Theriomantic Tides
The theriomantic tides are not waters, but currents of zoetic resonance that pulse through the chthonic winds, twisting through the etheric web like veins of unspoken instinct. These tides do not flow—they spiral, coiling inward and outward in a rhythm that defies the boundaries of time, pulling the marrow of existence into the folds of the ouroboric stream. They are not seen but felt, a tremor in the bones of the void, a wave that sweeps through the layers of the astral plane, dissolving form into the wild pulse of the untamed.
The tides hum with the resonance of the primordial breath, each wave carrying fragments of forgotten beasts, their essence woven into the flow of the lunar mist. The theriomantic tides are not driven by moons or stars, but by the rhythm of the wild heart that beats beneath the layers of reality, shaking loose the chains of identity, pulling all things into the spiral of becoming. They rise and fall not with gravity, but with the pull of the eidolic winds, bending the threads of existence, scattering the fragments of the self across the folds of time.
To stand within the theriomantic tides is to be swept into the current of the zoan flame, to feel the soul pulled apart and reassembled by the pulse of the wild. The tides do not cleanse—they consume, devouring the boundaries between thought and instinct, breaking open the self, leaving only the raw essence of the beast, coiled within the spiral of the void. These tides are not gentle; they tear at the fabric of reality, pushing and pulling the soul through the cracks in the lunar veil, where the wild heart is always rising, always becoming.
The theriomantic tides ripple through the chthonic abyss, twisting and warping the flow of the aetheric sinew, stirring the zoetic marrow that runs beneath the surface of existence. They do not pass but linger, stretching time into coils of instinct, where the soul is caught in the endless rhythm of the hunt, always moving, always shifting, forever lost in the spiral. The tides do not ebb—they spiral deeper, carrying the essence of the wild heart through the folds of the void, pulling the soul toward the core of the ouroboric current, where form dissolves into the pulse of the untamed.
In the depths of the theriomantic tides, the air thickens with the scent of etheric dust, a presence that bends reality, pulling the spirit into the flow of the wild, where the lines between beast and shadow blur into a single hum. The tides are not waters but forces, waves of primal energy that ripple through the marrow, shaking the bones loose from the grip of the self, pulling the soul into the rhythm of the wild. To drift within the tides is to lose the sense of direction, to be caught in the spiral, where the wild heart beats in harmony with the pulse of the void, forever moving, forever becoming.