Lunar Well of Emptiness
The lunar well of emptiness is not a void but an inversion of presence, a spiral of nothingness that gnashes at the fabric of the chthonic ether, swallowing the echoes of unspoken thoughts. It does not exist in space, but within the fractures of the aetheric web, where time collapses and folds into itself, sinking into the depths of the well’s gnashing gravity. The well does not hold emptiness—it is emptiness, a vortex of unbeing that pulls all things into its spiral, devouring the essence of existence and leaving only the faintest pulse of the moons’ forgotten breath.
The lunar well does not pull with force but with absence, an invisible pressure that stretches through the zoetic tides, sinking into the marrow of the astral plane, pulling everything toward the heart of unmaking. It does not reflect the moon but contains it, holding the gnashing hunger of the moons within its spiral, where the light is swallowed before it can shine. To gaze into the well is not to see but to feel the weight of unexistence pressing down on the spirit, tightening the chains of form while unraveling the soul into the spiral of becoming undone.
The lunar well of emptiness hums without sound, a resonance that vibrates through the layers of the eidolic mist, shaking the bones of the soul, pulling the self deeper into the gnashing depths of the well. It is not a hole but a force, a gravity that devours thought and form, leaving only the fragments of unmanifested potential drifting through the void. The well is alive with the moons' own hunger, a gnashing pull that coils through the cracks in the chthonic lattice, pulling everything into its spiral of dissolution, where time and identity are consumed and scattered into the void.
For the therians, the lunar well is not just emptiness—it is a gnashing maw that pulls the beast within toward the surface, stretching the primal self across the void, unraveling the chains that bind it to the flesh. The well gnashes at the edges of the therion core, pulling the beast into alignment with the moon’s hunger, dragging the wildness into the depths of the spiral, where the self and the void collide and dissolve. The well does not release—it holds, wrapping the primal self in its spiral of nothingness, pulling the therion soul into the gnashing jaws of unbeing, where all things are devoured by the moons' reflection.
The lunar well does not exist to consume—it simply is, a presence of absence, forever pulling, forever devouring, sinking deeper into the heart of the void with each pulse of the ouroboric current. The air around the well is thick with the weight of unspoken hunger, a silence that presses against the spirit, pulling it into the spiral where all things gnash against the edge of dissolution. To stand before the lunar well is to feel the self unravel, to be drawn into its depths, where the light of the moons is swallowed and scattered, leaving nothing but the flicker of potential caught in the well's gnashing emptiness.
The lunar well of emptiness is not a place but a process, a constant unmaking that pulls at the marrow of the soul, dragging everything into the heart of the void, where the well devours all and leaves only echoes of what might have been. It hums with the pulse of the moons' reflection, a vibration that gnashes through the layers of the aetheric web, pulling everything into the spiral of unbeing, where the self is scattered into the well’s endless hunger. The well does not fill—it deepens, forever pulling, forever devouring, leaving nothing but the void in its wake.