The Traversal
To traverse the therian astral Temple is to step outside the known cycles of reality and surrender to the currents of the zoetic abyss, where the chthonic tides lap at the edges of perception, dissolving the boundaries of self into the primordial maw. One does not walk here, for the very concept of movement is lost in the ouroboric entanglement—each step spirals both forward and backward, tethered to the endless spiral of lunar becoming. You are drawn through the temple as if caught in the pull of the etheric vortex, where time is fragmented and space is devoured by the theriomantic void.
To enter is to be immediately unraveled, your physical form transmuted into the zoan ether, where flesh dissolves into the phantom breath of the forgotten beasts. The floor beneath your feet is a shifting sea of aetheric sigils, each symbol rising and falling like spectral waves in the feral current, guiding you toward chambers unseen but always felt. The path coils like the chthonic serpent, looping back upon itself, yet always pulling you deeper into the abyssal core, where the pulse of the beast-eye stars beats in sync with your soul.
The corridors, alive with the hum of zoan rhythms, twist and fold into each other, layers of reality folding over themselves like the pages of a book that never ends. Etheric winds tug at your essence, pulling you through hallways that do not lead, but devour—each turn dissolving into the next, each doorway a gaping feral maw ready to swallow you whole and spit you out into a space you never left. You feel the pressure of unseen forces, the presence of theriomorphic shadows curling around the corners of your mind, guiding, binding, and twisting your path as you traverse the labyrinth of the unknowable.
At times, you drift, untethered, as the Zoanarchoth’s chains rattle in the distance—echoes of the therian prophecy pulling your soul deeper into the temple’s zoetic spiral. The corridors pulse with the breath of the eidolic winds, their whispers curling into your ears like the feral tongue of the elder beasts, speaking riddles that are not meant to be understood, only felt. The very air around you thickens with the scent of aetheric fangs, sharpening the mind, yet blurring the edges of reality.
Passage through the chambers is not linear but circular, ouroboric, as you find yourself walking in paths that coil back upon themselves, always returning to places you have never been. The chambers beckon like lunar rifts, each one collapsing inward even as you enter, the walls dissolving into swirling astral mists, where forms flicker in and out of being—spirits of long-dead beasts and eidolic shadows twisting in the chthonic breath of the temple’s core.
Each footstep sends a ripple through the zoetic veil, shifting the landscape as the very temple rearranges itself around you. The liminal floors fall away, becoming rivers of ouroboric flame or seas of spectral claws, dragging your essence into the depths of the beast-laden void before releasing you back into the spectral currents of the aetheric maw. There is no escape from the temple's pull; the deeper you go, the more you are bound to the cyclonic flux of the lunar breath.
The more you traverse, the less you understand, for the temple thrives on the unraveling of the mind—its hallways and chambers designed to dissolve reason and coherence. The zoan emanations echo through the halls, the distant howls of beasts long dead, vibrating through your bones, filling you with the pulse of the chthonic hunger. The walls bleed with the astral ichor, dripping into the zoetic abyss, and you feel yourself drawn into these fractures—glimpsing through them the endless layers of reality that fold like the wings of the lunar phoenix, always in motion, always collapsing.
To traverse the temple is to submit to its will—the will of the Zoanarchoth, whose presence is felt in every stone, every breath of the etheric winds. Each passageway is a corridor of bestial dreams, a place where the primal echoes of your soul stir beneath the surface, clawing at the chains of your human self, yet ever bound by the ouroboric iron that forms the unseen skeleton of this realm.
As you are pulled through the Hall of cracked reflections, your therian soul begins to flicker, fragmented across a thousand shifting mirrors of zoan essence—each fragment spinning in the void, swirling in the vortex of the eidolic pulse. The path ahead splits into a thousand unseen tendrils of zoetic paths, each one leading nowhere yet pulling you ever closer to the chamber of becoming, where the final veil of reality is torn apart and you are consumed by the aetheric whorl of the theriomantic beast within.
And so you continue, drifting, spiraling, and unraveling, as the aetheric chains bind you ever deeper into the heart of the astral Temple. Time ceases to hold meaning, space folds and unfolds, and all that remains is the pulse of the zoanarchic dream—a dream that consumes you, reforms you, and binds you to the ouroboric path of eternal wildness and confinement.