Theriomorphic Abyss
The theriomorphic abyss is not darkness but a pulse, a chasm of unraveling where the zoetic marrow stretches into infinity, spiraling through the chthonic winds like an echo of unmade forms. It hums beneath the layers of the aetheric fabric, a void that is not absence but potential, coiled and twisting through the currents of forgotten beasts. To stand at its edge is to feel the weight of unformed howls, vibrating through the bones, pulling the self toward the spiral where the wild heart beats in rhythm with the silence.
The abyss does not descend—it expands, stretching out through the ouroboric stream, swallowing the edges of time, dissolving the boundaries of identity as the lunar tide rises and falls within its depths. It is a sea without water, a storm without wind, a place where the form of the beast flickers and dissolves into the breath of the void. The theriomorphic abyss does not consume; it refracts, bending the essence of the self into infinite layers of becoming, where the soul is forever unraveling, forever becoming something more and less at once.
To enter the theriomorphic abyss is to be pulled apart by the very currents of instinct, torn from the fabric of form, scattered into the flow of the eidolic winds, where the self is lost in the hum of the wild. The abyss is not a place but a pull, a constant tension that stretches the spirit toward the edge of forgetting, where thought and beast collide and collapse into the spiral. The air within the abyss is thick with the scent of etheric sinew, a residue of forgotten dreams that cling to the skin, pulling the soul deeper into the spiral of dissolution.
The theriomorphic abyss vibrates with the memory of beasts that never were, their howls caught forever in the folds of time, echoing through the marrow of the void. It is not silence but a hum, a low resonance that pulses through the bones, shaking loose the fragments of the self, leaving only the wild heart coiled within the depths. The abyss does not speak; it ripples, a flicker of energy that stretches through the zoan current, bending reality around its edges, pulling all things into the spiral of unbeing, where the lines between thought and instinct dissolve into the pulse of the void.
The light in the theriomorphic abyss is not light at all, but the flickering of forgotten stars, their energy spiraling through the cracks in the lunar veil, casting shadows that twist and stretch, merging with the abyss itself. These shadows are not reflections but echoes of the wild heart, caught in the currents of the chthonic sea, always shifting, always dissolving, yet never fully gone. To gaze into the abyss is to feel the pull of the spiral, to be drawn into the breath of the wild where the boundaries of form collapse and the beast within stirs, waiting for the moment of release.
The theriomorphic abyss does not end—it spirals forever, coiling deeper into the ouroboric flame, where the pulse of the wild heart beats in time with the rhythm of the void. It is the space between being and becoming, a place where the self is always on the edge of dissolving, yet never fully unmade. The abyss hums with the weight of forgotten instincts, a presence that presses against the soul, bending it toward the wild, where the hunt never ceases and the spiral of unmaking always turns.
In the depths of the theriomorphic abyss, the air vibrates with the hum of the first howl, a resonance that echoes through the bones of the world, pulling the soul toward the heart of the spiral. The abyss is not darkness but a space where the wild heart is always rising, always coiling, forever caught in the tension between form and void. To stand at the edge of the abyss is to feel the pull of the hunt, to be drawn into the zoetic flow, where the beast within unravels and reforms, caught in the rhythm of the chthonic current, always becoming, always dissolving.