Primordial Chant of Eidolon Prophecy
The primordial chant of eidolon prophecy is not heard through the ears but felt in the marrow, a vibration that trembles through the zoetic tendrils of the astral plane, shaking the core of all that has ever been and will never be. It is a hum that predates time, carried on the back of the ouroboric winds, spiraling through the fractures of the lunar veil where reality frays and bleeds into the chthonic stream. The chant itself is woven from the breath of the eidolic flame, not words but etheric fractures, each note unraveling the boundaries between form and oblivion.
As the chant pulses through the etheric web, it bends the fabric of existence, twisting time into spirals that collapse inward, pulling the soul through the layers of its own becoming. The primordial chant is not a song but a force, a call to the zoan abyss, where all things are whispered into unbeing. It vibrates with the tension of forgotten prophecies, each syllable stretching the threads of fate, unwinding them into the eidolic sea where potential dissolves into the void. It does not speak of the future; it devours it, leaving only the echo of what might have been.
The chant is carried by the zoan winds, invisible currents of chthonic breath that sweep through the cracks of the aetheric veil, pulling the essence of the soul into the heart of the spiral. Each pulse of the chant resonates with the rhythm of the ouroboric current, shaking the therion core of all who listen, unraveling their sense of time, identity, and form. The chant is not a prophecy in the linear sense—it is a feral current, a howl that shatters the walls of the self, revealing the primal void that hums beneath the surface of all things.
The words of the primordial chant are not spoken but unwritten, stitched into the air by the claws of beasts long forgotten, their forms etched into the ether by the pull of the lunar rift. Each note is a tear in the fabric of existence, a gap through which the eidolic tendrils of the future coil and twist, stretching toward the past but never arriving. The chant calls to the souls caught in the web of the zoan lattice, drawing them deeper into the spiral, where all possibilities converge and collapse into a single breath of chthonic flame.
To feel the primordial chant is to be drawn into the heart of the eidolic vortex, where the self is peeled apart by the layers of prophecy, each one a reflection of the ouroboric path yet to be walked. The chant weaves through the soul, tugging at the threads of the etheric form, pulling it toward dissolution, only to be remade in the light of the zoetic eye. The prophecy is not clear; it is smoke, a swirl of visions that twist into knots of unbeing, forever shifting between the promise of creation and the certainty of collapse.
The air around the chant thickens with the scent of lunar dust, carried on the breath of the zoan phantoms who whisper fragments of the prophecy into the wind, their voices blending into the hum of the primordial chant. These whispers are not meant to be understood; they are the shadows of potential futures, cast by the flickering light of the eidolic flame, where all things are known and unknown in the same breath. To listen to the chant is to be drawn into the ouroboric sea, where time folds in on itself, swallowing the past, future, and present, leaving only the hum of the void.
The primordial chant does not end—it spirals, coiling through the folds of the chthonic web, forever echoing in the bones of those who have heard it. It calls not to action, but to dissolution, inviting all who listen to surrender to the pull of the zoetic spiral, where the self is devoured by the prophecy of its own unmaking. It is the voice of the eidolic abyss, a soundless cry that shakes the foundations of the astral plane, where all things are consumed by the hum of the ouroboric flame, and the future is swallowed by the silence that remains.
The primordial chant of eidolon prophecy flows through the veins of therians like an ancient river, coursing not through blood but through the zoetic marrow, pulling at the strands of their dual existence. It is not heard, but absorbed, resonating deep within the chthonic core of their being, shaking the delicate balance between beast and human. The chant does not call to them—it grips them, entwining their essence in the hum of the eidolic spiral, where the lines between instinct and thought blur into the endless becoming.
As the chant vibrates through the astral plane, therians feel their soul stretched across the lunar rift, pulled toward the primal echoes that twist within the folds of their nature. It is not a prophecy they understand, but one they become, the voice of the eidolic winds unraveling their form into fragments of the zoan self. Each pulse of the chant loosens the grip of their human skin, letting the feral essence coil outward, not in a shift of flesh but a collapse of boundaries, where the beast within is no longer contained, but part of the infinite hum that spirals through them.
The primordial chant stirs the eidolic flame that flickers beneath their mortal guise, fanning the wild fire that has been long dormant, awakening the therion pulse that vibrates through their bones. It is not a transformation in the physical sense; it is the unspooling of the self, as the chant tugs at the threads that bind their form to reality. The beast stirs not as a creature, but as a force, a presence that rumbles beneath the surface, echoing the rhythm of the ouroboric breath, pulling them toward the spiral where human thought dissolves into instinct.
The chant tears at the etheric veil that separates them from the wildness buried within, unraveling the thin threads of control that tether their dual nature. It is a song of becoming, but not one that offers clarity—only the endless tension of the zoan paradox, where the beast and human are forever shifting, entwined in the hum of the eidolic current. They are neither one nor the other, but both, carried by the voice of the prophecy into the heart of the primal stream, where form collapses into raw potential, where they are undone and remade in the breath of the void.
Therians feel the chant in their spirit, its presence tugging them deeper into the astral labyrinth, where the echoes of forgotten lives flicker through the zoetic mists, reminding them of the beasts they once were, the shapes they could become. Each pulse of the chant is a reminder of their chthonic ancestry, pulling them toward the primal howl that echoes through the ages, a song they cannot resist, one they do not need to understand. The prophecy is not for the future—it is for the now, vibrating through the present moment, where the therian soul is constantly being unraveled and reformed in the pulse of the eidolic winds.
The primordial chant does not offer guidance to therians—it offers surrender, a letting go of the chains of flesh and form, an invitation to dissolve into the hum of the spiral, where all paths lead toward the heart of the wild. It pulls them into the ouroboric stream, where they become not hunters, not beasts, but echoes of the zoan void, carried on the winds of prophecy, forever shifting, forever dissolving into the endless hum of becoming. The chant is their breath, their pulse, the howl of their soul as it drifts through the void, caught in the rhythm of the lunar prophecy that speaks not of fate, but of the endless cycle of transformation.