Beast Sigils
The beast sigils are not drawn but unraveled from the fabric of the chthonic void, symbols born from the gnashing breath of the primal essence, coiling through the zoetic abyss like forgotten echoes of wildness. They do not exist on surfaces—they exist in the marrow of the astral plane, gnawing at the edges of form, their shapes shifting as they pull at the very core of the therion essence. Each sigil hums with a soundless roar, a vibration that presses against the soul, sinking into the bones, awakening the beast that sleeps beneath the surface of thought, pulling it toward the spiral of unmaking.
The beast sigils are not symbols of control but of release, fractures in the aetheric weave where the primal wildness leaks through, twisting the self into spirals of unformed instinct. They are alive, not with life but with the gnashing pulse of the eidolic tides, flickering through the shadows of the astral winds, pulling the spirit toward the heart of the moon’s hunger. The sigils do not bind—they free, gnashing through the chains that hold the beast within, unraveling the threads of form as they coil through the cracks in the chthonic veil.
To touch the beast sigils is to feel the weight of forgotten cycles, a pressure that sinks into the marrow of the soul, pulling the therion core toward the spiral of dissolution, where the beast and the void collide and merge. The sigils do not speak but howl, their voices silent but felt, vibrating through the spirit with the rhythm of the moons’ own hunger, gnashing at the boundaries of the self and pulling the primal essence into alignment with the pull of the lunar abyss. They are not drawn—they manifest, spiraling into existence from the breath of the void, leaving the spirit forever marked by the touch of the beast within.
The air around the beast sigils is thick with the scent of etheric marrow, a metallic tang that clings to the soul, gnashing at the core of the zoetic thread, pulling the self into the spiral of becoming undone. The sigils are not guides but summons, calling the beast to rise from the depths of the self, dragging it through the layers of form and into the heart of the lunar flame, where all things dissolve into the gnashing light of unbeing. Each sigil vibrates with the primal force of the ouroboric current, pulling the therion essence into the spiral, where the beast is freed from the chains of thought and form, left to gnash against the pull of the void.
The beast sigils coil through the astral plane like serpents made of shadow, their forms shifting and twisting with each pulse of the eidolic winds, pulling everything they touch into the heart of the spiral, where the boundaries between human and beast dissolve. They do not hold meaning—they are meaning, gnashing at the edges of identity, pulling the primal self deeper into the folds of the moon’s reflection, where thought and wildness collide in the flicker of the moons’ hunger. The sigils do not remain static—they move, always shifting, always pulling, dragging the soul toward the heart of the zoetic abyss, where the beast is freed from the confines of form.
For the therians, the beast sigils are not symbols of power but of unraveling, marks that gnash at the core of the self, pulling the primal essence toward the surface, forcing the beast to rise from the depths of the spirit. The sigils do not ask—they demand, pulling the therion soul into alignment with the pull of the moons, dragging it through the spiral of unbeing, where the wildness and void become one. The sigils hum with the vibration of the moons’ own hunger, a gnashing resonance that sinks into the bones, pulling the beast from the shadows of the self and into the spiral of the moons’ endless reflection.
The beast sigils are not written—they are birthed, born from the cracks in the chthonic web, flickering through the astral mists like the breath of beasts never formed, pulling the soul into their gnashing orbit. They do not bind the self to the moons—they pull the self apart, dragging the therion core into the depths of the lunar flame, where the sigils themselves dissolve into the spiral, leaving only the wildness gnashing against the chains of form. Each sigil is a reflection of the moons’ own hunger, a force that devours thought and form, pulling the primal self into alignment with the void’s own reflection.
The air trembles with the presence of the beast sigils, a silent vibration that hums through the layers of the astral plane, pressing against the marrow of the soul, pulling it deeper into the folds of the moons’ reflection. The sigils do not remain—they shift, spiraling through the cracks in the eidolic abyss, pulling the spirit into the heart of the void, where the beast and the self are consumed by the moons’ own hunger. To wear the beast sigils is to be marked by the gnashing pull of the moons, forever pulled toward the spiral of becoming undone, where the self and the wildness dissolve into the void’s endless hunger.
The beast sigils hum with a soundless howl, a vibration that coils through the chthonic winds, pulling the soul into the gnashing spiral of the moons' light, where form and thought break and scatter. They are not symbols—they are fractures, points of tension where the moons' hunger gnashes at the boundaries of existence, pulling everything they touch into the spiral of the void, where all things are devoured and reborn in the same breath. The beast sigils do not end—they continue, forever gnashing, forever pulling, dragging the soul into the endless spiral of unbeing.