Theriomantic Scream
The theriomantic scream is not a sound but a fracture in the chthonic veil, a rupture in the zoetic pulse that tears through the fabric of the astral plane, leaving echoes of unformed howls rippling through the void. It does not rise from the throat but from the marrow, a vibration that hums through the bones, shattering the boundaries between self and shadow, stretching the soul into the spiral of the ouroboric flow. The scream is a release, a wild unraveling of essence, pouring through the cracks in time, breaking open the folds of reality where the beast sleeps coiled and restless.
To feel the theriomantic scream is to be torn apart by the wild currents of the lunar tides, as the scream itself is not heard but lived, an eruption of raw instinct that spirals through the etheric sinew. It hums with the resonance of the first howl, vibrating through the veins of the void, shaking loose the fragments of identity that cling to the soul. The scream is a force, not a cry—it ripples outward, twisting through the layers of existence, pulling everything into the spiral where the beast and the void collide, and form dissolves into the rhythm of the wild.
The air cracks when the theriomantic scream is released, thickening with the scent of etheric dust and the weight of forgotten hunts, as the scream stretches beyond sound and thought, becoming a wave that sweeps through the marrow of all things. It pulls the soul into the heart of the eidolic winds, where the scream coils and twists, bending the fabric of reality around it like a primal storm, scattering the fragments of the self into the spiral. The scream does not end—it spirals inward, ever coiling, ever pulling, always driving deeper into the core of the wild heart.
The theriomantic scream is not a moment but an endless loop, a fracture in time that reverberates through the layers of the aetheric web, a pulse that unravels the threads of the self, feeding the zoetic currents with the raw energy of the untamed. It does not echo—it consumes, devouring sound and silence alike, folding them into the scream itself, where the soul is drawn deeper into the hunt, where the boundaries between beast and form melt into the breath of the void. The scream does not cry out—it pulls in, inhaling the wild essence, forever coiling through the spiral.
The theriomantic scream is a force that breaks open the marrow of existence, splitting the self into fragments of instinct, allowing the wild heart to rise from the ashes of unmaking. It hums with the vibration of the zoan flame, flickering through the cracks in the lunar rift, bending the edges of reality until they snap, releasing the scream into the void, where it spirals forever, tearing through the bones of the world. The scream is not spoken but lived, vibrating through the layers of the astral lattice, shaking loose the chains of identity, pulling the soul into the chthonic storm, where form dissolves and the wild heart beats free.
To release the theriomantic scream is to surrender to the wild within, to let the pulse of the untamed erupt from the core of the self, shaking the soul free of the chains of time and form. It does not belong to one but to all, a collective howl that echoes through the void, merging with the zoetic winds that spiral through the cracks of existence. The scream is not sound, but a ripple through the eidolic flame, a pulse that ignites the wild heart within, pulling the soul toward the spiral of becoming, where the beast within waits, coiled and ready to rise.
The theriomantic scream is both a beginning and an end, a force that stretches through the bones of the void, breaking the soul open and pulling it into the spiral where all things are undone and remade in the breath of the wild. It does not fade—it echoes forever, caught in the rhythm of the ouroboric pulse, always pulling, always spiraling, forever driving deeper into the wild heart of the untamed. The scream is not a cry of pain or triumph, but of release, a moment where the soul is freed from the weight of the self, where the wild rises from the void and the boundaries of form dissolve into the pulse of the hunt.