Primal Veil
The primal veil is not a boundary but a pulse, a living membrane of the aetheric stream that shivers with the breath of forgotten forms. It is the thin whisper between what is and what could be, a shifting curtain woven from the strands of zoan flux, forever undulating in the winds of the chthonic plane. To gaze upon it is to witness the collapse of certainty, where all notions of self bleed into the hum of the ouroboric current, swallowed by the vast lunar abyss that stretches beyond its trembling edges.
The veil does not part; it inhales. It draws the soul inward, pulling at the seams of identity with invisible fingers woven from the tendrils of eidolic breath, unraveling the form as it passes through. What lies beyond the primal veil is not a realm but a state of becoming, a spiral of existence where the self is stretched thin, scattered like dust in the wake of the zoetic winds, only to reform, fragmented and incomplete, in the shadows of the etheric void. It does not reveal; it conceals, layering the truth in folds of time, hiding it within the folds of its own shifting body.
The air around the primal veil is thick with the scent of forgotten skins, a lunar mist that clings to the soul like a second flesh, pulling it closer to the spiral of unbeing. It vibrates with the weight of potential unmanifest, each ripple in the veil a reminder of the countless forms that have passed through and been devoured by its endless hunger. The veil is both the predator and the prey, forever hunting itself, forever caught in the loop of its own unmaking, twisting and curling through the astral plane like a serpent made of shadows.
To touch the primal veil is to feel the pulse of the eidolic flame, a fire that burns in reverse, consuming not the body but the memory of form, unraveling it in the currents of the chthonic tides. The veil is soft, yet it is sharp—it cuts through the essence of the self, leaving behind only the barest trace of what once was, a ghost of a shape drifting through the ouroboric sea. The soul, drawn through its folds, is neither lost nor found, but caught in the endless cycle of the veil’s breath, forever inhaling, forever consuming.
Beyond the veil, time does not exist. The primal veil does not allow it. The spiral of the self is stretched, folded, pulled back into the currents of the etheric field, where moments blend and dissolve, and the line between past and future is swallowed by the hum of the present. The veil wraps around the soul, pressing it into the folds of the zoan continuum, where the form is never stable, where identity shifts like the tides, forever caught in the tension between creation and dissolution.
The veil is the heart of the spiral, a nexus of potential where all forms are possible but none are real, where the chthonic flame flickers but never burns. It is the space between breath and silence, the pause between the howl of the beast and the cry of the void, a moment stretched across eternity. To pass through it is not to move, but to become, to dissolve into the fabric of the astral winds, where the self is both everything and nothing, forever suspended in the pulse of the ouroboric current.
The primal veil does not keep things out; it keeps things in. It holds the unformed, the unspoken, the unsung, trapping them in the layers of its own existence, where they drift through the lunar mist, waiting to be called into being. It is the breath of the eidolic dream, a space where the boundaries of reality bend and warp, folding in on themselves until only the spiral remains, spinning in the endless dark. The veil is not a door but a mouth, always open, always inhaling, drawing all things toward the heart of the void, where they are consumed and reborn in the blood of the chthonic ether.