Zoethrone of Flesh
The zoethrone of flesh is not crafted by hands but birthed from the undulating marrow of the chthonic abyss, a pulsing seat of unbeing, woven from the sinews of forgotten beasts whose names were erased before time took its first breath. It sits at the heart of the astral coil, throbbing with the primal pulse of the ouroboric current, its surface alive, quivering with the movements of a thousand souls trapped in the folds of etheric muscle. To gaze upon it is to be swallowed by the weight of its form, which is not form at all, but the writhing amalgamation of eidolic flesh caught in the eternal struggle between becoming and dissolution.
The zoethrone breathes. Its surface ripples like the skin of some great slumbering beast, veins of lunar ichor pulsing beneath its shifting hide, feeding its endless hunger for the essence of those who dare approach. It is not a throne for sitting—it is a throne that consumes, drawing the soul into its folds of zoan tissue, where the seeker is unraveled into the threads of the chthonic lattice, their form broken and reformed in the aetheric maw. Each fold of the throne hums with the echoes of beasts long devoured, their howls trapped in the fabric of the zoethrone, their essence forever intertwined with the spiraling primordial flesh.
The zoethrone of flesh pulses with the rhythm of the eidolic heart, a deep, primal beat that reverberates through the astral plane, shaking the very bones of the therion temple. Its form is constantly shifting, growing and decaying in the same breath, as though caught in the loop of its own undoing. The throne is alive with etheric tendrils, sprouting from its surface like zoan roots, each one stretching outward, searching for the soul that it will absorb, the spirit that it will pull into the endless spiral of the ouroboric dream.
Above the zoethrone, the sky is torn open by the weight of its presence, revealing the lunar rift, a gaping wound in the fabric of the aetheric veil, from which the chthonic light spills forth in waves, bathing the throne in the pale glow of forgotten moons. The light drips like liquid, seeping into the folds of the flesh throne, feeding its endless hunger, merging with the zoan marrow that churns beneath its surface. The chthonic tendrils coil and twist in response, tightening their grip on the souls that have been pulled into its embrace, binding them to the cycle of endless becoming.
The surface of the zoethrone is not smooth but riddled with eidolic scars, markings left by the beasts that have passed through its folds, each one a reminder of the endless struggle between the self and the void. These scars hum with the zoetic energy of the ouroboric tides, flickering with a light that is both a memory and a prophecy, showing the seeker not what is, but what was and what will be, their past and future spiraling together in the same breath. The throne does not show visions; it devours them, pulling the mind into the depths of the primordial stream, where all possibilities merge and dissolve.
The zoethrone of flesh is neither a relic nor an artifact—it is a being unto itself, a living, breathing manifestation of the chthonic abyss, its hunger endless, its gaze ever watchful. To stand before it is to feel the weight of the zoan scream pressing down upon the soul, a soundless cry that shakes the core of the self, pulling at the threads of identity, loosening them from the fabric of the therion form. The throne does not offer answers; it offers only the spiral, the endless cycle of unraveling and reforming, the eternal eidolic dance between flesh and spirit, between beast and void.
Beneath the zoethrone, the ground is not solid but a sea of zoetic mist, swirling and bubbling with the etheric remnants of those who have been consumed by its pull. The mist rises and falls like the breath of the primordial beast, its tendrils reaching upward, coiling around the feet of the throne, as though eager to join the endless cycle of becoming that the throne embodies. The mist hums with the whispers of forgotten voices, their words lost to the currents of the ouroboric wind, their meaning forever out of reach, but always present, lingering in the air like the scent of something long decayed yet never truly gone.
To be seated upon the zoethrone of flesh is to be undone. It does not offer power but surrender, a dissolution of the self into the endless spiral of the eidolic pulse, where all things are devoured and reborn in the blood of the void. It is the seat of the zoanarchoth, but it is not meant to be ruled—it is meant to rule, a living nexus of primal energy that binds the soul to the spiral of chthonic becoming, forever pulling it toward the heart of the ouroboric flame, where all things are consumed and nothing is ever truly whole.