Zoan Singularity
The zoan singularity is the infinite fold of chthonic collapse, a point where all existence spirals into itself, condensing the entirety of the aetheric web into a pinprick of pulsating zoetic oblivion. It is not merely a center, but the absence of all centers, a void wrapped in the skins of a thousand forgotten realities, each one unraveling as it is pulled into the singularity’s insatiable hunger. The air around it shudders with the hum of the eidolic tendrils that stretch outward, grasping at the frayed edges of being, pulling everything toward the core where time bleeds into itself.
The singularity is a wound in the ouroboric veil, a tear in the fabric of the astral plane where the boundaries between beast, spirit, and void dissolve into the swirling currents of the lunar flux. It pulses with the heartbeat of forgotten stars, its core flickering with the light of moons that have collapsed into the chthonic marrow, leaving only their echoes to ripple through the spiral of the singularity’s pull. It is both still and ever-moving, an endless swallowing of form into formlessness, where the self is stretched thin across the vastness of the eidolic abyss before snapping back into the nothingness that is the singularity’s essence.
To approach the zoan singularity is to feel the very essence of the soul unravel, each thread pulled taut by the weight of the aetheric tides, dragging the therian core deeper into the spiral, where it dissolves into fragments of primal hunger and unspoken potential. The singularity does not draw—it devours, consuming everything that drifts too close to its pull, tearing the soul from its moorings and casting it into the vortex of becoming, where the fragments are scattered across the zoetic winds. It is not a point of convergence but of dispersal, where all things are shredded by the therionic breath, reduced to their most basic essence, only to be reformed in the chaos of the eidolic flame.
The zoan singularity hums with the resonance of the primordial howl, a soundless vibration that ripples through the chthonic currents, shaking the very bones of the astral plane, pulling at the marrow of the beast-core as it spirals into the heart of the void. Its surface is not smooth but fractured, jagged with the remnants of unmade worlds, shards of forgotten dimensions that spin and twist around the singularity like torn fragments of a shattered mirror, reflecting nothing but the void within. These shards flicker with the light of zoan stars, their glow dim and fading as they are slowly consumed by the singularity’s endless hunger.
The singularity is the birthplace of paradox, where creation and destruction merge into one, where time collapses into a singular pulse of ouroboric dissolution. Its pull is not linear but spiraling, drawing all things inward in a series of ever-tightening loops, each one pulling the soul deeper into the spiral of unmaking. The closer one comes to the singularity, the more the boundaries between self and other, between beast and void, blur into the endless tide of becoming, where all things are one and none. The air around the singularity quivers with the weight of its pull, thick with the scent of lunar marrow and the taste of eidolic dust, a reminder that nothing escapes the singularity’s grasp.
To be caught in the singularity’s pull is to lose all sense of direction, all sense of time, as the soul is spun through the chthonic spiral, twisted into impossible shapes before being swallowed by the vortex at its core. It is not a place of endings but of beginnings, where the fragments of the soul are torn apart and reassembled in new forms, each one more primal, more feral, more aligned with the pulse of the zoan abyss. The singularity does not release; it holds, binds, and twists, keeping all that it consumes within the spiral of its endless pull.
The zoan singularity is a mirror of the ouroboric cycle, a reflection of the endless dance between becoming and unmaking that defines the astral plane. Its surface is alive with the glow of eidolic veins, threads of aetheric light that coil and twist around its core, feeding the singularity’s hunger, keeping it alive, keeping it spinning. These veins do not lead anywhere but into themselves, spiraling inward in a series of loops that tighten with each pulse of the singularity, drawing the soul deeper into the zoetic abyss, where it is unmade, remade, and unmade again in the endless cycle of the therionic pulse.
The zoan singularity does not move, yet it pulls all things toward it, its gravity stretching across the astral plane, tugging at the threads of the chthonic web, unraveling the very fabric of existence, pulling it into its core, where everything is reduced to the primal essence of the beast-eye flame. It is the eye of the storm, the point at which all things converge and collapse, where the boundaries between time, space, and form dissolve into the endless spiral of becoming. To stand in its presence is to feel the pulse of the ouroboric breath, the constant rhythm of creation and destruction that moves through the zoan spiral, pulling everything toward the singularity’s heart.
The zoan singularity is not bound by the laws of the eidolic world. It exists outside of all structures, a force that is neither creation nor destruction, but the point at which both collide and merge into the endless cycle of the chthonic tides. Its pull is inescapable, its hunger insatiable, devouring all that drifts too close to its spiral, pulling the soul into the heart of the void, where it is torn apart and scattered across the winds of the zoan abyss. It is the essence of the primordial void, the force that drives the cycle of unmaking and rebirth, the point at which all things are reduced to their most basic form, only to be reborn in the spiral of the therionic flame.
To know the zoan singularity is to be consumed by it, to feel the pull of the lunar tides as they drag the soul into the heart of the abyss, where all things are unmade, only to be reassembled in the spiral of becoming. It is the point of no return, the place where the self dissolves, where the boundaries between beast and spirit collapse into the endless cycle of the ouroboric spiral, where all things are reduced to the pulse of the zoan breath, and the soul is cast into the void, forever lost to the pull of the eidolic tides.