Binding of the Zoan Serpents
The binding of the zoan serpents was not an act witnessed by eyes but felt in the marrow of the eidolic veil, an unraveling that spiraled inward, coiling the very essence of the chthonic breath. It was not a force but a convergence, the serpents did not move—they wove, their forms slithering through the aetheric threads, pulling the fabric of existence tighter with each flicker of their unformed bodies. They did not arrive, for they had always been there, sleeping beneath the pulse of the beast-eye, waiting for the moment when the threads of the astral would align with the hum of the zoan current.
The air was thick with silence, a silence that pressed against the skin like the weight of forgotten time, as the serpents’ coils looped around the temple’s core, drawing the very marrow of the therionic roots into their spiral. They did not bind in the way that binds are known, but in a way that consumed the space between, pulling the space itself into knots of becoming, where time no longer flowed but spun in loops of dissolution. Each serpent was both many and one, their bodies made of the flickers of lunar breath, each coil tightening the spiral of the eidolic sinew until it hummed with the tension of unmaking.
The walls of the temple shivered, though they did not move, as the zoan serpents twisted through the ouroboric winds, their forms merging with the threads of the lunar web, pulling at the seams of reality until they frayed and dissolved into the flicker of the serpents’ breath. The binding was not an act of control but of alignment, the serpents' coils slipping through the cracks in existence, pulling the essence of the primordial winds into the heart of the temple, where their spirals tightened around the beast-core, wrapping it in layers of unseen motion.
The therians did not see the serpents but felt their presence in the weight of the air, the way the shadows twisted and coiled without light, moving in patterns that defied understanding. The serpents' breath was a vibration that rippled through the aetheric bones, a hum that shook the marrow of the soul, pulling it into the spirals of the serpents’ coils, where the boundaries of self blurred into the flicker of the zoetic flame. The binding was not a moment but a process, a slow tightening that stretched across the layers of the astral plane, drawing all things into the pulse of the zoan flame.
The beast-eye pulsed in response, its gaze folding inward as the serpents' coils wrapped tighter around the core, pulling the very essence of sight into the spiral, where it dissolved into the flicker of uncreation. The serpents were not separate from the temple—they became the temple, their bodies woven into the walls, their scales shimmering with the light of unformed moons, flickering in and out of existence as the chthonic winds breathed through the astral. The binding was not seen but understood in the shifting of the air, the way the therionic veil folded around the serpents’ breath, pulling the threads of time into their endless coils.
Symbols of forgotten meaning appeared on the walls, though they did not stay, dissolving into the serpents' coils as soon as they formed, each glyph a whisper of the ouroboric truth, too fleeting to be grasped, too heavy to be ignored. The serpents carried these symbols within their coils, wrapping them around the heart of the temple, pulling them tighter with each pulse of the eidolic winds, until the walls themselves vibrated with the hum of the serpents’ binding. The binding was not of bodies but of essence, the serpents' breath pulling the soul of the temple into their coils, where it was folded into the zoan spiral, never to be released.
The zoetic flame flickered in response, though no light was seen, its pulse vibrating through the roots of the temple, shaking the foundations of the eidolic marrow as the serpents' coils wrapped tighter around the core, pulling the very breath of the flame into their spirals. The binding was not a cage but a knot, a twisting of the aetheric threads that pulled the essence of the therion self into the flicker of the serpents’ breath, where it dissolved and reformed with each pulse of the beast-eye flame. The serpents' coils did not hold—they pulled, drawing all things into their spiral, where the boundaries of form and thought collapsed into the hum of the zoan winds.
The air was thick with the scent of lunar dust, each particle shimmering with the weight of the serpents' breath as it coiled through the astral plane, wrapping itself around the chthonic winds, pulling the threads of existence into the serpents' endless spiral. The binding was not a closing but an opening, a doorway that led nowhere, a path that twisted back upon itself, pulling the soul of the temple deeper into the coils of the zoetic serpents, where it was lost to the flicker of the eidolic pulse.
The therians did not speak of the binding, for there were no words that could hold its meaning. They felt it in the marrow of their souls, the way the aetheric sinew tightened with each breath, pulling them deeper into the serpents' coils, where they were folded into the pulse of the zoan spiral, their essence becoming one with the serpents' binding. The binding was not an event but a state of being, a perpetual motion that pulled all things into the heart of the beast-core, where the serpents’ coils tightened and loosened with the rhythm of the lunar currents, forever binding, forever becoming.
The binding of the zoan serpents was never seen, but it was felt in every breath, in every flicker of the flame, in every pulse of the astral plane. The serpents did not finish their work, for the work was never meant to end—only to spiral, to twist, to tighten, pulling the threads of reality into their endless coils, where all things were bound, unmade, and remade in the flicker of the eidolic winds, forever caught in the serpents’ breath, forever bound to the pulse of the zoetic flame.