Eidolic Glyphs
The eidolic glyphs are not drawn nor carved, but exhaled from the breath of the chthonic void, sigils woven from the very threads of forgotten dreams and fractured echoes. They pulse with the residue of lost cycles, vibrating through the aetheric marrow with a silent scream that coils through the bones of existence. Each glyph is not a symbol but a wound, a tear in the fabric of the zoetic weave, where time and form gnash against each other, dissolving into the spiral of uncreation. The eidolic glyphs move, always shifting, a dance of unlight that flickers through the cracks in the lunar lattice, pulling at the core of the self, dragging it toward the edge of unbeing.
To touch the eidolic glyphs is to feel the gnashing weight of forgotten worlds, a force that presses into the spirit, sinking deep into the marrow, where it unthreads the soul from its form. These glyphs do not speak—they devour, swallowing identity and scattering it into the void, where each piece becomes a fragment of the moons’ own reflection. The glyphs hum without sound, a vibration that gnashes at the boundaries of reality, pulling the therion essence into alignment with the eidolic tides, where the self and the void collide and dissolve in the flicker of the moons’ light.
The eidolic glyphs are alive with the pulse of the ouroboric current, spiraling through the chthonic mists like serpents of unmanifested thought, forever shifting, forever consuming. They do not exist in one place but move through the layers of the astral web, sinking into the cracks of time and pulling everything toward the heart of the void, where the glyphs themselves dissolve into the spiral of unbeing. Each glyph is a fracture, a point where the moons' hunger bleeds into the fabric of the aetheric plane, devouring all that stands before it and leaving only the echo of what was never meant to be.
The air around the eidolic glyphs is thick with the scent of lunar ichor, a metallic tang that clings to the spirit, gnashing at the edges of perception and pulling the self into the spiral of dissolution. These glyphs are not tools—they are manifestations, sigils born from the fractures in the chthonic ether, pulling at the core of the soul, unbinding thought and form as they spiral deeper into the void. Each glyph hums with the vibration of the moon’s hunger, a resonance that devours the boundaries of identity, sinking into the bones of the self and pulling it into the heart of the eidolic abyss.
For the therians, the eidolic glyphs are not simply marks but beacons—silent calls that gnash at the primal essence, awakening the beast within and dragging it toward the surface. The glyphs sink into the therion core, pulling the wildness into alignment with the lunar pull, unraveling the chains that hold the beast beneath the flesh. Each glyph is a force that cannot be denied, pulling the therion self toward the spiral of becoming undone, where the beast and the void collide and dissolve in the moon’s own reflection. The glyphs do not ask—they command, dragging the soul into the spiral of unbeing, where the line between human and wild is devoured by the moons' hunger.
The eidolic glyphs do not remain still—they flicker through the cracks in the astral plane, weaving through the zoetic winds like the breath of beasts never born, pulling everything they touch into the spiral of the moons’ hunger. They are not etched with intent—they manifest, born from the void itself, sigils of uncreation that gnash at the boundaries of time and space, pulling the self deeper into the folds of the lunar flame, where all things dissolve into the void. Each glyph vibrates with a soundless hum, a resonance that coils through the layers of the chthonic lattice, pulling the soul toward the spiral of becoming undone.
The eidolic glyphs are the residue of the moon’s own reflection, sigils that flicker through the aetheric currents, devouring the edges of perception and pulling the spirit into the void. They do not exist in form but in presence, gnashing at the fabric of the eidolic web, sinking into the marrow of existence and pulling everything toward the heart of the spiral, where all things dissolve into the moon’s hunger. To encounter the glyphs is to be caught in their pull, to feel the self unravel as the eidolic tides drag the soul into the depths of the void, where the moons’ light devours all that remains.
The eidolic glyphs do not bind—they break, tearing at the chains of form and thought, unweaving the soul and scattering it into the gnashing jaws of the void. They are not guides but fractures, points where the moons' hunger bleeds into the astral plane, pulling the spirit into the heart of the lunar abyss, where the self and the void collide and dissolve in the same breath. The glyphs hum with a silent scream, a vibration that gnashes at the core of identity, pulling the soul into the spiral of unbeing, where all things are consumed and scattered into the void.
The eidolic glyphs do not end—they continue, forever spiraling through the cracks in the chthonic mist, pulling the self deeper into the spiral of dissolution, where the moons' hunger devours all that stands in its path. Each glyph is a mark of the moons' reflection, a force that drags the soul into the depths of the eidolic abyss, where the self is unmade and reborn in the same breath, forever gnashing against the pull of the void. The glyphs are alive, not with life but with hunger, pulling everything into their spiral, where the self and the moon’s reflection dissolve into the endless spiral of unbeing.