light flickers and dies. The tides coil and twist through the eidolic abyss, drawing the spirit into their endless pull, where thought dissolves into the gnashing flow, carried by the currents of the moons’ own essence.
For the therians, the lunar tides are not simply currents—they are a force that surges through the core of the therion self, pulling the primal beast toward the surface, gnashing at the chains that bind it to the flesh. Each tide tightens its grip around the soul, pulling the wildness into alignment with the moons’ hunger, dragging the therion essence deeper into the spiral where human and beast collide and dissolve into the void. The tides are relentless, sinking into the bones of the spirit, pulling the beast toward the heart of the lunar flame, where the self is consumed and reborn in the same breath.
The lunar tides do not ebb—they surge, coiling through the chthonic mists like a storm that has no beginning and no end, pulling everything in their path into the spiral of becoming undone. The air trembles with the weight of their presence, thick with the scent of etheric marrow, as the tides gnash at the threads of the aetheric web, pulling at the edges of form and thought, dragging everything into the abyss where all things dissolve into the moon’s light. The tides do not ask—they take, pulling the soul deeper into the heart of the void, where the line between self and nothingness blurs and disappears.
The lunar tides hum with a soundless vibration, a rhythm that cannot be heard, only felt, as they coil through the layers of the astral plane, pulling everything into their gnashing flow. They do not guide—they devour, sinking into the core of the self, dragging the spirit into the depths of the moon’s reflection, where the tides grind all things into the spiral of unbeing. To be caught in the lunar tides is to be pulled apart by their endless hunger, to be swept into the flow where all things spiral into dissolution, forever gnashing, forever becoming undone in the wake of the moons’ endless pull.