Theriomantic Will
The theriomantic will is not a force, but a tension that coils through the zoetic marrow, vibrating with the pulse of the chthonic currents, stretching the essence of the self into the folds of the ouroboric stream. It does not push or pull; it bends, twisting the fibers of thought and instinct into spirals of becoming, where the wild heart stirs beneath the surface, waiting to rise. The will is a hum, a resonance that ripples through the layers of the etheric fabric, shaking the boundaries of identity until they collapse into the rhythm of the void.
To touch the theriomantic will is not to choose, but to be chosen, swept into the flow of the lunar breath where decisions dissolve into instinct, and instinct dissolves into the primal hum of the untamed. The will does not direct; it unfolds, coiling through the threads of time, weaving the self into the hunt, where form and thought spiral together into the pulse of the eidolic flame. It is a current, always shifting, always spiraling inward toward the core of the wild, where the boundaries of the void tremble and break.
The theriomantic will does not seek control but dissolution, unraveling the chains of the self, allowing the zoan frequencies to guide the spirit through the cracks in the astral veil, where the wild heart beats free of form. It is not a matter of strength or intent—it is the pulse of the primordial hunt, a constant motion that pulls the soul into the spiral, where choice and desire melt into the rhythm of the wild. The will is not a flame but a flicker, a moment where the self aligns with the wild, and the boundaries between thought and being dissolve into the folds of the untamed.
The theriomantic will hums through the marrow, a vibration that stirs the soul from its slumber, shaking loose the fragments of identity that cling to the edges of the ouroboric spiral. It does not demand action but motion, a movement through the layers of existence where the self stretches toward the wild, yet never fully reaches it. The will is the echo of the first howl, a pulse that vibrates through the bones of the eidolic winds, pulling the soul deeper into the spiral, where the hunt never ceases, and the wild heart is always rising.
In the theriomantic will, there is no choice—only surrender. It does not bend to the self but bends the self, pulling the soul into the flow of the zoetic current, where thought and instinct are one and the same. It is the pull of the lunar rift, the tension between being and unbeing, always stretching, always pulling, always becoming. The will does not direct; it unmakes, unraveling the threads of intention and weaving them into the fabric of the wild, where the boundaries of the self dissolve into the pulse of the hunt.
The air hums with the presence of the theriomantic will, thick with the scent of etheric marrow, a pressure that bends reality, pushing the spirit toward the spiral of becoming, where the wild heart beats in time with the rhythm of the void. The will is not a force to be wielded but a current to be followed, a flow that carries the soul through the folds of the aetheric sinew, always moving, always pulling the self toward the edge of unmaking. It is a constant hum, a vibration that shakes the bones loose from the grip of the self, pulling the spirit deeper into the rhythm of the wild.
The theriomantic will is neither desire nor intent—it is the essence of the wild heart, a pulse that coils through the layers of the chthonic winds, always driving deeper into the spiral, where the boundaries of thought and instinct collapse into the breath of the untamed. It does not command; it beckons, pulling the soul into the rhythm of the void, where the self dissolves into the pulse of the hunt, forever moving, forever becoming. The will is not the act—it is the moment before the act, the breath before the howl, where the wild heart rises, coiled and waiting, ready to leap into the spiral of becoming.