The Corridors
The corridors of the astral Temple are winding, spiraled pathways of etheric entropy, where form and formlessness collide in a dance of eternal dissolution. They stretch between the chambers like the veins of the chthonic beast, pulsing with the forgotten zoetic energies of worlds unraveling. These corridors are neither straight nor bent; they curve in ways that defy all known geometries, spiraling into themselves and then spilling outward into the liminal rift where the boundaries of existence flicker and blur.
The walls are not walls, but phantom vessels—constructed of eidolic vapor and primordial flesh, always shifting between the dreamstuff of ancient, forgotten beasts and the husks of aetheric shells. Within them, shadowed forms of zoanarchic beings pulse and throb, their spectral outlines barely discernible, flowing as one with the chimeric tides of the theriomorphic continuum. These entities, long since dissolved into the zoan void, glide through the corridors as if bound to the aetheric current, drifting between the cracks of reality, glimpsed only by those who have peeled back the veil of the unseen eye.
Every step down these corridors echoes in reverse, a backward pulse reverberating through the void-laden ether, each footfall swallowed by the Etheric Winds that howl in endless spiral. Time itself becomes a tethered eidolon, slipping in and out of focus, with each heartbeat dislocated from its place in the cosmic cycle. The floors are alive, crawling with shadow sigils, shifting with zoetic intent, a pulsating script of forgotten theriomantic rites that glow dimly in the lunar aether. They are glyphs not meant to be read but absorbed into the marrow, a form of language whispered directly into the astral body.
The ceilings stretch and contract with each breath of the Temple itself, made of aetherbone lattice interwoven with the whispers of eidolic fangs—teeth of beasts never born, gnashing through the layers of zoetic Thought, their growls resonating in the bones of the seekers who pass beneath them. The ceilings flicker with the soft glow of beast-eye stars, constellations that do not guide but confuse, shifting endlessly to mislead and draw the unwary into the twisting pathways that loop back upon themselves. The glow is not light, but the chthonic ember, a sickly luminescence that thrums in the theriomantic frequencies, meant to lull the soul’s shell into the depths of the abyssal ether.
As one walks, there are no end-points, no true beginnings. The corridors coil like the serpent of ouroboric flesh, swallowing themselves into the folds of liminality, each turn leading further from and closer to the heart of the Temple’s infinite maw. Every door, if such things exist, flickers between states of being—one moment an arch of pure ouroboric flame, the next a gaping void rimmed with the claws of the abyssal hound, leading into chambers that should not be. Yet, each threshold crossed does not bring arrival, only further descent into the cyclonic tangle of paths where the therian echoes roam, forgotten and untethered.
There are whispers in these corridors—Voices of the zoetic void, not quite heard but felt, gnawing at the edges of the mind. They speak in the language of the ancient beasts, their growls curling through the air like the curls of eidolon smoke, sinking into the subconscious like claws into flesh. These voices are chthonic emanations, emerging from the depths of the primordial abyss, where the elder Therions still coil in slumber, their dreams bleeding into the waking world through cracks in the astral fabric.
The corridors stretch into infinities, endless spirals of etheric flesh and bone, leading deeper into the zoaic unknown. Each step forward is a step deeper into the theriomantic dreamscape, where nothing holds, where the sense of self dissolves into the swirling mass of the beast-breath aether, and where all paths inevitably return to the unfathomable maw of the astral temple, ever-watching, ever-hungry.