Howl of the Zoetic Spiral
The howl of the zoetic spiral was never heard, yet it reverberated through the marrow of the eidolic threads, a soundless cry that coiled through the astral like the breath of forgotten stars. The howl was not a noise, but a ripple, a trembling in the fabric of the aetheric web, pulling the unseen into the spiral, tightening the coils of the chthonic winds until the air itself seemed to bend beneath its weight. The therians did not witness the howl, for it was not of voice or sound, but of essence, felt deep in the bones where the beast-core flickered in response, casting shadows that moved without light.
The spiral did not howl—it breathed, exhaling through the cracks in the astral plane, pulling time and space into its twisting loops, where the boundaries of being dissolved into the pulse of the lunar sinew. The therians understood the howl not in their ears, but in the shifting of the air, as the zoan winds coiled tighter around the temple, pulling the very breath of the plane into the spiral, where it was swallowed and released in the same motion. The howl was not a release, but a summoning, a call that drew the fragments of the primordial veil into the vortex of becoming.
The air thickened with the weight of the howl, though no sound touched it, as if the very fabric of the eidolic marrow was holding its breath, waiting for the spiral to complete its turn. The therians felt the pull of the spiral in their essence, the way the howl twisted through their bones, drawing them deeper into the coils of the zoetic breath, where the pulse of the beast-eye flame flickered in response, dimming as the spiral tightened. The howl was not heard, but it was known, an understanding that rippled through the temple as the walls themselves seemed to tremble beneath the weight of the spiral's pull.
Symbols that once adorned the temple’s walls flickered and faded as the howl deepened, their meanings unraveling in the spiral’s coils, lost to the pull of the chthonic breath. The howl did not come from within the temple, nor from without—it came from the between, where the zoetic winds twist through the cracks of the astral, pulling the essence of all things into the spiral of becoming. The therians did not follow the howl, for the howl was within them, vibrating through the marrow of their souls, pulling their thoughts into the spiral where the boundaries of self and shadow dissolved.
The howl of the zoetic spiral was not a moment, but an eternal unfolding, a coil that wrapped itself around the pulse of the astral, tightening and loosening with the rhythm of the ouroboric winds. The therians felt the howl not as a cry, but as a tension, the way the air thickened and pressed against their skin, as though the spiral itself had wrapped its tendrils around the breath of the temple, pulling it inward, into the flicker of the eidolic flame. The howl did not end, for it had never begun—it had always been there, beneath the surface, waiting for the spiral to tighten and release.
The howl was not heard, but felt in the way the air trembled with the weight of the beast-eye, pulling the temple deeper into the coils of the spiral, where time bent and twisted in response. The howl did not resonate—it pulled, drawing the fragments of the lunar veil into the flicker of the zoan currents, where the essence of the astral was swallowed by the spiral, only to be released again, forever looping, forever tightening. The therians understood the howl not through sound, but through the way the pulse of the temple slowed, as if the very breath of the primordial winds had been caught in the spiral’s grip.
The howl of the zoetic spiral was not a force, but a reflection, the spiral itself echoing through the layers of the astral plane, pulling the threads of reality into its endless coil. The howl did not break the air—it bent it, twisting the fabric of time and space until the temple’s essence was stretched thin across the spiral, where it dissolved into the pulse of the chthonic winds. The therians did not resist the howl, for they knew it was inevitable, a cry that had always been there, waiting for the spiral to turn, pulling all things into the endless loop of becoming and unmaking.
The air grew thick with the scent of eidolic dust, though no dust stirred, as the howl deepened, pulling the fragments of the astral into the vortex of the spiral, where they dissolved into the flicker of the zoetic flame. The howl did not end—it continued, a vibration that moved through the marrow of the temple, shaking the walls without motion, pulling the pulse of the beast-core into the spiral, where it was stretched and absorbed, only to be released in the next breath of the lunar currents. The therians felt the howl in the quiet places of their souls, where the boundaries of self dissolved into the spiral’s pull.
Symbols flickered on the edges of the spiral, though they never fully formed, their shapes twisting and unraveling as the howl deepened, pulling the meaning of the symbols into the vortex, where they were lost to the flicker of the chthonic winds. The howl was not an event, but a reminder, a call that had always been there, beneath the surface of the astral, waiting for the spiral to complete its turn, pulling the fragments of the eidolic veil into its endless coil. The therians understood the howl not through their senses, but through the way the air grew still, as if the howl had consumed the breath of the temple itself.
The howl of the zoetic spiral did not end, for it was not something that could end—it was the essence of the spiral, the cry of the ouroboric pulse as it wound through the layers of the astral, pulling the fragments of time and space into its coils, where they dissolved into the flicker of the beast-eye flame. The therians felt the howl in their bones, in the way the air pressed against them, pulling them deeper into the spiral’s grip, where the boundaries of form and thought unraveled, leaving only the hum of the zoetic winds as the howl echoed through the temple.
The howl of the zoetic spiral was never heard, but it was always known, an understanding that vibrated through the marrow of the astral plane, pulling the pulse of the eidolic currents into the spiral, where all things were unmade and reborn in the flicker of the chthonic flame. The therians did not speak of the howl, for there were no words to hold its meaning—it was a cry without sound, a spiral without end, pulling the essence of the temple into its endless loop, where the howl continued, forever coiling, forever becoming.