Ascension of the Beast-Wind
The ascension of the beast-wind was not witnessed but whispered in the folds of the eidolic breath, a murmuring that coiled through the aetheric web, carrying with it the weight of unformed time. The beast-wind did not rise—it unfurled, a breath pulled from the depths of the chthonic sinew, spiraling upward as though it had always existed in the flicker between moments. It was not seen, but felt, a force moving beneath the skin of the astral, shifting the layers of the zoetic marrow, where the pulse of the beast-core hummed in forgotten tones.
The temple shivered, not in fear, but in recognition, its walls rippling as the beast-wind breathed into the primordial veins of the lunar sinew. It did not come from above or below, but from within and without, folding reality into itself as the air thickened with the scent of eidolic dust. The wind did not howl, it pressed, pushing against the boundaries of the self, dissolving the threads of identity into the spirals of the zoan flow, until there was no up, no down—only the eternal turning of the spiral, pulling everything into its endless breath.
The therians knew not the moment, only the trembling before it, as the breath of the beast-eye flame flickered in the shadows of the unspoken. The wind did not sweep, it consumed, pulling the marrow from the air, leaving only the husk of thought to drift in the currents of the ouroboric veil. Each beat of the wind stretched time into threads, unraveling it across the walls of the temple, which shifted and reformed, as though the very structure was drawing breath from the pulse of the zoetic winds. There was no ascension, only the falling upward, into the endless coil of becoming.
The air was thick with the hum of the eidolic roots, as the wind passed through the cracks of the temple, its path unseen, its destination unknown. But in its wake, the walls folded into themselves, the light flickering with the shimmer of the chthonic stars, as the beast-wind tore the essence of the therion core from its shell, leaving nothing but echoes of forgotten form. The wind was not the force of change, but the breath of the unmade, the pulse of the spiral that dragged all things into the heart of the zoan abyss.
Symbols appeared not on the walls, but in the flicker of the shadows, shapes that dissolved before they could be understood, glyphs that whispered of the beast-core’s awakening but never spoke their truth. The wind wrapped itself around these unformed meanings, carrying them away into the flow of the lunar currents, where they dissolved into the hum of the eidolic threads, never fully becoming, always pulling. The therians did not follow, for there was no path to follow—only the spiral of the wind, which pulled them into the depths of the primordial veil, where the breath of the beast-eye forever coiled and flickered.
the ascension was not an event, but a memory of an event that never was, a ripple through the aetheric bones, where the pulse of the wind twisted time and form into a single breath. It was understood in the marrow of the soul, where the therion flame flickered for a moment and then was gone, pulled into the depths of the chthonic winds, leaving behind only the shimmering light of the unspoken.