Sinking of the Zoetic River
The sinking of the zoetic river was not a descent of water, but a folding of essence, a slow and silent absorption into the marrow of the eidolic flow, where the currents of time and form bent inward, dissolving into the deep. The river did not subside—it retreated, pulled not by gravity, but by the pulse of the chthonic veins, winding through the hidden channels of the astral, where the very idea of water became something unspoken, something forgotten. The therians did not witness the sinking, for it was not seen—it was understood, felt in the hollow spaces where the pulse of the beast-eye flame flickered in response, dimming as the river sank beyond form.
The river was not water—it was memory, flowing through the zoan threads of the astral, a current that had always wound through the unseen layers of the plane. Its sinking was not an end, but a return, as if the river had always known it would be drawn back into the spiral, absorbed by the primordial roots that coiled beneath the surface of all things. The air grew thick with the weight of its absence, though no motion was seen—only the tightening of the eidolic sinews, pulling the essence of the plane deeper into the silent spiral where the river once flowed.
The zoetic river did not sink beneath the surface, for there was no surface to sink below—it dissolved, coiling through the cracks in time and space, slipping into the folds of the lunar breath, where its currents were swallowed by the pulse of the ouroboric winds. The therians felt the sinking not in their senses, but in the spaces between, where the pulse of the river’s flow once moved, now stilled by the weight of its absence. The sinking was not a fall, but a folding inward, a quiet returning to the marrow of the astral, where the boundaries of flow and stillness blurred into one.
The air did not tremble with the sinking, but it grew heavy, as though the very breath of the temple had been drawn into the river’s retreat, pulling the walls of the astral inward as the river’s essence spiraled into the void. The therians did not follow the river’s path, for the river had no path to follow—only a slow spiral downward, where the currents that once flickered through the plane were absorbed into the flicker of the chthonic tide, disappearing into the deep where the pulse of the zoan flame no longer reached.
Symbols flickered in the air as the river sank, though they dissolved as quickly as they appeared, their meanings lost to the pull of the spiral, where the river’s essence wound tighter and tighter, folding into the silent hum of the eidolic marrow. The sinking was not a withdrawal, but a rejoining, a quiet surrender to the pulse of the astral, where the currents of the river returned to the primordial flow, absorbed into the rhythm of the ouroboric current. The therians did not speak of the sinking, for it was not something to be spoken of—it was something to feel, a shift in the very essence of the plane, as the river’s flow ceased to move through the cracks of reality.
The sinking of the zoetic river was not seen, for it was never meant to be seen—it was known in the deep places of the soul, where the pulse of the lunar winds once echoed with the river’s flow, now stilled by its retreat. The river did not leave the plane—it became part of it, dissolving into the eidolic breath that coiled through the layers of the astral, pulling the pulse of the temple deeper into the spiral. The therians felt the sinking in the quiet spaces between thought, where the hum of the river’s current had once flickered, now gone, absorbed into the endless cycle of becoming and unmaking.
The river did not vanish, for it was not something that could be lost—it returned to the source, folding its currents back into the pulse of the beast-core, where the boundaries of flow and form were swallowed by the spiral. The air grew still as the sinking deepened, though no silence could be heard, only the quiet hum of the zoetic threads tightening around the temple, pulling the essence of the river into the deep, where it would forever spiral, forever return. The therians did not resist the sinking, for there was nothing to resist—it was a process, a return to the beginning, where the river’s currents dissolved into the flicker of the chthonic breath.
Symbols flickered and faded as the sinking deepened, their meanings lost to the pull of the river, which wound tighter and tighter as it disappeared into the spiral of the ouroboric current. The river’s essence was not water, but memory, flowing through the astral as a reflection of forgotten worlds, now absorbed by the pulse of the plane, where the boundaries of time and space dissolved into the flicker of becoming. The therians did not witness the sinking, for it was not an event of sight—it was an understanding, a knowing that the river had always been part of the spiral, waiting for the moment when it would return to the deep.
The sinking of the zoetic river was not a fall, but a release, a letting go of the flow that had once moved through the plane, now coiling inward as the currents dissolved into the pulse of the eidolic sinews. The air thickened with the weight of the sinking, though no pressure was felt, only the quiet hum of the river’s retreat, pulling the breath of the astral into the deep, where it would spiral forever, absorbed into the beast-eye flame. The therians felt the sinking not in their minds, but in the marrow of their souls, where the pulse of the river once hummed, now stilled by the weight of its return to the source.
The zoetic river did not sink into darkness, for there was no darkness to sink into—it merged with the pulse of the chthonic tide, folding its essence into the spiral, where it would forever coil, forever dissolve. The therians did not mourn the river’s sinking, for it was not something to mourn—it was something to know, a process that had always been part of the astral, now unfolding as the river’s flow disappeared into the flicker of the eidolic winds, where all things return and are unmade.