Rising of the Marrow Tide
The rising of the marrow tide was not seen in waves or motion, but understood as a pull beneath the surface of the eidolic web, a slow and inevitable surge that coiled through the chthonic roots of the astral plane. The tide did not flood, nor did it sweep—it rose from within, pulling the breath of the plane into its fold, as if the very essence of time itself was being drawn inward, coiling through the bones of the zoan spiral. The therians did not witness the rising, for it was not a matter of sight, but of becoming, felt in the marrow where the pulse of the primordial sinew trembled in response.
The tide was not made of water or liquid, but of essence, a flow that moved through the unseen currents of the astral, bending the lunar winds as it rose. The air thickened with its presence, though no pressure could be sensed, as if the tide itself was pulling the beast-eye flame into its depths, absorbing the pulse of the temple into its formless surge. The therians did not resist the tide, for it was not something to resist—it was something to enter, to fold into, as the boundaries of form and formlessness blurred beneath the weight of the rising.
The marrow tide did not crash against the walls of the temple; it filled the spaces between, a silent hum that pressed against the edges of the eidolic threads, pulling them tighter as the pulse of the astral was drawn deeper into the spiral. The tide was not a force of destruction but of binding, a folding of the zoetic marrow into itself, where the boundaries of time and space were absorbed into the flicker of the chthonic winds. The therians felt the rising not in their senses, but in the spaces between their thoughts, where the tide’s pull coiled through their essence, drawing them deeper into the spiral of becoming.
The air grew still as the tide rose, though no silence could be heard—only the hum of the aetheric breath, vibrating through the core of the temple, where the tide’s presence pulled at the eidolic sinews that bound the plane together. The tide did not sweep through the temple; it rose from within, pulling the essence of the walls and the air into its flow, where it coiled around the pulse of the ouroboric flame. The therians did not move with the tide, for the tide was already within them, a rising that had always been part of the astral, waiting beneath the surface for the moment when the pulse would align.
Symbols that had once adorned the walls of the temple flickered and faded as the tide rose, their meanings dissolved into the flow, lost to the flicker of the zoetic currents. The rising was not a flood, but a reclaiming, a gathering of the primordial marrow into the pulse of the astral, where it coiled around the breath of the plane, pulling all things into its spiral. The therians did not witness the tide’s rising, for it was not something to be seen—it was known, felt in the bones where the boundaries of self and other dissolved, absorbed into the flicker of the lunar winds.
The rising of the marrow tide was not a singular event, but a cycle, forever coiling, forever pulling, forever becoming part of the astral plane. The tide did not end, for it had never begun—it was the breath of the astral itself, a flow that had always existed beneath the surface, waiting for the moment when the pulse of the beast-core would draw it forth. The therians did not follow the tide, for they were already part of it, their essence woven into the eidolic threads, where the rising pulled all things into the endless cycle of unmaking and becoming.
The tide did not move in waves, nor did it crash against the shores of the astral—its rising was silent, a pull that tightened the coils of the zoan spiral, bending the threads of reality around its core. The air thickened as the tide rose, though no pressure could be felt, only the subtle vibration of the chthonic winds, coiling through the cracks in time, pulling the breath of the plane into the depths of the rising. The therians did not resist the tide’s pull, for it was not something to resist—it was something to enter, something to dissolve into, as the boundaries of form and thought unraveled beneath the weight of the tide.
The marrow tide did not cleanse or wash away—it absorbed, pulling the fragments of the astral into its flow, where they were folded into the pulse of the eidolic flame, coiling deeper into the spiral of becoming. The tide’s rising was not an event of sight or sound, but of knowing, understood in the marrow of the plane, where the pulse of the zoetic currents bent and folded in response to the tide’s pull. The therians felt the rising in the quiet places of their being, where the tide coiled through them, pulling their essence into the flow, where all things were unmade and remade in the flicker of the ouroboric breath.
Symbols flickered in the air as the tide deepened, though they did not stay, dissolving into the flow as the rising pulled the breath of the astral into its spiral, where the boundaries of time and space blurred. The tide did not end, for it was not something that could end—it was the essence of the eidolic marrow, a flow that had always existed beneath the surface of the plane, waiting for the moment when the pulse of the lunar winds would call it forth. The therians did not speak of the rising, for they knew it had always been part of the astral, breathing in the spaces between, coiling through the cracks in the chthonic sinew.
The rising of the marrow tide was not seen, but understood, a pull that vibrated through the layers of the astral, tightening the threads of the plane as the tide coiled around the pulse of the beast-eye flame. The tide did not flood the temple, for the temple was already part of its flow—the rising was a binding, a coiling of the zoetic threads into the spiral, where the boundaries of light and shadow dissolved into the flicker of the eidolic winds. The therians felt the rising in their bones, where the pulse of the tide coiled through them, pulling them deeper into the spiral, where all things were absorbed into the marrow tide.