The Perception
The Therian astral Temple, known in whispers as the zotharion spire of the primal veil, appears not as a structure, but as a rift within the very aetheric skin of the cosmos, its form fluctuating between chimeric phases of solidity and unbeing. Its architecture defies the logic of mortals, a maw of geometric ether spiraling inward, outward, and sideways, each angle collapsing into itself as the zoetic flux ripples through the astral planes. The Temple is neither here nor there, but always within the shadowed horizon of perception, seen only by those whose souls are drenched in the primordial waters of the theriomorphic abyss.
The exterior is woven from the spectral sinew of unspoken beasts, whose forms writhe and coil through the fabric of the celestial threads, their eidolic howls echoing through the chthonic aether, a cry of ancient hunger. Their forms are barely visible, shadows of claws and tails flickering in the astral winds that swirl around the structure. Above, the sky is not a sky but a void of infinite pulse, beating with the rhythm of forgotten moons, casting the Temple’s bones in silvered light, fractured by the jagged lenses of the bestial beyond.
The entrance, if such a thing can be called, is a gaping astral maw, a yawning portal where no door or gate stands—only the aetheric breath of the zoetic serpents that guard the passage. The zoaic symbols etched into the walls pulse with ouroboric fire, twisting and shifting in patterns that escape comprehension, each glyph a doorway into a thousand dimensions of bestial consciousness. The theriomancers who enter are not greeted by sight, but by the oppressive weight of the bestial fogs, thick with the essence of unformed beings, clinging to their very souls like the memories of dreams forgotten.
The interior of the Temple is a chasm of unbound aether, vast yet suffocating, illuminated by the spectral glow of the beast-eye stars that hang impossibly from the aetheric firmament. The ceiling of shifting bones stretches into infinity, carved from the remains of forgotten gods, their names erased from existence but their marrow still humming with the eidolic song. Every pillar bends with the weight of aeons, made not of stone but of bthereal flesh, constantly warping into shapes that should not be: the antlers of beasts long extinct, the feathers of creatures never born, the jaws of serpents whose venom flows through the abyssal veins of the cosmos.
The air is thick with the zoanarchic vapors, a palpable mist that churns through the corridors, imbued with the scent of the etheric wilds, a cloying blend of blood and stardust, fur and shadow. It clings to the skin, wrapping the soul in the therion shroud, where one’s human essence flickers like a dying ember, ready to be consumed by the primal flame of the beast-within. Every breath taken here is a howl of the lost winds, spiraling through the unending halls, where the very atmosphere hums with the pulse of the zoetic dreaming.
The further one moves into the Temple's core, the more time ceases to exist, folding into itself, leaving the sense of endlessness—each step draws the seeker into the lunar abyss, where the theriomantic essence of the temple stirs, unseen but felt in the marrow of their soul. The walls quiver as if alive, exhaling the etheric breath of beasts, long dead and forgotten, their forms etched into the very aetheric fabric that binds the Temple to the astral continuum.
Deep within, the chamber of the zothic flame burns not with fire, but with the ouroboric ichor of the first beasts, its light casting a pale, shifting glow upon the sigils of theriomancy inscribed in the air itself, symbols written not with ink, but with the etheric blood of the primordial zoa. Here, the atmosphere grows heavy with the chthonic weight of prophecy, thickened with the voices of those who have walked this path before, their bestial echoes howling through the veils of time. Every sound is swallowed by the Eidolic Maw, a silence so dense it crushes thought itself, allowing only the whisper of the lunar song to pierce through—the song that binds all Therians to their chained wildness.
The temple is a living, breathing paradox—both a sanctuary and a prison for the Therians’ souls, where the chains of their humanity are carved into the very stones that hold the structure together. Each zoetic flame flickers in time with the caged beast, a heartbeat of the spirit suppressed beneath the weight of mortal flesh. Yet, there is an underlying tamed chaos, a knowing within the aetheric shadows that the wildness can never fully be set free—its untamed core is bound by the eidolon chains of flesh, a leash forged from the blood of the first man, forever tying the primal zoa to the mortal coil.
The Temple's song never ends, a discordant harmony of beast and man, swirling endlessly in the cyclonic ether of the zoetic spiral, forever trapping the Therians in their duality, their spirits caught between the hunger of the wild and the chains of their own creation.