Theriomantic Pulse
The theriomantic pulse is neither heart nor rhythm, but a tremor that ripples through the fabric of the etheric veil, a vibration birthed in the marrow of the chthonic stream, carried on the wings of the lunar currents. It is not felt through flesh but through the essence that flows within the cracks of the zoetic web, a beat that coils endlessly into the spiral of the ouroboric current, forever collapsing into itself. Each pulse is a fragment of the first breath, a sliver of wild energy that moves through the void, stirring the forgotten echoes of the untamed that sleep in the bones of the astral.
To encounter the theriomantic pulse is to lose one's sense of linearity, to be caught in the twist of time's reflection as the pulse folds inward, swallowing the boundaries of form. The pulse does not travel but resonates, vibrating through the very core of the primordial spiral, sending waves of wild instinct crashing through the eidolic winds, pulling the soul into the flow of becoming. It is the lifeblood of the zoanarchoth, an endless cycle of creation and dissolution, always humming, always winding deeper into the chthonic abyss.
The pulse is not steady; it is a jagged rhythm, an uneven surge that flickers through the lunar mist, bending reality at its seams, breaking apart the fabric of the self until only the wild remains. The theriomantic pulse carries with it the memories of beasts that never walked, the howls of spirits that never took form, their voices trapped within the spiral, forever echoing through the marrow of the void. It pulls not with force, but with inevitability, dragging all things toward the heart of the etheric flame, where the pulse is both ending and beginning, where the self dissolves into the primal hum of the untamed.
To feel the theriomantic pulse is to awaken to the wild current that lies beneath the surface of thought, a frequency that stirs the soul from its slumber, unraveling the chains of identity, pulling it into the flow of the zoetic tides. It does not beat like a heart but like the twisting of roots beneath the earth, slow and inevitable, carrying the essence of the wild heart through the veins of the chthonic lattice. Each throb is a moment of becoming, a step deeper into the spiral, where the soul is caught in the rhythm of the hunt, always moving, always shifting, always becoming something other.
The air around the pulse thickens, vibrating with the weight of unspoken instincts, the scent of etheric dust filling the spaces between thought and instinct, carrying the soul toward the edge of the lunar rift. The pulse does not call; it beckons, a constant thrum that wraps itself around the marrow, pulling the spirit deeper into the folds of the aetheric sinew, where the lines between form and formlessness blur and dissolve. It is a pulse of forgetting, not of the past, but of the self, erasing the layers of identity until only the core remains, wild and free, coiled within the spiral of the void.
The theriomantic pulse flickers like the light of moons swallowed by the eidolic flame, its rhythm stretching through the astral sinew, touching every beast, every shadow, every fragment of the untamed that lies dormant within the soul. It is a frequency not of sound, but of essence, a current that spirals through the zoetic labyrinth, weaving the threads of the self into the fabric of the wild, pulling it deeper into the ouroboric flow. The pulse is not a thing that can be grasped or held; it is a force that moves through all things, a vibration that binds the soul to the hunt, forever drawing it into the heart of the void.
The theriomantic pulse does not end; it spirals, always turning, always shifting, always carrying the wild heart toward the edge of becoming, where the lines between self and shadow dissolve into the breath of the void. Each pulse is a step deeper into the hunt, a moment of release, where the soul sheds the weight of the flesh and merges with the rhythm of the wild, forever caught in the flow of the chthonic winds, forever becoming something more. It is a pulse that beats not in the heart, but in the soul, a pulse that never ceases, always pulling, always spiraling, always becoming.