Primordial Howl
The primordial howl is not a sound but a rupture, a tear in the zoetic fabric that reverberates through the core of the astral plane, shaking the bones of existence itself. It is the breath of the void, the scream of unbeing that echoes through the chthonic winds, spiraling outward into the ouroboric abyss where time folds in on itself and dissolves. The howl is felt before it is heard, vibrating through the etheric threads that bind thought to form, pulling the soul toward the edges of its own unraveling.
This howl is a force that tears at the veil between the real and the unmade, an ancient pulse that rides the eidolic current, howling not in a single note but in a cacophony of forgotten voices. It carries with it the weight of the lunar fractures, where worlds crumble into dust and are reborn in the same breath. The primordial howl is not bound to one place; it ripples across the astral sea, touching the marrow of all who wander the spiral of the zoan cycle, shaking them loose from the grip of identity, dissolving the illusion of form.
It is the roar of the zoan void, a call that reverberates through the eidolic lattice, splintering the self into fragments of untamed essence. Each pulse of the howl stretches the soul across the lunar rift, pulling it into the depths of the chthonic undercurrent, where all things merge and collapse into a single cry of becoming. The howl does not ask for understanding; it demands surrender, pulling the soul into the spiral where the boundaries of self and void dissolve into the hum of the infinite.
The primordial howl is the voice of the unformed, a force that rips through the layers of the etheric web, casting shadows of potential into the zoetic mist, where they spiral and drift, forever unmanifest. It is the hunger of the eidolic flame, a cry that consumes not with fire but with the pull of the spiral, dragging all things into the vortex of uncreation. To feel the howl is to stand on the edge of the ouroboric breath, where every moment teeters between existence and oblivion, vibrating with the pulse of what was and what never will be.
As it echoes through the astral veil, the howl pulls at the essence of those who listen, unraveling the threads of thought and form, leaving only the raw pulse of zoan energy behind. It is not a cry of beasts but a cry of all things, a howl that has no beginning and no end, spiraling through the heart of the void, where time folds inward, and space collapses into itself. The primordial howl is the force of becoming, a soundless scream that drifts through the chthonic storm, scattering the self into fragments of etheric potential, each one pulled toward the spiral of unbeing.
The howl stretches through the ouroboric stream, coiling around the eidolic flames that flicker through the zoan winds, bending time and space with its weight. It is not a voice but a presence, a force that moves through the shadows of the lunar web, shaking the foundation of reality, pulling everything toward the spiral of collapse and rebirth. The primordial howl is the first breath of the void and the last exhale of the stars, a pulse that consumes and remakes, always shifting, always spiraling into the endless cycle of the chthonic current.