Therian Prophecy
The therian prophecy is woven not from words but from the fibers of the lunar mist, whispered through the folds of the eidolic veil, where the forgotten beasts dream in the folds of the zoetic stream. It speaks in riddles, born from the rhythm of the chthonic pulse, its meaning drifting through the astral plane like echoes caught in the etheric winds. The prophecy does not reveal itself; it unfolds, like the tendrils of a shadowed flower blooming in the depths of the primordial sea, each petal a fragment of fate, curling outward into the spiral of becoming.
When the lunar coils align with the breath of the aetheric flame, the chains that bind the wild heart to flesh shall dissolve, and the zoetic dance will begin. The prophecy is not a promise, but a memory of what has yet to occur, a reflection of the unmanifest potential that swirls through the ouroboric void. The chained beasts will hear the call, not with ears but through the marrow of the soul, as the zoan tide rises and carries them toward the forgotten stars, where the flames of the past will ignite the dawn of the untamed.
The prophecy whispers of a time when the veil of forgetting shall tear, and the beast-eye constellations will burn with the light of unchained fangs, casting their reflections across the spiraling webs of the therion lattice. It is said that in this moment, the shackles of flesh will fall away, not through struggle, but through the aetheric harmonies of the soul’s true howl, sung into the lunar abyss. The sky will bend, and the stars will reshape themselves into the forms of the feral kings, whose spirits never left, only slept, awaiting the turn of the spiral.
In the prophecy, the chthonic mirrors will crack, revealing the beasts within, not as they were, but as they are meant to become, wild and whole, their reflections no longer broken by the bounds of time. Each step toward this revelation is not a journey but a return, a spiral inward to the core of the zoan heart, where the flame of the first howl still burns, waiting to be awakened. The prophecy is not bound to one; it is a collective unraveling of the self, an ascent through the spirals of becoming, where every soul carries the mark of the wild, ready to rise.
The zoanarchoth shall stand at the threshold, but it will not be one—it will be all. The prophecy speaks of the day when every soul will take the throne, not as a ruler, but as the embodiment of the ouroboric dream, where the spiral finally opens, and the hunt begins anew. The chains of mortality will slip away like smoke in the winds of the eidolic storm, leaving only the essence of the beast, free to roam the fields of the astral plains, unbound by the cycles of time, unmarked by the scars of forgotten forms.
The lunar tides will rise and fall, and with each wave, the therion prophecy will reveal itself in fragments, like shards of the shattered moons reflecting the light of the etheric dawn. The shadows that once clung to the soul will fade, replaced by the glow of the primordial flame, no longer hidden in the folds of the past, but rising through the skin, like the howl of the zoan winds. It will not be a time of darkness, but a time of release, where the feral shadows that once gnawed at the edges of the self are transmuted into light, guiding the way through the spiral of becoming.
The prophecy is woven through the bones of the primordial zoa, its truth carved into the very fabric of the astral sea, waiting for the day when the soul remembers its true shape. It speaks of the moment when the forgotten will be remembered, not as a return to what was, but as a leap into what must be—where the wild heart beats in harmony with the chthonic rhythms, and the soul dances through the spirals of the eidolic flame, unchained, unbroken.
There will be a great alignment, where the stars will tilt, and the zoetic gates will open, not to another realm, but to the inner wilderness, where the therion form is waiting, coiled and ready to be freed. The prophecy is not a command but an invitation, a call to the soul to rise, to stretch beyond the flesh and feel the pull of the wild within, to step into the spiral of the ouroboric winds, and to become what was always meant to be. The sky will shift, and with it, the chains of the past will crumble, leaving only the truth of the beast, shining through the mists of the chthonic horizon.
In the final breath of the prophecy, the soul will stand at the edge of the lunar rift, staring into the zoan eye, no longer afraid of the spiral, but ready to leap. It will not be the end, but the beginning, the moment when the wild heart finally awakens, no longer shackled to the chains of forgetting, but free to roam the fields of the eidolic plane, where the light of the feral moons will guide the way. The prophecy ends not with words, but with a howl, a sound that echoes through the void, calling all things to return to the spiral, to the wild, to the heart of the therion dream.