Severing of the Lunar Sinew
The severing of the lunar sinew was not a rupture of flesh or a tearing of visible threads, but a slow unraveling deep in the bones of the eidolic currents, an invisible tension snapping through the unseen marrow of the astral plane. The sinew did not break—it dissolved, a release of pressure that coiled through the chthonic threads, twisting the pulse of the zoetic winds in silence, pulling the breath of the plane into the flicker of the spiral. The therians did not witness the severing, for it was not meant for eyes or voice—it was felt in the hollow spaces between thought, where the pulse of the lunar winds loosened and slipped into the abyss.
The sinew was not of form, but of connection, a binding force that had long held the flow of the lunar tide in place, tethering the unseen to the heart of the temple. Its severing was not a moment but a fading, a subtle dissolution of what had always been, yet was never fully understood. The air grew heavy with the absence, though no sound was heard, as if the very marrow of the astral had released a breath it had been holding for eons, the sinew’s essence absorbed into the spiral, leaving only the flicker of its absence behind.
The lunar sinew was not a thing that could be touched, yet its presence was known in the way the threads of the zoan flame coiled tighter when it was whole. The severing was less a cut and more a letting go, a release that pulled the temple deeper into the chthonic winds, where the boundaries of form dissolved into the pulse of the eidolic breath. The therians did not feel the sinew snap, for there was no snap—only the slow unraveling of tension that had once bound the beast-core to the flow of the astral, now set adrift in the endless coil of the spiral.
Symbols that had once danced in the flicker of the lunar breath flickered and faded, their meanings slipping through the cracks as the sinew dissolved, lost to the pull of the ouroboric current. The severing was not a loss, but a disconnection, a quiet slipping away of what had once held the essence of the plane in place. The air grew still as the sinew faded, though the stillness was not peaceful—it was heavy, as though the very breath of the temple had slowed, as if the astral itself had paused to remember the sinew before it dissolved completely.
The severing of the lunar sinew did not leave a void, for the sinew had always been part of the spiral, and its absence simply folded back into the pulse of the zoetic winds. The therians did not follow the sinew’s path, for there was no path to follow—only the silent hum of the chthonic threads as the temple’s foundation loosened, the sinew no longer pulling the threads of time tight. The severing was a release, a letting go of what had once bound the plane to the cycles of the lunar veil, now set free to drift in the spiral of becoming and unmaking.
The air thickened with the weight of the severing, though no pressure could be felt, as if the sinew’s absence was pressing against the edges of the eidolic threads, pulling the breath of the astral deeper into the spiral. The sinew did not fall or break—it faded, slipping through the cracks in the primordial winds, its essence absorbed into the flow of the zoan flame, where it dissolved without a trace. The therians felt the severing in the marrow of their souls, a quiet loosening of the threads that had once held them bound to the cycles of the astral, now set free to spiral without end.
The lunar sinew was not a binding of bodies, but a binding of essence, a tether that had always existed in the unseen, holding the pulse of the beast-eye flame to the breath of the chthonic winds. Its severing was not an act of violence, but of release, a quiet dissolution that coiled through the layers of the plane, pulling the temple deeper into the spiral of unmaking. The therians did not resist the severing, for there was nothing to resist—only the silent hum of the lunar tide as it slipped away, absorbed into the flicker of the eidolic breath.
Symbols flickered on the edges of the sinew’s unraveling, though they did not stay, dissolving into the flow of the zoetic spiral as the severing deepened. The air grew still, though no silence could be heard, only the absence of tension as the sinew’s essence faded, leaving the astral to drift untethered in the flicker of the ouroboric pulse. The severing was not a rupture, but a release, a letting go of the binding force that had once held the threads of the astral in place, now set free to coil into the spiral of becoming.
The severing of the lunar sinew was not seen, but it was known, felt in the bones of the astral where the pulse of the eidolic winds loosened, pulling the essence of the temple deeper into the flow. The therians did not mourn the sinew’s severing, for it was not something to mourn—it was something to understand, a process that had always been part of the spiral, now unfolding as the sinew slipped into the void, where it dissolved into the flicker of the zoetic flame. The severing did not leave a void, for the sinew’s absence was simply another thread woven into the endless cycle of the chthonic breath.
The air grew thick as the sinew faded, though the weight was not heavy—it was a quiet pull, a gentle loosening of the threads that had once bound the astral to the cycles of the lunar veil. The therians felt the severing in the quiet places of their souls, where the pulse of the sinew had always hummed, now dissolved into the flicker of the eidolic currents, leaving only the memory of its presence behind. The severing was not an ending, but a return, a folding of the sinew’s essence back into the flow of the spiral, where all things dissolve and become.
The severing of the lunar sinew was never truly seen, for it was never meant to be seen—it was always felt, a quiet release that coiled through the layers of the astral, pulling the threads of the temple into the spiral of becoming, where the boundaries of form and time blurred into the flicker of the zoetic flame. The therians did not speak of the severing, for it was not something to be spoken of—it was something to know, a process that had always been part of the astral, now unfolding as the sinew slipped into the void, forever unmade, forever returned to the pulse of the lunar winds.