Many legends give me different appearances but I am also real. In the past I have a crown and scales of a different color than I do now. In real life, watch me run. Otherwise avert your eyes and hold your breath.

Low-level labyrinth, mortuary maze, Or a means to pick nits, from flea-ridden strays?

Atop my throne, I command all else. I'm hundred of years old, yet I have never died. My servants are demons, yet they are my idea of pure. People call me a bird, a disgrace to my name. If you want me dead you shall own the entire word's shame.

I clack against webbing with every routine, A dull olive drum where the water’s kept clean. No medals or rank, yet I’ve seen every scene, From dust-choked advances to nights in between. When orders run dry, I remain evergreen. What keeps troops moving?

A crest in the west, a patron in east. Big and powerful in the west, old and wise in the east. From mythos I am, not real but a tale. What am I?