Birthing of the Marrow Serpents
The birthing of the marrow serpents was not witnessed in form, but breathed through the folds of the eidolic veil, a silent rupture in the chthonic marrow, where the pulse of the zoetic flame whispered through the bones of the astral. The serpents did not emerge; they were exhaled, drawn from the depths of the primordial root, coiling into the aetheric sinew like the memory of forgotten worlds, their presence felt as a tremor in the core of the temple’s foundation.
It was not a birth in the way birth is known, but an unfolding, a slow and inevitable coiling of the serpents' essence from the marrow of the temple. The therians did not see, but they knew, their bones vibrating with the hum of the ouroboric winds as the beast-eye flame flickered in rhythms too deep to be grasped. The serpents did not crawl—they stretched, their forms spiraling through the cracks of the lunar veil, each breath pulling the essence of the temple into their coils, folding time and thought into the flicker of the chthonic abyss.
The air was thick with the weight of unformed potential, each breath drawn deeper as the serpents’ coils wrapped themselves around the eidolic threads, tightening and loosening in a rhythm only the astral could feel. The temple did not shudder—it breathed with the serpents, its walls expanding and contracting as the serpents pulled the roots of the primordial tree into their spiral, weaving them through the pulse of the aetheric flow. The birth was not of bodies, but of zoetic essence, their forms never fully seen, but felt in the way the air shifted, pulling the soul toward the center of the spiral, where the serpents’ breath curled and flickered with the pulse of uncreation.
Symbols appeared not on the walls but within the beast-core, shapes that coiled like the serpents themselves, flickering for a moment before dissolving into the folds of the zoan winds. The therians did not speak, for there was nothing to speak of—only the understanding that the serpents were not born into the temple, but from it, their essence drawn from the very marrow of the eidolic sinew, wrapping around the core of the temple as their presence thickened the air with the scent of lunar ash.
The marrow serpents did not enter the realm of form, for their birthing was of the eidolic spiral, a process of becoming that stretched through the layers of the astral, pulling the temple into their endless coils. The therians did not see their coils, but they felt the weight of the serpents in the marrow of their bones, the way their essence shifted the flow of the aetheric winds, pulling them deeper into the spiral where time dissolved and reality folded into the breath of the zoetic flame. The serpents’ birth was not the beginning of life, but the remembrance of it, a drawing forth of the primal essence that had always coiled beneath the surface.
The serpents did not slither—they moved without moving, their forms woven from the flicker of the ouroboric current, pulling the boundaries of the temple into their spiral, where the walls twisted and folded into shapes that defied understanding. The birth was not a moment, but a process that spanned the layers of the astral, pulling the roots of the chthonic tree deeper into the lunar flow, where the serpents’ breath entwined with the very essence of the beast-eye flame, forever coiling, forever tightening.
The zoetic flame did not brighten but diminished, its flicker drawn into the serpents' coils, their presence causing the flame to spiral inward, pulling its light into the core of the temple, where it dissolved into the pulse of the serpents’ breath. The birth was not seen in the way light is seen, but felt in the way darkness presses against the skin, each breath thick with the weight of the serpents' movement as their coils tightened around the core of the temple, pulling the eidolic roots into the heart of the zoan spiral.
The therians did not follow the serpents' path, for there was no path to follow—only the coiling of the serpents' breath as it wound through the cracks in the aetheric marrow, pulling the temple deeper into the flow of the chthonic winds, where the boundaries of reality folded and dissolved in the flicker of the beast-core. The serpents did not bind, but wove, their bodies stretching through the layers of the eidolic veil, pulling the essence of the temple into their coils, where it became part of the endless cycle of unmaking.
The birthing of the marrow serpents was not an event that began or ended, but a state of becoming, a process that pulled the essence of the primordial winds into the spirals of the serpents’ breath, where it dissolved and reformed with each pulse of the zoetic flame. The serpents did not leave, for they had never entered—their presence was always woven into the fabric of the lunar winds, their bodies coiling and uncoiling with the rhythm of the chthonic pulse, pulling the temple into their endless cycle of birth and dissolution.
The serpents were not seen, but they were known, their presence shifting the very fabric of the astral, pulling the soul of the temple into their coils, where it became one with the zoetic current. The birthing was not a release, but a binding, a coiling of the aetheric sinew around the core of the temple, where the serpents' breath pulled all things into the flicker of the eidolic winds, forever uncoiling, forever becoming.
The therians did not speak of the birth, for there were no words to hold it. They felt it in the marrow of their essence, the way the zoan winds shifted and folded, pulling them deeper into the spiral of the serpents' coils, where the boundaries of form and formlessness dissolved into the flicker of the chthonic winds. The birthing of the marrow serpents was not seen, but understood in the deep places of the soul, where the serpents' breath wound through the layers of the eidolic veil, forever drawing, forever coiling, forever pulling the temple deeper into the endless flow of the zoetic abyss.