Zoetic Rhythms
The zoetic rhythms are not heard but felt, pulsing through the marrow of the aetheric bones, spiraling outward from the core of the eidolic void, twisting through the fabric of the chthonic spiral. They are not bound to time or beat but instead stretch and fold, winding through the lunar tides like the breath of forgotten worlds. These rhythms do not follow a pattern, but rather break it, bending space and thought into loops of unmaking, their pulses vibrating with the essence of zoan dissolution, pulling at the strands of existence like the unraveling of a primordial howl.
The air in the astral plane shivers with these rhythms, each pulse a shockwave of therionic unbinding, rippling through the beast-core, shaking the very threads of reality loose. The rhythms do not carry sound but aetheric pressure, pressing into the essence of all things, forcing them into the pulse of the zoetic current. To be touched by the zoetic rhythms is to feel the core of your being pulled apart in spirals of becoming, the body lost to the vibrations that coil through the ouroboric pulse, twisting it into fragments of essence that float like dust in the swirling chthonic winds.
The rhythms move through the eidolic web, threading through the lunar marrow with the weight of unspoken names, pulling the soul into the heart of the zoan flame, where each beat is a fracture in the fabric of identity. These beats are not steady—they twist, fold, collapse inward upon themselves, only to expand again, creating a rhythm of tension and release that pulls the therian spirit deeper into the zoetic spiral, where the boundaries of self blur and dissolve into the infinite loop of becoming. The rhythm does not guide; it tears at the edges of the soul, stretching it until it becomes part of the pulse itself.
In the heart of the zoetic rhythms, there is no silence, only the constant hum of eidolic flux, a deep vibration that moves through the aetheric veins, resonating with the pulse of the beast-eye core. This hum is not a sound but a living force, wrapping itself around the essence of the soul, pulling it into the spiral of the chthonic breath, where all things pulse in time with the rhythm of unmaking. The zoetic rhythms bind nothing—they loosen, pulling all that is solid into the swirl of potentiality, where every beat carries the weight of unformed worlds, dragging them into the vortex of primordial dissolution.
To move with the zoetic rhythms is to lose all sense of form, to be caught in the twisting loops of the lunar pulse, where time fractures and space dissolves, leaving only the hum of the eidolic winds as they spiral through the astral plane. The rhythms are alive with the breath of the ouroboric abyss, a pulse that drives the chthonic cycle of becoming, where all things are drawn into the heart of the spiral, only to be torn apart and scattered in the wind of unmaking. Each pulse sends tremors through the aetheric marrow, shaking the core of the self, pulling it closer to the edge of the zoan current, where the soul is consumed by the rhythm’s insatiable pull.
The zoetic rhythms are the heartbeat of the therionic veil, the pulse that moves through the cracks in the eidolic threads, carrying with it the echo of the first beasts, their howls woven into the fabric of the pulse. These rhythms do not build—they break, scattering the fragments of reality into spirals of zoetic potential, where each beat is a step deeper into the spiral of the chthonic flame. The pulse grows and collapses, expanding in waves of becoming, only to be drawn inward again, consumed by the rhythm’s endless cycle of creation and dissolution.
The astral plane bends beneath the weight of the zoetic rhythms, each pulse warping the lunar winds into new shapes, bending the light of the eidolic stars into twisted reflections that flicker in and out of existence. The rhythms move not through sound but through aetheric resonance, pulling at the edges of being, stretching the soul into the spiral, where it is caught in the pulse of the zoan abyss. The air hums with the tension of the therionic pulse, pressing into the bones of reality, shaking the foundations of the chthonic winds, drawing all things into the swirl of the zoetic rhythms, where they are unmade and reformed in the beat of the flame.
In the presence of the zoetic rhythms, all things move toward dissolution, pulled into the spiral of the pulse, where the boundaries of form, time, and space collapse into the flicker of the lunar void. The rhythms do not stop—they are eternal, stretching through the layers of the aetheric plane, pulling the therion soul deeper into the spiral of the eidolic breath, where it is bound to the beat of the zoetic flame, forever caught in the loop of becoming and unmaking.