THREE EYED WOLF
In the hollow folds of storms where thought dissolves and shadow breathes, lore speaks of a creature whose gaze divides reality: three eyes, each a silence born of different truth.
Those who brush the veil whisper that its third eye never closes—not out of vigilance, but because it does not know slumber. It sees even when not looking, glowing or not, present in absence.
Of the three orbs: sometimes two are seen, sometimes one, rarely all three. Fear surrounds their alignment; speculation outnumbers certainty. They gleam, but not always in tandem—yet three there are, and three define it.
Some say the eyes are masks—forms taken in shadow: beast, spirit, man. Others argue they are doors: to the here, the hereafter, and the unfathomable beyond.
No explanation is ever given. It offers nothing, just as fire does not explain ash, nor lightning its flash. Inquiry is beneath it. Consequence rarely reveals cause.
Its gait shifts with purpose:
Two eyes when watching and weighing paths.
One eye when the hunt becomes absolute and pity cannot reach.
All three when something ancient stirs—a memory crossed, a silence breached.
It speaks rarely—not from restraint but disinterest. To it, certainty is illusion, and answers are owed to none. It does not teach. It does not threaten. It simply is. And what it reminds is simple: never cry wolf when there is none.
Before human breath stirred wind, before bones held memory, there was a stirring—not of birth, but of remembrance. From ancient peaks where silence outlives ruins, emerged a being wrapped in shadows and cloaked in forgotten names.
Sleek sinew, shadow-wrapped, its fur drinks moonlight. The third eye, unblinking, perches where no gaze dares linger, piercing what was and what mustn’t be. Its voice is presence—not sound—curling into dreams like whispers nearly heard.
It walks in three skins:
Wolf: spectral hunter, silent and dream-bound.
Human: bearer of sorrow, wearing the face that once rejected it.
Elf: wisdom of the wild, lost sanctity, and forests that remember.
Its motives are unknowable. It watches children in fog, unravels breath from mockers, slays with singular wrath. Acts of mercy and brutality follow no pattern—nature itself is more predictable.
Some say it was once revered—a guardian between worlds, an omen of deep holiness. But reverence soured. Paths of offering closed like wounds forgetting they ever bled. Mockery replaced myth. And it, too, changed—cold, callous, rarely kind.
Drippings from its jaws are said to be grief, not blood. Hackles raised are spines of betrayal and shattered oaths. Breath is hot with malice and memory neglected.
Not born of prophecy—but prophecy itself. A foreboding force, violent and sublime, stormlike in its reclamation. It rises when memory fades, when hearts burn with rage. And when it comes, it doesn’t knock.
It is teeth. It is silence. It is memory’s wrath.
Lore of the Wandering Gaze
In the folds of hollow storms where thought dissolves and shadow breathes, a secret drifts—three truths born of three silences.
Those who’ve brushed the veil whisper that the third eye never closes—not in vigilance, but in unfamiliarity with slumber. It sees without looking; it exists even when not aglow.
Of the three gleaming orbs—never predictably lit, never clearly aligned—there is no certainty. Only fear. Speculation. One is seen, sometimes two, rarely all three. But they are always present, even if not revealed. And for this, the being is named.
“Perhaps,” say the dream-fearers, “each eye is a mask, and each mask a form: beast, sage, and sorrow.” Or, according to the death-watchers, “they are not masks, but doors—to the present, the aftermath, and the never-meant.”
Truth is neither denied nor claimed. Not because it cannot be known—but because it has never been offered. To demand understanding of this creature is to demand thunder justify its sound, or flame its soot.
It walks as it wills:
Two eyes, when weighing paths.
One, when pursuit is pure and pity left behind.
Three, when something ancient flinches—when a threshold is crossed that only it recalls.
Speech is rare—not for lack of voice, but because inquiry is beneath notice. Certainty belongs to the questioner, not to the subject. Nothing is owed.
Where some threaten or teach, it is. It does not explain. It reminds. And what it reminds: never cry wolf when none walks your path.
This lore belongs not to a name, nor to a form. It belongs to the gaze that wanders, to the shadow that weighs, and the silence that watches.
The Three Eyed Wolf of Storm and Shadows
Not all eyes gaze with sight,
nor all silence speak of peace.
He whose name was once a beacon
now walks veiled in hissed breath and trembling shadow.
Two eyes, when he watches,
In dusk’s shroud he weighs the tilt of purpose,
not for mercy, nor for wrath,
but for something older than both.
n this form, he wanders not lost, but waiting.
You are seen.
One eye, when he strikes.
When blood sings from beneath long forgotten graves,
and breath thickens like smoke before thunder,
his third eye ignites not with anger, but vicious certainty.
The world must contract in his wake,
and in ruin you are left behind,
and your name becomes not but dust,
it is then it is said three eyes of his blaze,
when the veil of all veils dissolve.
In this vision he is not beast nor kin, nor friend or foe,
but that which remembers the shape of endings,
and that which shifts into new beginnings,
indifferent and unmoved by your being or passing.
The here, the hereafter, and the beyond crawl across his brow.
He does not speak then, not from silence,
but from bitter and ancient disdain.
He owes no answer. He is the answer forgotten too long.
Order of the Three Eyed Wolf
In the folds of hollow storms where thought dissolves and shadow breathes, a secret drifts—three truths born of three silences.
Those who’ve brushed the veil whisper that the third eye never closes—not in vigilance, but in unfamiliarity with slumber. It sees without looking; it exists even when not aglow.
Of the three gleaming orbs—never predictably lit, never clearly aligned—there is no certainty. Only fear. Speculation. One is seen, sometimes two, rarely all three. But they are always present, even if not revealed. And for this, the being is named.
“Perhaps,” say the dream-fearers, “each eye is a mask, and each mask a form: beast, sage, and sorrow.” Or, according to the death-watchers, “they are not masks, but doors—to the present, the aftermath, and the never-meant.”
Truth is neither denied nor claimed. Not because it cannot be known—but because it has never been offered. To demand understanding of this creature is to demand thunder justify its sound, or flame its soot.
It walks as it wills:
Two eyes, when weighing paths.
One, when pursuit is pure and pity left behind.
Three, when something ancient flinches—when a threshold is crossed that only it recalls.
Speech is rare—not for lack of voice, but because inquiry is beneath notice. Certainty belongs to the questioner, not to the subject. Nothing is owed. Where some threaten or teach, it is. It does not explain. It reminds. And what it reminds: never cry wolf when none walks your path. his lore belongs not to a name, nor to a form. It belongs to the gaze that wanders, to the shadow that weighs, and the silence that watches.
"He does not guard the pure, nor slay the corrupt. He moves as memory does—forgetting none, forgiving few. He is no banner. He is a warning."
Among themselves they whisper:
"We are those who remember what others choose to forget. We know what walks beside us in the fog. And we do not ask that it protect, nor punish— only that it is. And that we be ready when it is near."
What they do openly state is:
He does not protect the worthy.
He does not destroy the wicked.
He moves as memory moves; forgetting none, forgiving few.
He is a warning, not a banner.
It is often said by them individually and in groups that:
“We are those who remember what others choose to forget. We know what walks beside us in the fog. And we do not feign comfort in its passing, nor expect aid, nor fear harm. We accept only this: what it is, it remains. And it is up to us to make sense of its shadow.”