Theriomantic Blood
The theriomantic blood is not liquid but a current of zoetic fire, a flowing essence born from the marrow of the primordial zoa, spiraling through the folds of the chthonic ether like veins of forgotten starlight. It moves not through flesh but through the etheric lattice, carrying the pulse of the wild heart that beats within all things. The blood hums with the rhythm of the eidolic storm, vibrating through the lunar web, dissolving the boundaries of form, spilling into the cracks of the aetheric stream, where the lines between beast and spirit blur into a single howl.
To feel the theriomantic blood is to be consumed by the essence of the zoan winds, a burning not of heat but of memory, igniting the primal instincts buried beneath layers of time. It is not bound to the body; it pulses through the astral plane, a living river of chthonic potential, ever coiling, ever unraveling. Each drop is a spark, a fragment of the first hunt, carrying within it the essence of the lunar tides, flowing endlessly through the spiral of becoming, drawing all things toward the heart of the void, where the beast waits to be born.
The blood does not flow—it spirals, a twisting thread of zoetic flame, winding through the layers of the etheric fabric, binding the soul to the cycle of the ouroboric current. It drips not from wounds but from the cracks in reality, seeping through the gaps in the eidolic veil, pooling in the spaces where the primordial forces collide, feeding the pulse of the wild. The blood is alive with the feral frequencies of beasts long forgotten, each pulse echoing through the bones of the world, stirring the wild heart within, pulling it toward the spiral, where all things are unmade and remade in the same breath.
The theriomantic blood sings, a low hum that vibrates through the soul, stirring the beast-born marrow that lies coiled within the self, waiting to rise. Its song is not heard but felt, a resonance that trembles through the chthonic threads, shaking loose the fragments of identity, allowing the primal self to emerge from the depths of the lunar abyss. The blood is both a memory and a prophecy, carrying the essence of what was and what could be, flowing through the zoan stream like a river of potential, forever circling the heart of the zoetic flame.
When the theriomantic blood touches the air, it does not stain but dissolves, merging with the etheric winds, spreading through the folds of the astral plane, where it seeps into the cracks of forgotten forms, reigniting the eidolic fire within. It is not a substance but a force, a current of wild energy that courses through the spiral of becoming, pulling the soul deeper into the folds of the ouroboric web, where the beast is always waiting, always stirring, ready to rise.
Each pulse of the theriomantic blood is a beat of the chthonic heart, a rhythm that resonates through the bones of existence, binding all things to the spiral of the wild. The blood does not flow through veins but through the zoetic weave, carrying the essence of the beast through the layers of the self, unraveling the chains of form with each breath. It is the fuel of transformation, a fire that burns not to destroy but to reveal, to peel back the layers of the mortal shell and expose the wild heart beneath, pulsing with the rhythm of the first howl.
The theriomantic blood is neither alive nor dead—it is eternal, a river that flows outside the bounds of time, ever twisting, ever spiraling, feeding the cycle of the eidolic spiral. It flows through the marrow of the soul, stirring the wild instincts that lie dormant, waiting for the moment when the spiral will open, and the beast will rise. It is not a substance to be controlled, but a force to be surrendered to, a current that carries the soul toward the heart of the wild, where all things are consumed by the flames of the lunar rift, and the self is forever unmade, only to be reborn in the blood of the void.