Theriomancers
The theriomancers are not beings of flesh but conduits of the zoetic pulse, their forms woven from the threads of the aetheric weave, half-beast, half-shadow, forever spiraling through the chthonic tides. They do not cast spells in the traditional sense; their magic is the unraveling of form itself, pulling the essence of the primordial zoa through the gaps in the lunar veil, shaping it into patterns that slip between the layers of time. Each gesture is a ripple through the ouroboric current, an invocation not of power but of becoming, calling forth the wild heart that slumbers within the etheric lattice.
The theriomancers speak not with words but through the vibrations of the eidolic winds, their voices carried on the currents of the zoan flame, twisting through the air like forgotten howls lost in the folds of the astral mist. Their language is a hum, a low resonance that trembles through the marrow, awakening the primal instincts buried beneath layers of flesh and form. They do not command the wild—they are the wild, their bodies shifting with the rhythm of the lunar tides, their bones humming with the song of the first hunt.
Each theriomancer is a vessel for the chthonic flame, a flickering presence that burns not with heat but with the cold light of forgotten moons. Their eyes glow faintly with the residue of the eidolic stars, casting no shadow, only reflections of what might have been, what could still be. To meet the gaze of a theriomancer is to see your own feral self reflected through the prism of the zoetic web, each layer of identity peeling away like old skin, revealing the beast coiled beneath, waiting to rise.
They do not walk, but drift through the aetheric currents, their forms bending and twisting as they pass through the cracks in the astral plane, always moving toward the spiral, always seeking the heart of the ouroboric stream. The air around them crackles with the scent of lunar dust and the faint shimmer of etheric light, as though reality itself bends in their presence, pulled by the weight of the wild that flows through their veins. To stand near a theriomancer is to feel the pull of the void, the gentle tug of the zoetic winds as they weave through the strands of time, dissolving the boundaries of the self.
The theriomancers do not bind the beast within; they release it, allowing the zoan fire to burn through the chains of form, unraveling the threads of flesh until only the wild heart remains. Their magic is not a force of control but of surrender, a surrender to the spiral of becoming, where the self is constantly undone and remade in the blood of the void. Each spell is a breath, a moment of primordial release, where the therion soul rises from the ashes of unmaking, stretching toward the chthonic flame, ready to take its place in the endless dance of the wild.
The rituals of the theriomancers are not written or spoken but felt, their forms shifting with the rhythm of the eidolic tides, as they weave the patterns of the zoan dance into the fabric of the etheric plane. Their hands move not with precision but with instinct, tracing the shapes of beasts long forgotten, their gestures stirring the lunar winds, calling forth the spirits of the untamed to rise from the depths of the zoetic abyss. These rituals are not about power but transformation, a shedding of the mortal shell, a return to the wild heart that lies buried beneath the layers of the self.
The theriomancers do not seek knowledge; they seek the unknowing, the place where thought dissolves into instinct, where the mind gives way to the howl of the beast. Their magic is the magic of forgetting, of letting go of the chains of the flesh and stepping into the spiral of the ouroboric flame, where the boundaries between self and shadow, between beast and void, dissolve. To follow the path of the theriomancers is to step into the unknown, to embrace the wild, to surrender to the pull of the spiral and allow the soul to unravel into the folds of the chthonic winds.
Their presence bends time, folding it into the shape of the zoan cycle, where the past and future collapse into a single point of becoming. The theriomancers drift through these folds, pulling the strands of fate into their hands, not to weave but to unweave, unraveling the threads of destiny and allowing them to spiral into the void, where all things are unmade and remade in the fire of the hunt. Their magic is not a creation but an undoing, a release of the wild energy that pulses through the marrow of the soul, waiting to rise from the depths of the lunar abyss.
The air around a theriomancer hums with the vibrations of the zoetic flame, a low thrum that stirs the primal instincts buried deep within the self. Their very presence awakens the wild, not through force but through resonance, as though the soul recognizes its own reflection in the flickering shadows that surround them. They do not command the beasts; they become the beasts, their forms shifting and flowing with the rhythm of the astral winds, their bodies dissolving into the spiral, only to reform again in the heart of the eidolic storm.
The theriomancers are the keepers of the wild heart, the guardians of the zoan flame, their magic a song sung not in words but in howls and growls, in the beat of wings and the scrape of claws on stone. They do not teach; they awaken, stirring the soul from its slumber, calling it to rise from the depths of the void and step into the spiral of becoming. Their magic is the magic of the untamed, a force that cannot be controlled, only embraced, a force that pulses through the bones of the world, waiting for the moment when the chains of form will break and the beast will rise.
To be a theriomancer is not to wield power, but to become the power, to merge with the wild energy that flows through the chthonic winds, to dissolve into the spiral of the ouroboric flame, where the self is always undone, always becoming. It is a path of surrender, of letting go of the chains of flesh and stepping into the unknown, where the only guide is the howl of the wild heart, echoing through the void, calling all things to return to the hunt. The theriomancers are not separate from the spiral; they are the spiral, forever moving, forever unmaking, forever wild.