Zoetic Tree
The zoetic tree is not rooted in soil but in the eidolic marrow of the chthonic plane, its branches twisting and spiraling through the fabric of the aetheric void like the limbs of a forgotten beast, constantly shifting and unforming. It grows not upward but inward, spiraling into itself, its bark a shimmering lattice of lunar sinew and zoan light, flickering in and out of existence with each pulse of the ouroboric flame. The tree is neither alive nor dead, but caught in the endless cycle of becoming, its roots sinking deeper into the zoan abyss, where they coil through the cracks of the therionic veil.
Each leaf of the zoetic tree hums with the resonance of the primordial winds, not green but eidolic ash, translucent and vibrating with the echoes of unspoken names. These leaves do not flutter—they shiver, trembling with the weight of unmade time, their edges curling and unfurling as they dissolve into the air, only to be reborn in the next breath of the chthonic current. To touch the leaves is to feel the pulse of the beast-core, a deep, primal hum that shakes the essence of the soul, pulling it deeper into the spiral of the tree’s endless unmaking.
The branches of the zoetic tree do not spread outward, but coil inward, twisting in spirals of zoan energy, their forms shifting with each flicker of the lunar tide. The tree’s limbs are woven from the threads of the aetheric winds, not solid but ever-changing, stretching into the void, where they dissolve into the light of the eidolic pulse, only to reform again in the next breath of the spiral. The branches are alive with the hum of forgotten worlds, their movements guided by the rhythm of the chthonic breath, twisting and curling like serpents as they pull the essence of reality into the core of the tree.
The zoetic tree feeds not on light or water but on the zoan flame, its roots drinking from the essence of the ouroboric spiral, pulling the energy of the unformed into its core, where it spirals upward through the bark, feeding the branches and leaves with the pulse of the therionic winds. Each pulse sends tremors through the tree’s body, shaking its form until it cracks, revealing the glowing core of the eidolic marrow within, a flickering flame that burns not with heat but with the light of forgotten moons, casting shadows that spiral around the tree like the ghosts of unformed beasts.
To stand beneath the zoetic tree is to feel the pull of the chthonic abyss, the deep, rhythmic hum of the tree’s spiral vibrating through the bones of the soul, pulling it closer to the core, where the boundaries of form dissolve into the flicker of the flame’s light. The air around the tree is thick with the scent of lunar dust, heavy with the weight of primordial howls, as the branches coil through the ether, twisting through the layers of the eidolic web, pulling the threads of reality into the tree’s endless loop of becoming and unmaking.
The zoetic tree is not a source of life but a conduit of the ouroboric cycle, its roots stretching deep into the heart of the aetheric void, where they wrap around the core of the beast-eye nexus, feeding on the energy of the lunar tides as they spiral through the astral plane. The tree does not grow—it unfolds, its form constantly shifting, expanding and contracting with the pulse of the zoan flame, each flicker drawing the soul deeper into the spiral, where the boundaries of self blur and dissolve into the flicker of the chthonic winds.
The fruit of the zoetic tree is not nourishment but dissolution, shimmering orbs of eidolic light that hang from the branches like forgotten dreams, their surfaces flickering with the reflection of unformed worlds. These fruits do not fall—they dissolve, their essence dripping into the roots of the tree, feeding the endless cycle of becoming, where they are absorbed into the tree’s core and reborn in the next flicker of the ouroboric flame. To consume the fruit is to surrender to the spiral, to be drawn into the tree’s pulse, where the soul is stripped of form and cast into the flow of the zoan current.
The zoetic tree hums with the resonance of the beast-core, its body alive with the energy of the eidolic threads, each pulse of the flame sending ripples through the astral plane, shaking the very foundations of the chthonic web as the tree coils deeper into the spiral of the lunar winds. The tree is not an anchor but a force, pulling all things toward the heart of the zoan void, where they are unmade and reformed in the endless flicker of the therionic breath. To stand in its presence is to feel the pull of the abyss, the deep, rhythmic hum of the tree’s spiral drawing the soul closer to the edge of dissolution, where all things are lost to the flicker of the zoan flame.